Our evening together begins with a romantic stroll.
Too bad I’m wearing impossibly high heels. The ones that look like a dream and feel like a nightmare. To upgrade my legs to first class, I squeezed my feet into the non-reclining middle seat in the last row of economy. These shoes were shaped on elves’ ears, not women’s toes.
The sunset on Lake Michigan is beautiful, but I’m too busy trying not to twist an ankle on the gravel, get a heel stuck in the drain grate, or sink into soft ground to fully appreciate it. Noah valiantly offers his arm in support, but he looks more like my keeper than my beau.
Once we get to the restaurant, things don’t improve.
There’s been a mix-up with the reservation, and our table isn’t ready, but they offer us a drink at the bar while we wait.
“Our stools are called waves,” the hostess explains. “The sleek, delicate curves are designed to evoke a visually fluid concept.”
Translation: there’s no backrest, no handles, no footrest, and man, do they swivel. I’m getting seasick. I’m on a slippery slope, pun intended.
When our table is finally ready, I’m glad to see the imaginary back of them.
“Fox, they brought us a plate with a dirty spoon in it,” Noah tells me.
“I think the course is what’s in the spoon.”
“I’m afraid I left my magnifying glass at home. What’s in the spoon, exactly?”
“It’s an amuse-bouche. A velouté.”
“I’m far from amused. It reminds me of the baby food Levi would spit in my face when he was a toddler. What’s the next one called?”
“Tiny temptations. A garden of Eden to share.”
“That’s just an excuse to throw a bunch of fruit and veggies together, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? Then how do you explain this green mush with horns?”
“That’s an artichoke.”
“And this shaving cream gone sour?”
“That’s the cloud of heaven, aka goat cheese mousse, and stop making me laugh!”
“Why should I stop? I love your laugh.”
“‘Cause my belt is so tight from sitting I’m electrocuted every time I move.”
“Take it off, then.”
“I can’t. It’s holding my top and skirt together.”
“Why did I let you order the appetizer again?” Noah asks, taking a bite of the red apple.
“Because I let you order tenderloin à la Wellington wrapped in Parma ham as the main dish.”
And he was right, it was totally delicious, I think as the last nibble of puff pastry melts in my mouth.
“Since dessert is deconstructed tiramisù, how about taking it to go, Fox?” he lowers his voice and leans forward, “We can put it back together at home.”
“I like the way you think.”