“You totally have. I’m sure I made them when we were dating. I was really proud of myself when I mastered making them. It’s like an eggy, bread pastry thing.”
Lindsay laughed. “You have a way with words. ‘Eggy, bread pastry thing’?”
“If they do it right, you’ll see.”
Brad turned the menu over to see if they had desserts listed. They didn’t on the dinner menu, but he spotted that the chef was Michelle McKean.
“Get out of town,” he murmured.
“What?”
“I know the chef.”
Lindsay sighed. “You know everyone.”
That was not at all true, but he did know a lot of chefs in New York between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five.
A waitress came over to take their orders. Lindsay let Brad order first and then ordered a different appetizer. Before the waitress finished saying, “I’ll be right back with your drinks,” Brad said, “Is Michelle here tonight?”
“Michelle the chef?”
“Yes. She and I aren’t old friends or anything, just casual acquaintances, but I figured I’d say hi if she’s here. My name is Brad Marks.”
“Ah, sure. She is here tonight. I’ll let her know.”
Lindsay looked pissed when the waitress walked away.
“What?” Brad asked.
“You might as well have just blown my cover. The whole idea is for me to taste a typical meal at the restaurant. Now that the chef knows you know her, she’ll probably put a little extra care into our entrées. So now I can’t review a typical meal.”
“Oh, whoops. Sorry about that. I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, you were not.”
“Well, now that we’re off on the wrong foot, how are you?”
Lindsay looked like she was doing some mental gymnastics behind her strained facade. Likely she was trying to tell herself this was not a mistake. “I’m fine,” she said.
So, fine, he’d fucked up. He probably should have waited until after they’d eaten to let the waitress know he was friends with the chef. But Lindsay could turn down her irritation with him a little.
“Hamilton is adjusting well at home,” Brad volunteered. “Although during that heat wave we had last week, he slept in my bathroom sink pretty much constantly. Do you think it’s because the porcelain or whatever sinks are made of is cool?”
“Probably,” said Lindsay. The crease in her forehead started to slip away. “Fred sleeps in the sink sometimes.”
“Fred Astaire the cat, right? Does he dance?”
“Not well.”
Ah, so that was how this was going to go. He’d stepped in it and pissed her off. She was going to make him pay for it the entire meal. He sighed and sipped his water.
Michelle herself brought their appetizers from the kitchen, plus an extra basket of crumpets. “Hey, Brad,” she said.
“Hey, yourself. Long time, no see.”
“This is my friend Lindsay. She was actually the one who suggested we try this place. We’re excited to try the food.” He glanced at Lindsay. He couldn’t see a way out of the hole, but he could pull her into the conversation.
Lindsay pasted on a smile and said hello.
