“We’ll be out of here shortly.” She winked, setting the bottle on the table.
Zac came out of the kitchen with a tray. “Good evening, gentlemen. Dinner is served. Nothing too fancy, but I hope you’ll enjoy nonetheless.”
“I bet it’s delicious,” said Mikey, placing his napkin in his lap. “I’m starving and it smells amazing.”
Zac set the dishes down, one at a time, for them to share: “Anise bread, a pickled leek salad, and Chicken Marsala with cream. Oh, and for dessert, a brownie with raspberry mousse.”
“Interesting ensemble you have here, Zac,” George said, with faux scholarly affectation. “May I ask about the combination and your choices?”
“I was hoping you would,” he said, Ginger embracing him from behind. “The salad is French, a favorite of mine from school. The bread is Greek, your heritage George. The Marsala is Italian—that’s you, Mikey.”
George gave Zac a tiny bit of side-eye. “And the cream in the Marsala?”
“Sometimes the French in me gets carried away.”
George chuckled. “Just curious. Not complaining. It all looks wonderful.”
“Wait, a minute. What about the brownie?” said Mikey, gesturing to the square cakes, topped with carefully piped pink mousse in the shape of a heart.
“That’s the restaurant, Mikey,” said George. “That’s David’s—simple, comforting, from the heart.”
“I couldn’t have said it better,” said Zac, Ginger squeezing him. “And with that, we’re leaving. The kitchen is clean and ready for tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Zac. You too, Ginger.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Thank you, George... for hiring him.”
“It may be one of the best decisions I ever made.” George glanced at Mikey. “So far.”
Zac grabbed Ginger’s coat from the rack by the door and held it out for her. She slipped into and he did the same with his own. “Goodnight, guys. See you tomorrow.”
They exited, Zac locking the door behind them.
* * *
The meal was superb. Though familiar and comforting, each dish held an element of surprise for George. The pickled leek melted like butter in his mouth. It had been a while since he had experienced flavor and texture so understated, yet so complex. Very French. The rolls had chewy spots similar to that of wheat-berries, but they were anise seed—a distinct fennel-like flavor that was sublime and unusual. And adding cream to Marsala took the usual Italian standby up a considerable notch. He was a little disappointed that he’d never thought to do it himself.
If Mikey noticed any of these things, he didn’t say so. But his voracious consumption of their deliciousness said enough. He pushed his plate away, while George was still savoring the intricacies that had gone into its preparation.
“That was some of the best food I’ve ever had,” said Mikey. He poured more wine for the two of them and sat back. “I mean it.”
George smiled. He forked a bite of the brownie and mousse off of his plate and held it out to him. Mikey took the bite. His eyes never wavering from George’s as the fork slid from his lips.
“Man,” he said. “So good.”
George took a bite himself. The mousse was bright—Chambord, he thought...and lemon zest.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Mikey asked.
“I’m just being a food nerd. Figuring out what all Zac put in this stuff... thinking about how he left, so confident—no doubt at all about his decisions. What are you thinking, Mikey?”
“I’m thinking about you naked... and how I wish there was a bed in your office.” He removed his shoe and slipped his foot between George’s legs, exploring with socked toes. “Also, how I’d like to spread that strawberry mousse all over you and lick it off.”
“You’re a bold one, Mr. Napolitano, and it suits you... more so than your worry of screwing things up.”
“I like that you can pronounce my name. No one at work even tries.”
“It’s very Italian, like your eyes.”
