“I like to dance, but I don’t do that often enough. I looooove coffee and croissants and pastries…anything sweet.”
He smiles. “I also like sweet things.”
“I have a very committed relationship with the Thai place two blocks from my apartment.”
“That’s fair enough. You can’t go wrong with Thai.”
“No, you can’t.” I look out the window.
He signals and turns, and we come off the main road and head down toward the waterfront. The lights here are warmer. The rain from earlier has made the cobblestones shine.
We pull into the restaurant’s lot, and he parks. We both get out at the same time.
The restaurant is called La Maison Dorée according to the signage. It’s exactly what I expected. The frontage is understated: a dark green awning, brass fittings on the door, a single tall window with candlelight amber behind it.
Inside is warm, with low lighting that isn’t quite dim, just right. There’s white linen on every table with real silverware. There’s a low current of conversation from the other diners.
The hostess is there as we walk in. She’s young and composed in a black dress, with her hair up.
“Good evening. Welcome to La Maison Dorée.” She checks something on her iPad. “Reservation for two?” She lifts her brows as she looks at us.
“Yes, it’s under Flint,” he says.
“Of course.” She smiles and gathers two menus and a wine list. “Right this way.”
She takes us through the main dining room and toward a small table along the far wall, which is more of a window alcove. It’s good placement because it’s private without being tucked away. There’s a lit candle in the center with a single rose.
“Your server will be with you shortly.” She puts the menus down and leaves.
“This is lovely,” I say, looking around.
“I asked around at the office.” He looks at the room for a moment. “It was Snare’s recommendation. He’s a male I work with. He was there the night of the attack at the hospital.”
I nod, because I don’t really remember him.
A silence drops around us then. I study the menu, reading through everything…twice.
A different server appears. A young shifter male with a huge, goofy smile.
“Good evening. Can I start you off with something to drink? We have several wine options tonight?—”
“Do you have a preference?” Flint asks me.
“Um…no, not really. I like both red and white.” I’m not much of a wine expert. I never get the grass or the nutty undertone that everyone talks about.
Flint glances up at the server. “A glass of the Chablis, please. And we’ll take the bread as well.”
“Absolutely.” He leaves.
“The duck,” Flint says, tipping his menu toward me, “is the house specialty apparently. Confit duck with roasted rootvegetables and a cherry reduction.” He looks back at it. “I’m leaning toward it.”
“I keep coming back to the salmon,” I say. “But there’s a lamb shank too, which sounds good. The mushroom risotto is vegetarian so?—”
“You’re not vegetarian.”
“I’m not, but a really good risotto is still a really good risotto.”
He considers this with some seriousness. “That’s a fair point.”
