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Perhaps, in retrospect, the venue Malachi has chosen for this particular meeting is a little...overmuch. Le Petit Dratatin is, in stark contrast to its rather pedestrian nomenclature, anything but small. Dark walls, paneling polished to a high sheen, and grand, vaulted cornices overhead give an air of stifling grandiosity to what most people would consider only to be an eatery.
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Malachi, on the other hand, knows exactly what this place is: a show, and a startlingly strong one. Allowing his eyes to slit shut, he offers a small smile to the attendant, who returns it automatically, carefully removing the dove-grey overcoat from Malachi's shoulders and slipping off to the coat check. The maître d' glances from his book and blinks owlishly before startling upright at catching Malachi's gaze. "Ah, Mister Rathburne. Right this way."
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He clicks his fingers, and a white-coated waiter materializes, guiding the blithely-smiling man through a side door, down a short hallway, and into a private room populated by a single table. Malachi seats himself to one side, nodding magnanimously to the waiter, who silently vanishes as quickly as he appeared.
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Sliding a long-fingered hand into his breast pocket, Malachi withdraws a silver pocketwatch, clicking it open and glancing at the time. Naturally, he had arrived fifteen minutes prior to the agreed-upon hour, but one could not be too early to make the correct impression. He shuts the watch with a 'snick' and returns it to his pocket, taking up a crystal glass brimful with fine spring water and taking a sip.
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"Vile."
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Disgustingly subpar, as he surmised, but he'd yet to witness the establishment capable of meeting even the most basic of his expectations. Perhaps the individual with whom he had set this meeting would prove more entertaining.

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