Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 78576 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78576 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“Sounds good.” I watch him walk into his room and then close the door behind me, clicking my deadbolt into place.
Dave actually booked a limo. A limo in Paris. The driver takes us to a restaurant called L’Ambroisie located on the Île Saint-Louis, in the heart of historic Paris. Parking is apparently limited, so the driver leaves us and will pick us up later.
The restaurant is housed in a beautifully restored sixteenth-century townhouse. The interior is adorned with rich decor that includes opulent chandeliers, elaborate woodwork, and plush upholstery. I’ve never been in anything so elegant, and I can’t help walking through the entrance with my mouth agape.
The inside of L’Ambroisie is surprisingly intimate with a limited number of tables. The lighting is soft and subdued. The decor is muted, with shades of cream, gold, and soft pastels dominating. It screams elegance, sophistication, and affluence.
Part of me feels like I shouldn’t be here. I wasn’t sure what to wear, and rather than ask Dave, I chose black leggings, an oversized white blouse cinched at the waist with a silver belt, and simple black pumps. While my outfit works, most women are dressed in cocktail attire and some of the men are actually wearing tuxedos.
I sigh.
I don’t have any cocktail attire anyway, so what the hell?
Dave is wearing black pants, a dark gray jacket, and a simple blue tie. It’s so easy for men to dress for anything.
I glide through a haze as Dave speaks to the maître d’ who leads us to a table set with beautiful cream-colored china, crystal glasses, and crisp black linens. The maître d’ pulls out my chair for me.
“Merci,” I mumble as I take the seat.
Dave sits across from me as the maître d’ hands him the wine list.
“Votre serveur sera avec vous dans un instant.” The maître d’ bows and leaves our table.
Dave’s eyes dance. “What do you think so far?”
I dart my gaze around to the other diners. “I think I’m severely underdressed.”
“Don’t be silly. You’d look gorgeous in a potato sack.”
“I kind of feel like that’s what I’m wearing.” I look down at my plain white blouse.
“Are you kidding?” He burns his gaze into me. “Your look is classic. You fit in anywhere, Maddie. The only one who doesn’t believe it is you.”
A young woman wearing simple black pants and a white blouse approaches us. “Good evening,” she says in heavily accented English. “My name is Giselle, and I take care of you this evening. You would like a cocktail?”
“Actually, I’ve ordered a special menu created by the chef, complete with wine pairings,” Dave says. “So no, thank you.”
“Ah, yes. Of course, monsieur. I will speak to Chef and return with your amuse-bouche.” She scurries off into the kitchen.
Before I can think of something witty to say, Giselle is already back.
“Fois gras on baguette,” she says.
Before each of us, she sets a small plate containing a thin piece of toasted baguette covered in something that looks…well, not good.
“What is this?” I ask Dave.
“Fois gras. Goose or duck liver pate.”
I resist the urge to wrinkle my nose. “And they eat this?”
“It’s a delicacy. Try it. You may like it.” He downs his in one bite.
“Why is it so small?” I ask.
“It’s supposed to be small.” He cocks his head. “Hasn’t anyone ever taken you to a nice dinner?”
“Not this nice.” I bring the toasted baguette to my mouth and take a tiny taste. The fois gras is creamy and rich, and the flavor is…okay. Since it’s so small, I’m able to finish it, but I hope the menu doesn’t contain any more liver.
A few moments later, after a busboy clears our plates, Giselle brings the next course.
“Fresh crab meat served with citrus segments, avocado, and a citrus vinaigrette,” she says and leaves quickly.
This I can get behind. I love crab. I take a bite, and the tang of the citrus adds a zest to the crab while the avocado adds creaminess. “Wow. This is fabulous.”
“Better than the liver?” Dave smiles.
“Much.” I take another bite.
“I’m glad you like it. I’ve never been here before, but I did some research, and this place came highly recommended. I was lucky that they had a cancellation and could get us in.”
We finish our salad, and I take a drink of the water that Giselle’s assistant brought earlier. “I thought we were getting wine,” I say.
“With the main course,” Dave says. “Did you want some now?”
“No, that’s fine. Just wondering.”
The assistant brings a baguette, and Dave offers me a piece, but I shake my head. “I want to preserve my appetite.”
“Good idea. You won’t leave the table hungry here.”
Giselle comes again with our main course.
“Roasted pigeon with a port wine reduction,” she says, “with seasonal vegetables and a gratin dauphinois.”
I want to ask what a gratin dauphinois is, but I just smile. The seasonal vegetables turn out to be roasted beets and carrots served with leafy kale. The gratin dauphinois is potatoes, and I do a quick search on my phone to find out that they’re layered with cream, garlic, salt, and pepper. The top is broiled to a gorgeous brown sheen.