Lucy presses her hands to the glass. “The sky is pink.”
“It is,” he says softly. “Good choice of evening.”
The server approaches. Lenzin makes eye contact immediately. Calm. Polite. Assured.
“Sparkling water for the table,” he says, then glances at Lucy. “Or would you prefer still tonight?”
“Sparkly,” she smiles, and I can’t help giggle, knowing she hasn’t had sparkling water.
“Sparkling,” he confirms. “Room temperature, please.”
“May we get flat as well, chilled?” I ask.
“Of course, miss.”
He scans the menu briefly, though I can tell he already knows.
“For her,” he says, glancing at Lucy with quiet certainty, “the house-made tagliatelle. Butter and freshly grated parmigiano cheese. Nothing mixed in. We’ll add as we go.”
Lucy grins.
“And the roasted carrots,” he continues. “Simply done. Light salt. No glaze. Cut lengthwise.”
The server nods, adjusting his notes.
He turns slightly toward me, but his question is for the server.
“The salmon,” he says. “Wild?”
“Yes, arrived this morning.”
He gives a single nod. “We’ll have that. Fully cooked, it does not come to the table at less than 145 degrees.”
“Of course, sir.”
“With the lemon butter. And the potatoes.”
I start to say something smaller, lighter, but he has already closed the space for it without being forceful, and honestly, salmon sounds good.
“And the burrata to begin. Pasteurized milk?” He asks, and the waiter nods. “Perfect.”
The server writes quickly.
“And for you, sir?”
“The venison,” he replies. “Medium rare. And the seasonal mushrooms.”
He folds his menu, calm and finished.
“Bread?” Lucy asks.
He smiles faintly. “The sourdough. Warm. Olive oil on the side.”
Then, as if it just occurred to him, though it absolutely did not:
“And a proper side of mashed potatoes for the table.”
Lucy gasps like she’s just been handed the crown jewels.
