Gideon shook his head and took the menu gently from my hands. "No. What's your favorite?"
"I don't have favorites," I lied.
He tilted his head, and I couldn't help it. Every time my parents took me to a restaurant, I had the same thing: "Wiener Schnitzel with pommes frites," I breathed.
Gideon smiled, "I have no idea what that is, but judging by your expression, it must be delicious. I'll have the same."
The tension eased out of my shoulders like steam. The waiter returned with our drink orders, took our food requests, and brought a basket filled with bread rolls. When Gideon lifted the napkin thrown over the basket, I nearly cried.
Real rolls with a hard crust. I could already taste how soft and yeasty it would be on the inside. The smell hit me, just like the revelation that they were still warm.
And butter.
Actual butter.
I tore one open, and inhaled—the yeasty, warm, sweetness. My vision blurred. I tried to hide how the first bite made me moan softly, but Gideon heard it.
He laughed quietly. "Feels good, doesn't it?"
I nodded helplessly.
He took a bite himself and blinked. "Damn. This is good."
"You've never had German bread before?" I asked, shocked.
"Nope. We've got white bread back home. Soft as pillows but no real flavor. This?" He gestured with the half-eaten roll. "This is something else."
We both laughed, and just like that, the heaviness lifted. And we began to talk. He asked about my childhood.
"It was good," I said slowly. "Before the war. Before everything changed. My father was an architect. He refused to work for… for the people in power. So he lost his job. We lost our home."
Gideon listened—really listened—not with pity, but with something like interest. "I didn't know any German refused the Reich."
I nodded, "Not many dared, but not everyone voted for him."
"Father was drafted quickly," I added. "At first, there were postcards, Reichenberg, Karlsbad, Prague… all these pretty places he swore he'd take us someday. Then he was wounded and came home for a few weeks." I feel a sad smile creep over my lips at the memory of it. "That was when Klaus wasconceived. After that, the cards came from farther east… Kraków, Warsaw, Minsk. And then nothing. They just stopped."
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
I nodded once. Then, mercifully, he shifted the topic. "Montana," he said, answering an earlier question. "The land of big skies and wide-open spaces. There are cattle everywhere. You ever been chased by a cow?"
I blinked. I was a city brat. Through and through.
"No?" He laughed. "You're lucky. They're mean as hell."
I burst out laughing, more born from gladness to stop talking about my family than real amusement, but it lightened the atmosphere enough so I could enjoy myself again. He told me about his family ranch. About his father, who could lasso anything that moved. His mother, who made pies so good he once ate three of them and threw up behind the barn. His sister, who tried to ride a horse backward at age five because itlooked easier that way."
I laughed so hard my sides hurt. Earning me a stern glance from a woman across from me. I didn't care. I hadn't laughed like that in years.
Maybe ever.
When the food came—piping hot pommes frites and a large Wiener Schnitzel, so large, it didn't fully fit on the plate. I felt dizzy again. Gideon pointed at the pommes frites.
"French fries," he drew his brows together as if he had made the discovery of the year, and I laughed.
"We call it pommes for short," I explained, tapping my finger against one to gauge how hot it was.
"And this?" He pointed atthe breaded, fried meat.
