Apparently so. He walked past an unmanned greeter’s stand to a corner table near the kitchen door, putting in her hands a menu he’d swiped along the way. They were the only customers in the place. Maybe the only people—no sign of the wait staff.
She perched on a chair, feeling like an interloper. “Are you sure this restaurant is open? I mean, where is everyone?”
“It’s past eight. All good Iowans are tightly tucked up in their beds.”
“The next time you insult my state, you snobby European—”
“You’re such an easy mark, Daggett.” He flashed a there-and-gone grin, looking thoroughly disreputable with his black wool cap pulled nearly to his eyes. “Hurry up and decide what you want.”
She snorted. “I don’t see what good it’ll do to decide, what with no waiters.”
“Hey!” His bellow startled her so badly that she hit her knees against the table.“Du hast Kundschaft, du Idiot!”
“Ich hab einen Idioten als Kunden,” a male voice bellowed back.
A moment later, the owner of the voice emerged—a ruddy-faced man, perhaps mid-forties, with an enormous stomach that rolled over his belt and hung there impressively.
“Ich dachte, du kommst heute nicht,” the man said, coming through the kitchen door, but then he caught sight of her and broke into a broad smile.“Aha! HöchsteZeit, dass du dir ein Mädchen zugelegt hast. Bloß schade, dass sie verrückt ist.”
“Nein, nein, sie ist nichtmeinMädchen,” Hartgrave muttered.
The man issued a booming laugh.“Noch nicht, was?”
“I” and “girl” and “no” were the only words Emily caught in their rapid-fire delivery. She blinked at the Germans—Hartgrave had never before seemed so German—and felt lost.
Hartgrave gestured to the man. “Daggett, this charming restaurateur is Wilhelm Durr. Willi, Dr. Emily Daggett.Kein Wort,” he added as Willi raised both eyebrows in his direction.
She offered Willi her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“It is a rare honor,” he said, accent thick as a good milkshake, “to have someone so beautiful as you for which to cook.”
“Whom,” muttered her companion. “For whom.”
That didn’t strike her as the biggest error in Willi’s declaration, but perhaps Hartgrave thought he had sufficiently covered her lack of personal charms already. (Or maybe he didn’t want to be called a vulture again.)
Willi gestured to her menu with the spatula he held in one hand. “What would you like to eat?”
“Oh—um ...” She dove behind it.
“I wouldn’t order the burritos if I were you,” Hartgrave said. “Or the tostadas. Or the enchiladas.”
She looked up in time to see Willi swat him on the back of the head with the spatula. She definitely liked this man.
“How about fajitas?” she asked.
“Not awful,” Hartgrave allowed, shooting a furtive look at the kitchen implement.
But Willi was already bustling off to the kitchen, whistling a merry tune and waving the spatula like a conductor’s baton.
“And I’ll have the usual, you mannerlessEinfaltspinsel,” Hartgrave called after him, getting nothing but a wafting chuckle in answer.
The food arrived quickly, and more than they’d ordered. Willi pulled out a chair for himself and set a heaped-full plate in front of it.
“It’s lucky you came now, Alexander,” he said to Hartgrave, who gave what seemed like a wince at the use of his first name but didn’t object. (Remarkable, since he objected to everything.) “Any later, and you would be missing the chance to eat with me.”
“Ach,” Hartgrave said, making a taco disappear. “So close.”
Willi rolled his eyes in her direction. “You see what I put up with?”
