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“Balut is a duck egg in which the fetus has gotten a chance to develop into a little bird,” the Impaler explains. “That Hollandaise sauce is usually made with duck eggs too.”
“Fermented,” the waiter adds helpfully.
Fermented.
Of course.
I didn’t think my face could get any whiter, but there it is.
“I’m still sticking with it,” I shock myself by saying. “What comes after the eggs?”
“Huitlacoche chowder,” the waiter says, and I think he’s beginning to enjoy himself at my expense.
The Impaler full-on smiles. “Huitlacoche is also known as corn smut—a fungus that used to destroy corn crops but nowadays is a delicacy.”
“Seriously?” I look at the waiter.
He nods.
“I feel like I’m on the hidden camera version of Fear Factor,” I say.
“You know what, I’ll take the children’s menu,” the Impaler tells the waiter. His eyes gleam behind the lenses of his glasses as he asks me, “Want to join me?”
I sigh in defeat. “You don’t need to do that.”
“I insist. I’ve never tried the kids’ menu, so I’m going to do it today.”
“Fine.” I take a small sip of my water, mostly to keep the crickets and the snail eggs down. “I’ll have the children’s menu too.”
The waiter leaves.
The Impaler rightfully assumes the rest of the crepes are all his, so he finishes them as I sit there, trying to think of how I can save face after all that.
Or at the very least, start some kind of a conversation.
My phone buzzes.
It’s a text from Ava.
Impaled yet? This is followed by a syringe emoji and an eggplant.
It’s like she sniffed out this maybe-date.
A burst of irritation at the world at large crystalizes into something more specific—namely, annoyance at Ava. I blurt out loud, “Who do you think would win in a fight: Snow White or Belle from Beauty and the Beast?”
There. It’s more civilized than asking him if he thinks I’d succeed in pummeling Ava into the ground.
The Impaler swallows the last bite of his dubious appetizer, his forehead furrowing in thought. “Would this be a random encounter in a neutral location?”
“Why not?” I sip my wine, fighting the urge to push back that unruly lock of hair that keeps falling over his forehead.
It really, really wouldn’t be appropriate.
The furrow underneath the lock of hair deepens. “We’re talking standard versions of those characters?”
“There are versions?”
“Sure. The original story of Beauty and the Beast was French, but there’s also a Russian one, which even has a cartoon that’s much better than the Disney one—at least in my opinion. On the other hand, Snow White was originally a story by Brothers Grimm. It also has a Russian version. She goes by Snowdrop and lives with seven bogatyrs instead of dwarves.”
