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“Peanut allergy or tree nuts?” he said, putting the phone to his ear.

“Both.”

He nodded. “Hi,” he said. “I was wondering if you have any nuts on the menu? I was going to come by with someone who has a nut allergy. Are you sure? Can you triple-check? Ask the chefs. Okay.”

He moved the phone away from his mouth. “I’m on hold. They’re checking with the kitchen. Is the allergy severe?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you have Benadryl?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Where’s your EpiPen?”

“In my purse?”

“Let me see it.”

“You want to see my EpiPen,” I deadpanned.

“Yes.”

“Okay…” I took it out and handed it to him.

He cradled the phone with his shoulder and looked at the expiration date and then the color of the liquid. He seemed to be satisfied with its condition and handed it back to me.

“It passes inspection?” I asked, mildly entertained.

“I’m a pharmacist. Minnesota has big temperature fluctuations, which can affect the quality. This one looks good.”

When I kept giving him a look, he gave a goofy one back to me.

“I’ve been entrusted with your care and I’m taking you out to eat,” he said. “I like to know your rescue medication isn’t expired.”

Before I could reply, the person came back on the line. “None at all?” he said into the phone. “No Nutella or peanut butter or almond flour? Great. Okay, we’ll be right over.”

He hung up. “Nut free.” He nodded over his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go get you some coffee.”

We made the short walk across the street and he held the door for me on the way in.

The place was cute—small with a bar full of red stools and booths against the window with tiny vases that had a single pink carnation in them. There was a cold case with muffins and pies and cookies in it by the register and baskets full of fresh baked breads on the wall behind it.

The hostess put us in a seat by the window. A minute later, our waitress came over with coffee. She was a middle-aged woman who reminded me a lot of Mom. “You kids need a minute with the menu?” she asked, filling our cups.

“We’re going to do five loaves of bread,” Chris said.

She looked at us over her glasses. “Five? They’re big, you know.”

“Yeah. We want to try them all,” he said.

“Okay…” she said. “How about for your girlfriend?” She looked at me. “You just want bread?”

“Oh, I’m not his girlfriend,” I said.

“She’s my best friend’s girlfriend,” Chris said.

“Huh,” she said, uninterested. “You want the pumpernickel too?”