Page 34 of Bent Out of Shade
For a moment it seemed as if Laurent was going to order two bottles, one for each of us, which I’d have been fine with, but he went with the less intervention-worthy single one, before pulling at the knot of his tie. “I keep telling myself it’s just dinner.”
I exhaled. “You too?”
He reached across the table and took my hand. “We’ll eat. We’ll drink. I will look at a beautiful woman. All good, yes?”
“When you put it that way, I feel like you’re getting the better end of this deal.” I winked, and just like that the tension was broken.
Our server poured us delicious wine with perfect aplomb, and our first taster dish arrived soon after. “Pan-seared farm-to-table organic pork flavored with garlic and pimento and topped with a raspberry coulis.” He set the tiny plates down in front of us, pivoted sharply, and left.
I frowned at the two discs because after that description I expected more than two half-inch-thick wedges cut out of a sausage in a puddle of what looked like blood.
Laurent poked one of the pieces. “It’s a meat cupcake,” he scoffed.
“A what?” I sniffed it. It smelled grilled and fatty and my stomach rumbled.
“Daya makes them for Evani. She cuts up a sausage, squirts ketchup on the pieces like frosting, and calls it a meat cupcake. The kid loves it.”
“That’s brilliant.” I popped a disc in my mouth, cutting the amount of food on my plate in half. “It tastes good.”
Laurent had already eaten his share, turning the plate around like more might appear.
Ninety minutes later we’d consumed—in addition to the aforementioned meat cupcakes—two tablespoons of gray foam, a shot glass of olive oil topped with a sprig of rosemary that I was tempted to eat, and a deconstructed salad. This consisted of two shavings of carrot, a curl of cucumber, a red smear that might have been tomato, and a lettuce leaf that we were sternly informed was for garnish purposes only.
Rebel that I was, I snarfed that puppy down in one bite.
Laurent’s eyes looked wild and his canines had lengthened. “This is a joke, yes? They will bring a meal soon?”
I rooted around in my clutch, triumphantly producing a box of breath mints, which I carefully divvied up, generously giving Laurent the extra one. Never had artificially sweetened peppermint tasted so divine.
He jabbed a shaking finger at the next table, where the diners had just been given their meal. “They have real food,” he said plaintively.
I tamped down a frown. If Laurent had gotten desperate enough to believe that the three tortellini swimming forlornly in a huge dish or the brown puddle with a single lamb popsicle constituted “real food,” he was moments away from eating the other patrons.
When our server came by with the next course, I pointed at the other table. “Are those the largest portions you have?”
“Yes.” He sneered, the stud under his bottom lip catching the light. “They are for the à la carte diners.”
“Excellent. We’ll take seven of each.”
“Impossible. You are on the tasting menu.” He marched off before I could protest, and I faced down my next dish with suspicion.
The small knob on my plate was deep fried. That was a good start. I popped it my mouth and gagged. It was deep-fried cream that tasted like slug slime. A delectable visual hiding an unwanted salty surprise. I snorted. Been there.
Just like straight dudes everywhere, Laurent was exempt from that plug-your-nose-and-swallow finish. His cream squirted out the opposite end of the knob, shooting rivulets all over the plate and tablecloth. Small mercies it didn’t end up on my face.
Laurent let out a soft wolfy growl, but it was drowned out by my stomach rumble that was so loud, heads turned my way.
My date clenched his jaw. “C’est fini.”
The second he stood up, three servers rushed him. I hadn’t seen anyone move that fast since Jude and I attempted to leave a multilevel marketing seminar and were intercepted by a phalanx of women who were all named Debbie.
I’d have gotten up to help him fight them off, but I was too hungry to stand.
The staff coaxed him back into his seat, swearing the best was yet to come because it was time for the first of the entrées.
We bravely soldiered on.
Entrée the first involved a dollop of chili sauce the size of my thumbnail, two croutons, and single slice of beef tartare. The second dish topped that marvel with a gherkin sitting atop an empty pea pod next to a sliver of white fish.
