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Huh. No idea what that means. Maybe they’re angling for more nooky? Would that be such a bad thing? I sit my ass in the chair Owen’s pulled out for me, and before I can say another thing, Enzo’s motoring toward me with a plate of something red.
Dark red. Like blood red.
Shit. Have they forgotten I’m a vegetarian? And even more important, if they do set down a plate of bloody meat in front of me, I can’t promise I won’t vomit all over it.
As it is, some of the smells here are a challenge for my stomach. But I take a sip of the biodynamic wine Owen’s served me, made with, as he explained, some kind of manure, and marvel at how good it is and how it doesn’t smell like cow shit at all.
I am clearly putting my life on the line with these guys. But none of their diners have keeled over dead yet, at least not that I’m aware of.
Enzo drops a plate before me and steps back, beaming. “Hey, gorgeous.”
Okay. Now I don’t care what’s on the damn plate. They could serve me grasshoppers, and this would be one of the best nights of my life.
I manage to tear my gaze away from Enzo’s dark eyes, the ones that make me want to take my clothes off even though I’m in a crowded restaurant, as the scent of something so delicious wafts up it brings tears to my eyes.
“It’s called beet tartare,” he says. “Let me know what you think. It’s somewhat of an experiment. I’d like to add it to the menu.”
Beettartare. Clever.
Before me are shavings of my favorite root vegetable so thin I can almost see through them, surrounded by capers and shallots, with a tiny crust of bread on one side, and what I’m pretty sure is a blob of goat cheese on the other.
My mouth waters. The dish smells like heaven and looks even prettier. I look up at the guys in awe. “How did you know I love beets?”
Enzo shrugs. “I didn’t, darlin’. But hey, I gotta get back to the kitchen.” He turns, and as he retreats, I see his chef jacket is just short enough to show off his ass, perfectly covered by a pair of faded blue jeans.
Catching me staring, Owen’s amused, and gives me a little bow. “I have to get back to work too. Enjoy the dish and give me a wave if you need anything.”
I dive into my beets, using all the strength I can muster not to inhale the delicately flavored vegetables. In fact, I force myself to set my fork down in between bites to avoid humiliating myself.
The restaurant is filling up and the light buzz of socializing people and the quiet clatter of dishes bounce off the white wall in front of me and back to the brick wall behind me, where it seems to sink in the way a sponge mops up water.
How do they do that? I look around EastSide, really look around, and realize the other couple times I’ve been here I was distracted by people and my anxiety, and not paid any attention to how simple but elegant it is.
The lighting is made of what looks like repurposed industrial materials, lending a scruffy-chic feel, while the chairs and banquettes are covered in crackly leather upholstery, the kind you might find on an easy chair in an old-school men’s club.
The funny thing is, it’s not overly masculine or stuffy, thanks to the huge paintings of chickens on the far wall. They lend just enough whimsy, as if their job is to remind everyone not to take themselves too seriously.
Separately, all these components might be weird. Together they are perfect.
“Hey. Looks like you enjoyed that wine.”
I look up to find Weston standing over me, his dress shirt sleeves rolled up far enough to show his very muscular forearms.
Damn him.
I look at my empty glass and realize how fast I sucked down my wine. “Busted. It was so good. And to think, it doesn’t taste like manure at all.”
He drops his head back and laughs. “I can just imagine what Owen told you. It’s not made with manure. It’s just something they put on the vineyard with a mixture of other stuff.”
Same thing, if you ask me.
“Let me get you another,” he says.
Holy shit. I could get used to being waited on hand and foot.
When he returns, I motion for him to take the seat opposite me. “Weston, tell me, why are you guys doing this for me?”
Fuck. Did that sound ungrateful?
