Chapter 53: The Journey of the Special Forces

Nestled among a vast expanse of cedar forests and built against the mountain, the village of Bonieux boasts breathtaking scenery, making it a paradise for hiking enthusiasts.

However, for anyone simply looking to enjoy a meal, panting through a steep and lengthy trail and perspiring profusely while climbing the seemingly endless stone steps felt a bit too arduous.

Along the way, Ronan questioned whether he had taken a wrong turn countless times, but kind-hearted passersby kept pointing further and further upward, leaving him utterly bewildered.

Had it not been for the stunning scenery of the Luberon on one side, a beauty that matched the Luberon on the other in the form of a gorgeous woman, and the continuous chime echoing in his ear—[Happiness increased by X points upon physical contact with the opposite sex]—Ronan would have seriously considered turning back the way he came.

"We're almost there. I think I see the spire of the old church," Zoe said intermittently.

Noticing Zoe's exhaustion, Ronan thoughtfully supported and helped her along from time to time, and thus, fueled by sheer willpower, Zoe 'cruised' all the way to the finish line.

A few minutes later, the two finally caught sight of the 'old church' standing proudly on the summit platform.

This was a 12th-century Romanesque structure, topped with a statue of the Virgin Mary on its spire, surrounded by tall, straight cedars whose branches stretched outward like open umbrellas.

The church was encircled by a low stone wall covered in layers of deep green moss, though that didn't stop visitors from using it as a backrest.

Another couple, equally out of breath, asked Ronan and Zoe, who had just climbed up:

"Here for lunch too?"

"You as well?" Ronan rested his hands on his hips.

The couple exchanged glances, leaned on each other for support, and prepared to leave.

"Yes, but a word of warning: Mr. Jacques can only host a limited number of guests each day. Arrive too late, and you'll just have to walk all back down."

Ronan silently cursed under his breath—was this supposed to be a relaxing meal or a military special forces selection trial?

He turned to Zoe and said:

"Take your time, let's rest for a moment."

Zoe took a few deep breaths. Once her breathing steadied, she took the initiative to grab Ronan's arm like a walking cane:

"If the food isn't good, I'm writing a letter of complaint to Michelin."

...

Mr. Jacques' restaurant was perched right on the edge of the mountain, overlooking a magnificent valley.

An ancient fountain stood before the entrance, where sunlight pierced through the water, casting dappled, soft patterns on the bottom, while the water's surface rippled and shimmered like scattered diamonds.

Ronan's resolve began to waver—such a breathtaking place; perhaps the grueling hike wasn't entirely unjustified?

Zoe's reaction mirrored his. She gazed at the fountain, then out over the valley:

"If I had known, I would have brought my sketchbook."

"You know how to paint?" Ronan asked instinctively, without really thinking.

Zoe gave him a cute look that clearly meant 'read a book every now and then':

"Fine arts is the foundation of many disciplines."

Ronan nodded, saying nothing more.

Once they stepped inside the restaurant, they became even more convinced that the food was secondary—the 'scenery' alone was worth every drop of sweat.

The main dining hall was adorned with decorative settings typically found only in fashion magazines. Candles flickered on every table, where fifty or sixty guests dined quietly, a stark contrast to the noisy rush-hour lunch scenes at other restaurants in Provence.

Pleasant music drifted in from all directions, prompting Ronan's immediate thought: wearing canvas sneakers, he had somehow stumbled into an upscale Parisian high-society club!

After noticing that the other diners were dressed in a similarly relaxed 'Provençal' style, he suppressed the urge to run home and change into a suit, tie, and leather shoes, and walked in with peace of mind.

Zoe crossed the main hall and stepped out onto a grand terrace that embraced the entire panoramic view of the Luberon.

Ronan could tell she loved it here.

"Shall we sit out here?"

Unlike the main hall, which was packed, the terrace area only had a few scattered tables, as most guests were wary of the mountain chill.

Yet in a month, or even half a month, this terrace would become a hotly contested spot that people fought over.

The view here was simply too sublime!

The system notifications in Ronan's ear refused to stop.

[Appreciating the beauty of nature with all your heart: Happiness increased by 5 points.]

...

"Aren't you cold?" Zoe asked, showing a bit of concern for Ronan, who was accustomed to a pampered lifestyle in Paris.

Ronan pulled out a chair and sat down first, speaking to the open air:

"Hiking up here baked me alive. Waiter, bring me a glass of ice-cold water."

Zoe laughed happily and sat down opposite him.

Aside from candles, the table held an unopened bottle of rosé wine, provided as an aperitif for the guests.

Ronan picked it up, examined it, and said with mild surprise:

"It seems Mr. Jacques is quite the 'rebel'."

Most people in the world only knew that wine came in red and white varieties, with very few aware of the existence of rosé.

France produced over 70% of the world's rosé, and 80% of that was cultivated in Provence.

Yet, despite being such a regional staple, it was often looked down upon by many locals, meaning its popularity had never truly taken off.

Rosé had long been pigeonholed as a mere summer wine, instantly evoking images of sunshine, beaches, and beautiful women rather than the nuance of the wine itself.

People typically drank house rosé at seaside restaurants, pairing it well with seafood, barbecues, or Niçoise salad—making it an uncomplicated and approachable wine.

Aside from needing a good chill before serving, it required no special treatment, yet it lacked the depth, layers, and mystery characteristic of fine red and white wines.

It was neither expensive nor pretentious... and thus completely ignored by fastidious wine critics who loved to wax poetic.

Critics dismissed it as a sweet drink meant for 'children' and 'ladies,' whereas the reality was that rosé sat at around 13% alcohol, making it stronger than most red and white wines.

Compounded by the fact that certain winemakers took shortcuts by simply mixing red and white wine to produce rosé—a 'crude' method that bypassed traditional brewing techniques—the wine-proud residents of Provence increasingly viewed rosé with a sense of 'shame.'

In later eras, however, the reputation of rosé improved drastically, eventually being hailed by the French government as the sole 'lifeboat' capable of saving the French wine industry.

Ronan remembered that rosé had seemingly been popularized by celebrities in Cannes.

Suddenly, an idea struck him—could this be a business opportunity?

Yet back in 1986, what on earth was Mr. Jacques' purpose in placing this bottle of rosé—a wine widely considered a 'shame' in Provence—on every single dining table?

As Ronan pondered these questions, Zoe gently tapped the table, signaling him to look in a specific direction:

"Mr. Jacques is inside. Aren't you going to go say hello?"

Ronan managed an awkward chuckle.

'Coming to see Mr. Jacques' had merely been an excuse; a big figure like him wouldn't possibly have the time to receive someone like Ronan.

If he went over to say hello now, the man probably wouldn't even remember who Ronan was.

Suddenly, Zoe straightened up in her seat and whispered:

"Ronan, Mr. Jacques is walking over this way."