Lorenzo, the waiter he’d known forever, greeted them.
‘Hey, Felipe, how’re you doing?’
‘Good, thanks, Lorenzo. You? And how’s the family?’
They exchanged quick small talk before he led them to atable on the patio at the front of the restaurant. Within minutes he’d brought the typical starter, which included a couple of small dishes of marinated carrots and olives, a basket of bread and tiny pots of sardine pâté.
Felipe, who knew the dishes inside out, spent most of the time amused by the subtle array of expressions that crossed Rebecca’s face as she perused her menu. Dismay, intrigue, horror, confusion. It was such a contrast to her usual confident, competitive approach.
‘Do you need some help?’
‘No, I’m just not sure what to have. What do you recommend?’
‘How about the monkfish and shrimp kebab? It’s very good.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not that good with fish, although I love shellfish.’
‘Okay, the steak with pepper sauce.’
‘Do you think I could have it without the pepper sauce?’ asked Rebecca. ‘In case I don’t like it. Shame to spoil good steak.’
He had to give her credit for honesty. She knew what she liked, but he found it intriguing that for all her bravery in other areas– she’d moved to a new country to start a new job– that bravery didn’t translate into other parts of her life.
‘How about you order the steak and we ask for the sauce on the side so you can try it?’
She tipped her head to one side. ‘Good thinking.’
‘I am a very good thinker,’ he agreed and she laughed.
Rebecca looked up at the sign outside the restaurant. ‘Calheiros. Is that right?’
‘Excellent pronunciation.’
‘Do you come here often?’
‘We used to come on Sunday evenings whenPaiwas alive, with my uncle, my aunt, my sisters and cousins. There would be ten of us and we’d have a long table’—he pointed to the other side of the restaurant—‘in there. Dahlia, the owner, was a good friend of my parents, so we’d stay all evening, along with other locals. There was always a great atmosphere.’
‘That’s something I’ve noticed. Families eat together quite late.’
‘Yes, Portuguese restaurants welcome the whole family. No one minds little children here. And it’s quite usual not to go out to eat until eight o’clock.’
When their meals arrived– her perfectly cooked steak with sauce on the side and his long skewer dotted with huge, plump pink prawns, shrimp and meaty chunks of white fish– she gave his a curious study.
‘Looks interesting.’
‘Want to try some?’ he asked.
‘I couldn’t steal a whole prawn, that would be mean,’ she said.
‘You’re nicer than my cousins. Cristina wouldn’t have any qualms.’ That was something he’d noticed about her: she looked out for other people. It was refreshing, especially when he spent so much of his time looking out for others too.
‘Try some fish.’ He scooped up a piece of the monkfish and offered it to her.
She giggled. ‘You’re not trying that sexy food thing, are you?’
‘Would it work?’
With a laugh she shook her head. ‘Not when I have no idea whether I might spit it out at you.’
