I glanced down at my dress, smoothing the fabric as if to make it go from cotton to chantilly. The waiter arrived, holding out the menu.
“Have you decided what you’d like to eat?” he asked.
“No, not yet,” I admitted. “We’ll need some time to think.”
We opened the menus simultaneously.
Pink menu:
pasta with pink Genovese sauce, accompanied by miniature pâtés with house-made bread, beef cut, raspberry éclairs, coffee and coconut, rosé wine to finish.
Green menu (vegetarian-friendly!):
pesto pasta, fresh house salad, pilaf with curry soy, matcha miniatures, Aperol spritz.
Black menu:
seafood rice with squid ink, witches brew mixed drink.
I glanced up from the menu, only to find Enzo’s eyes fixed on me, his amusement barely concealed.
“Anything catches your eye?” he asked, a smirk playing at his lips. “Allergies I should know about? Aversions to seafood?”
“None,” I replied. “And I like seafood.” I paused, then added, “What about you? Vegetarian? Vegan? One of those people who only eats raw food?”
“Raw food?” he echoed, struggling to contain a laugh.
“Okay, I’ll assume not.”
Then, with a glimmer of mischief, he signalled to the waiter who had come over.
“We’ll take the pink menu, please,” Enzo said, his eyes locked onto mine.
He fit into that place like it was made for him, something I could never grasp, and it was almost enchanting to watch.
The waiter nodded and, without saying a word, took both menus away. At the mere mention of the menu we’d chosen, another guy appeared with a bottle of wine.
“It’s the best in the house,” he said, uncorking it. “If you don’t mind?”
He poured a third of the wine into my glass. I tasted it and nodded. It was good wine, but I’ve never had a palate for alcohol. To me, everything falls into one of two categories: drinks that taste like old lady perfume, and drinks so sweet I’m at risk of ending up on the other side of the world with no idea how I got there. The waiter filled my glass again and then Enzo’s before stepping back. He stood behind us, holding the bottle in his hands.
“I hope you had no trouble finding the place,” I apologised. “I didn’t mean to change the plans at the last minute.”
Enzo took a sip of his wine and flashed me another of his charming smiles.
“Was there a problem with the Crème?” he asked, his tone teasing.
Crème was the go-to spot for Cutnam students in need of a moderately formal venue—reliable, familiar. It was a safe bet for a first date.
“I wanted to try something new,” I said.
Before I could blink, an array of miniature dishes appeared before us: an assortment of rolls, delicate pink pâtés, vibrant hummus, and an array of sample-sized sauces. Enzo’s hand darted toward the feast, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“I didn’t take you for someone who takes risks on a first date,” he said, his voice laced with playful banter.
Seriousness had never been his strong suit.
“I usually don’t.”.
