11
Don't Forget Your Wallet
It is a perfect evening. I still remember it vividly nearly twenty years later.
My wife and I are sitting at a table for two at one of the most talked-about restaurants in Paris. Our children are safely in the hands of a babysitter back at our hotel. You can just spy the Eiffel Tower out of one of the windows, lit up against a dark sky. The moon is nearly full. Romance is in the air.
The restaurant was just awarded a second Michelin star. The highest rating is three stars, and there are only a handful of establishments with that rating. A two-star restaurant, we had been told, is usually just as good as its three-star brethren, but half the price.
The meal is everything we expect. For an appetizer we both order sautéed langoustines with truffles. (Langoustines are those little pink lobsters, called scampi in Italy). For the main course, I have pan-roasted squab, and my wife has red wine–braised short ribs with winter vegetables. Oh, and the wine. The waiter recommended it—a delicious red Bordeaux.
The service is impeccable. Not too formal, not too familiar. We are in culinary heaven.
We stretch the evening out as much as possible. But all good things come to an end. As we linger over glasses of some kind of aged French Armagnac, I ask for the check. The waiter brings it. I discreetly pull my credit card out and place it on the tray on top of the check. Phew, it's a lot. But worth it.
The waiter comes back to pick up the check, and I immediately sense ...
