Chapter 21
“Emmie!” Henry greets me as I step onto the patio of the nicest date-night spot in town, a wine and tapas bar on the waterfront. I’m five minutes late, which, to be honest, is pretty good for me. I always have the best of intentions to be on time, but you know, life. This time it was because Dani FaceTimed me right before I left and demanded to see what I was wearing. She nixed my cute sundress as too casual and not sexy enough, and I had to go through eight wardrobe changes before she was satisfied with a sky-blue, silky little ruffled number that shows a little more cleavage than I’m generally comfortable baring. But hey, I’m on a real date with my dream crush. Maybe a little cleavage is a good idea.
Henry’s eyes light up when he sees me, and I thank Dani for talking me out of the sundress. This is way more fun.
“You look absolutely lovely,” Henry says, brushing a kiss across my cheek. “I reserved a table here on the patio. Is that okay?” he asks anxiously.
“It’s perfect.”
It’s a lovely, clear evening and the patio has a panoramic view of the bay. It is the ideal setting for a cozy, casually elegant date. There are vines trailing up trellises, blooming trees in big pots, and strands of café lights strung overhead. The atmosphere feels a little magical with the lights and the water lapping at the shore a few feet beyond our table. Somewhere, background music is seeping low and sultry on the night air, Diana Krall singing the old classics.
“Do you know much about wine, Emmie?” Henry asks as we slide into rattan-backed chairs at a small table overlooking the water. He scans the wine list with a practiced air.
“A little. I picked up some things while living in France. I’m not a connoisseur, but I do like wine.” Romaine was a true wine expert, and I learned quite a bit while we were dating, but often Romaine’s way of approaching wine felt too uptight. I just wanted to enjoy a glass and a good conversation, not dissect it clinically.
“You can educate me then.” Henry laughs, a warm sound that makes my heart crinkle up with delight. “I come from a beer-drinking family. I consider myself a wine enthusiast, not a wine expert,” he confesses. “Now, the best place to get chili crab in Singapore—that I can tell you. But the difference between a”—he scans the menu—“Viognier and a Chenin Blanc? I need a bit of help.”
That’s what I like about Henry. He’s so approachable that I forget how famous he is, and how well traveled. We both order the tasting flights—three whites for me and three reds for him—and agree to share them so we can taste them all. We order half a dozen plates of tapas as well. The patio isn’t crowded, but buzzy enough on a Wednesday night to feel fun. The last time I was out on a date like this, I met the guy at a wings place in Silverdale. Itturned out he wasn’t divorced and wasn’t even remotely over his ex-wife. He cried into the buffalo sauce. It was a disaster. This evening is going to be so much better, I can tell. It feels like destiny. I am nervous, but it’s a good nervous, the kind where you can feel a delightful surprise is in store.
While we wait for our order, Henry keeps up an engaging stream of conversation, peppering in humorous asides about his travels and mishaps, asking me thoughtful questions, and making me feel like I’m the center of the universe tonight. I feel myself opening up under his attention, relishing feeling like a woman again, someone beautiful and desirable and interesting. I’m Emmie of the smoothly shaved legs and sparkling conversation, not the workaday Emmie who keeps forgetting to throw away her old, grayish, stretched-out bra and who can’t recall the last book she actually finished.
Our wine flights arrive, and we sample and laugh and pretend we are wine snobs.
I sniff a Pinot Gris from Oregon. “I detect notes of…radish, diesel fumes, and a hint of apricot pit.”
A passing server catches the last few words and pauses. “You have a good palate,” he says gravely. “That wine is very apricot forward, you’re right. Lovely notes of ripe stone fruit.” As he sails away, we keep straight faces until he is out of earshot and then dissolve into giggles. It’s silly and we’re having fun, goofing around, being flirty. I love this. I love who I get to be tonight.
The tapas are delivered to the table, and we sample them all—shrimp in garlic sauce, a lovely egg-based vegetable tortilla, patatas bravas with smoky red pepper aioli, fried eggplant drizzled in honey…I lose count of the small plates and just eat and enjoy.
We’re almost finished with our wine tasting and tapas feast when I remember I brought Henry a gift. I pull the little silvercardboard box out of my tiny purse. I left my serviceable mom purse at home and borrowed this sleek vintage clutch from Mom, who told me she took it to the opera in Seattle once in the ’80s.
“This is for you.” I slide the box over to him. “A thank-you for filming an episode ofSavorabout our family.”
“Emmie, it was my absolute pleasure,” Henry says, looking surprised. “No gift is needed.”
“I wanted to.” I gesture to the box with my chin. “Open it.”
He does. Inside are six perfect chocolates. I stayed up late last night making the last couple of flavors, and I’m proud of how they turned out. I point to each one. “Yakima peach ginger bonbon, San Juan Island smoked sea salt and lavender caramel, dark chocolate huckleberry bonbon—finally got that one right—Storyville espresso ganache truffle, Ripple IPA caramel from Echoes Brewing, and Rainier cherry and vanilla buttercream truffle.” I ate two of the Rainier cherry truffles, which are dusted in gold sprinkles, before I came tonight, for courage.
Henry looks impressed. “These look amazing, Emmie.”
“They’re all handcrafted using Pacific Northwest ingredients from local suppliers,” I tell him proudly. “Try one.”
Henry picks the Ripple IPA caramel made with craft beer brewed locally in Poulsbo. He bites into it, narrowing his eyes assessingly. “I confess, I had my doubts about this one, but it’s…well, it’s delicious.”
He samples the espresso ganache truffle, then the peach ginger bonbon. Ten minutes later he’s tried all six chocolates and given his opinion about each flavor profile. He loved all of them, even the huckleberry bonbon, although he isn’t usually the biggest fan of blueberries, he tells me. Finally he sits back and looks at me in frank admiration.
“Emmie, you continue to astonish me. These are…extraordinary. They’re unique, they’re local, but more than that, each flavor is just really delicious. Where do you get your inspiration?”
I think about it for a moment. “Partly from my chocolatier training in Switzerland, and partly from Jacques Genin. He was an exacting boss who pushed us all not only technically but creatively too. And the rest…” I look around. “The rest is a tribute to my home. I think the Pacific Northwest is the most special place on earth. Just like a winemaker, I like to make chocolate that reflects the terroir of a place.” I gesture to our empty flights of wine.
Henry is gazing at me speculatively. “You need a bigger platform,” he says finally. “This chocolate shop—I know it’s your dream, and it’s a good dream, but you need a way to break into the global chocolate scene.” He looks at the empty box of chocolates and says thoughtfully, “Have you ever thought about entering one of the big, prestigious chocolatier competitions?”
I hesitate. I used to dream of entering the International Chocolatier Awards competition, which is held in Geneva each year. But those days are long gone.
“Once upon a time,” I admit. “But then my dad got sick, and I left Paris and became a mom and…well, life happened.”
“I think you should consider entering one this year,” Henry tells me seriously. “It could do so much for your visibility. Of course the cash prize is nice, but it’s really all about the publicity. Winning could really rocket you into a much higher level of name recognition. Being featured onSavorwill do good things for your visibility too, but winning a competition would catch the eye of the chocolate world in a different way.”
