Paris, like any human accomplishment, was best viewed from a distance too great to see the people involved. In a list of projects with great disparity between the whole and its parts, Paris and Parisians were the greatest. Two minutes before deciding this, Booker Dewitt and his debutante daughter Anna strayed from the paved roads and found a bar that looked cheap and loaded.
"I just want to pick something up for later," he explained.
Anna rolled her eyes and turned away. She had planned to wait outside, but realized that safety was a concern here. And the only safe place around Booker's hangouts was between his shoulder blades. She stuck close, and twitched at every phantom shadow that snatched at her dress.
"Dad, can't we go to the tower?"
"Yeah. Yeah, we're going there next."
His eyes stayed on the display cabinet behind the counter. He didn't notice that they'd drawn the eyes of the entire bar. Booker caught the bartender's eyes and spoke the only language they had in common: Exact change and a direct point.
Anna had cleaned him up before they left the hotel. His face was too clean shaven. He had the look of a stereotypical American Tourist. He could tell by the tone of someone's murmured comment from the corner. He only afforded the asshole a glance over the shoulder, but then saw that Elizabeth had heard- had understood- and was disgusted.
This was when he decided that the French were the problem with France.
"Is there a problem?" he suggested to the room at large.
"Dad, we should go."
"Did he say something to you?"
"No. Just get what you came for, Dad. You promised I'd get to see the city."
"Hey! You! Frenchie!"
"Merde," Anna whispered.
The French gentleman stood from his shadows. They had concealed his considerable bulk. Booker did not back away from this large target. The bartender had just finished supplying his whiskey. Booker was not a man to be described as high-functioning, but he could multitask. All of his posture was dedicated to the wordless battle of wills, save his right arm, which decapitated the whiskey bottle and watered his mouth. Drinking could not begin to describe the ferocity of his consumption. He pounded that whiskey like a whore he didn't like, then shattered the empty bottle on the counter.
The French paused to consider this new development. A full-scale war with the United States was not what they had bargained for.
"Yeah, that's right," Booker chided, "That's how we do it in New York."
"Dad…"
"One sec, Elizabeth. You know how-"
"How hungry you get, yeah," she sighed. He only ever called her that when he was in a fighting mood. He wouldn't be amiable enough to reach the tower today. She'd have to drag him somewhere upscale and find a way to put food in him so he would be sober enough to walk tomorrow. She knew from experience that she had a matter of minutes before he'd go exploring and start digging food out of trashcans.
"Dad. Here. Salts."
She dragged a small bowl of peanuts down the bar to him.
He scooped an overflowing handful into his gnashing teeth, managing by a feat of great agility and tenacity to push the words "much obliged" through the incoming material as he ground it with his teeth. He scratched around his jaw, where she'd made him shave, then glared at the large Frenchman again. His chewing stopped, realizing the other man had not yet sat.
Then he sat. Booker nodded.