Break for dinner

Victoria drives us to her favorite restaurant in her Maserati. She likes the speed and handing of her car, driving confidently, making me appreciate how the seats hug you in the turns. Her dress is pulled up to mid thigh, showing off her defined legs. I enjoy watching her move, operating the pedals and shifting gears.

She pulls to the curb and opens her door. The valet takes her keys, eyes falling out of his head when she stands up in her blue dress. She walks past him, meeting me at the curb. I take another gamble, extending my elbow to her. She takes it, causing the buzz to start in my head again. Am I in fucking middle school again? Just having this woman willingly wrap her wrist and and fingers around my bicep has me full of butterflies.

“Have you been here before?” She asks, looking slightly down to me because of her tall heels.

“You are in for a treat.” Her eyes smile at me. I am again taken by how deep and dark they are.

{if pill_intellectual = true}“Never, but I’ve always wanted to.” Just then Victoria stumbles, but I brace her and she recovers without incident. Is this the second time today that she seemed uncoordinated? That is so strange.{endif}

We enter the tall double doors. An impeccable host greets us, then leads us straight to our table. By the time we are seated, every head in the restaurant has turned to check out the bombshell walking through the room. I can’t help but swell with pride. That’s right, the most gorgeous woman I can imagine is at the nicest restaurant in town, with me. Every straight man here is jealous of me. OF ME! The revelation of it crashes over me like a tidal wave. I’ve jumped up at least two rungs on the social ladder, if only for one night.

I settle in. Victoria gives me a nice smile and picks up the wine menu. “I’m excited for you. You will never see food the same again.”

“I hope so! I think everything about tonight is going to be memorable.” A give her a sly smile that leaves a hint of innuendo floating between us. She notices and a little eyebrow shift seems to say, ‘Oh, you think so?’

The room is dimly lit, with intimate pendant lighting above out white clothed table. Victoria looks engrossed in her reading. I take the moment to appreciate her beauty. Her lips, her neck, her arms, her wrists... The host returns and removes the extra place settings. A busser fills waters and presents a handmade cutting board, with two tiny loaves of bread and a cup of hand-churned butter. I haven't eaten much all day, so I help myself and am impressed.

I open the dinner menu. There are a lot of French words... Then, some of the words are Spanish, some Italian? My eyes start to scramble across the pages, not finding much that I can definitely say that I know what the food is, or how it’s prepared. In my fatigued state, I can’t make sense of it. I feel my confidence slip.

“What sounds good to you?” She asks me with a glimmer in her eyes. She really is excited.

I feel a panic welling up. I flip back to the first page and my eyes slide down it in vain. “The...um...the...lur...luer...” the same mouth that, with a single bold, heartfelt statement had stopped Victoria’s heart, hardened her nipples, and very possibly got her wet was now utterly failing me.

Victoria gives me a pitying look. She sets her hand down over my menu. “Stop. You don’t speak French, so don’t try—it will make me crazy.” I can feel whatever good impressions I’ve made this evening eroding quickly. “What are you in the mood for?”

“Anything, really. It’s all great, right?”

She looks less excited by the second. “Yes, but there are five courses to choose, and they should pair with the wine.” She sees my unease and tightens her lips. “Forget it—you’ll just get the same things I order.” Now I feel like a child dining with a parent.

“That works for me.”

The server greets us, then rattles off a sumptuous sounding description of dishes, some of which are described in English. My interest is piqued, but decide against revealing yet another layer of my ignorance by interrupting. Victoria asks several questions about the dishes. Suddenly they are speaking full French. The server said something funny and Victoria laughs. Oh man, the SERVER has a better chance with Victoria than I do.

I look again around the room. Most of these people have had decades of international travel and higher education, or at least enough money to not feel intimidated by anyone. I wonder if when they look at me, do they see an imposter... Do they see me as a schmuck with a world-class escort? I feel myself slip down a rung on the social ladder.

Victoria starts talking to the server about the wine. She drills down, asking more questions about a few wines and pairings. The server sounds very well informed, but with all the terminology and debating of subjective traits, I am lost. They do mention tannins, so I gather that they are talking about reds.

“I’ll just sample one of each then,” Victoria concludes. A few minutes later, three wine glasses appear, the server pointing to each, and saying a French word. I still don’t know what kind of wines these are. They are all reds, though, so I got that right. Yay for me.

She tries all three, then seems to be having an internal debate between two of them. She hands me the third one. “I don’t want that one.” I take it, and look at it. Deep purple-red. I see Victoria’s lip marks on the rim. I swirl the wine, sniff it, then sip, putting my lips over her marks. It is damn good. Smooth and complex, bold tannin, and a long even finish.

“Wow, that is good! What is it?”

“Mourvedre.” I stare at her, not understanding. She looks at me and elaborates. “It is a Monastrell. Mourvedre Is the French name for it.” I nod, not really understanding, except that this restaurant is named after a type of wine. The server returns and the wine discussion continues. Finally she picks one and orders a bottle. The wine bottle is presented, then there is the uncorking, and the cork sniffing, and then the taste, then FINALLY we get our first full glasses. I try to think of a worthy toast.

I raise a glass, praying that there is a enough magic left in my mouth to give a toast, as long as it is speaking in English. She looks at me expectantly. I search within myself for something honest.

“Here is to recognizing the moment that everything changes. After tonight all previous meals are put to shame, and for all other women, much the same.” She takes another deep breath.

"Oh, you are so sweet." Her eyes are soft and thoughtful. She is used to being complimented all the time, but something about an in-the-moment, heartfelt compliment gets past her social armor.

“I’m sure that would have sounded amazing in French," I add.

She laughs. I actually made her laugh.