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Mircea looked over my shoulder. “Pan-seared foie gras with cherries and foie gras caramel.”
I put the lid back. Duck liver had never done a lot for me, no matter what they cooked it with. “And this?” I was staring into the second offering.
“Poireaux vinaigrette aux grains de caviar.”
I did a quick translation. “Leeks and fish eggs in vinegar?”
He grinned. “It sounds better in French.”
Yeah, but did it taste better? Door number three had crab and artichokes in Pernod, which would have been fine, except that I hated two out of the three. Door number four offered up more artichokes—must have been a sale—with gnocchi and herbed cheese. Door number five had more foie gras, this time stuffed into a duck breast. Door number six had—
“What is this?” I looked up at Mircea hopefully, because the stew had potatoes and onions and some kind of meat in a rich sauce and smelled awesome.
“Hossenfeffer. It’s one of the house specialties.”
“Hossenfeffer?” It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t—
“Rabbit stew.”
I looked up at him tragically.
“Is there a problem?” Mircea asked carefully.
“I used to have a pet rabbit,” I said, seeing Honeybun’s black eyes staring at me accusingly.
Mircea bit his lip. “This date isn’t going so well, is it?” he asked, half-amused, half-despairing. I recognized the look because I felt pretty much the same way.
“It’s . . . well . . . you know,” I said, and then realized I didn’t have anything else to say, so I shut up.
My stomach growled.
We regarded the last little dish in forlorn hope.
“You look,” I told him. I probably wouldn’t know what the hell it was anyway.
He leaned over and removed the lid, and some really wonderful smells steamed out. But I wasn’t going to get excited, not this time, because it was probably Bambi in shallots or Nemo with fennel or—
“It’s some kind of pork,” he told me.
That didn’t sound so bad. But then, neither had the others until I did a little translating. I moved closer and peered inside. And saw—
“It’s ribs and fries,” I said, in something approaching awe.
“Amish roasted pork loin with potatoes and apple-baked cabbage,” he said, reading off a little menu card I hadn’t noticed before.
“It’s ribs and fries,” I said, so happy I could have cried.
Mircea slanted me a glance. “It does look delicious. I believe I may—”
“Don’t even think about it.” I grabbed the dish and a plate and chowed down, while he watched with illconcealed amusement. He started on the rabbit. I tried not to notice.
The ribs were succulent and falling-off-the-bone tender, the apple-baked cabbage was a little sauerkraut in a hollowed-out apple that I pushed aside as the garnish it was, and the fries were the English kind, thick-cut wedges of golden potato that went great with fish but turned out to be pretty good with pork, too. And so was the wine, some Riesling or other that was crisp and fresh and tart on my tongue, and oh yeah . . .
This was more like it.
Mircea laughed, and I looked up. “What?”
“It’s merely . . . good to see someone enjoying their meal.”
