Every bite of food was delicious, perfectly cooked, and buttery where it should be. The chicken was dripping with juices and the salad dressing lemony and pungent, cutting through the heaviness of the sauces and making it instantly clear to me why a salad course came at the end of a meal. I couldn’t believe how much I ate. I didn’t spend a second thinking about where chicken came from or anything else. It was too good. Then our waiter brought an apple tarte Tatin that Josh must have ordered when he was busy speaking French to the waiter and I was busy not paying attention to anything except the way his voice sounded.
“They make it upside down,” Josh explained, pointing to the chunks of apples sitting atop a buttery crust. “Then they flip it.”
“Oh my God. It’s amazing,” I said after one forkful. The apples were caramelized with butter and sugar, browned and melting into the crust, which was light and crisp thanks to even more butter. I understood then why people always went on and on about French food. “And I’m going to wake up in the morning and go for a ten-mile run.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s pretty rich. But you know, traveling… you walk so much you can pretty much eat whatever and it’s not a big deal.”
“Ha. Spoken like a tall guy with a fast metabolism.”
“Fair enough. You ready for part two of our night? We still need to catch that boat before the sun goes down.” I looked out the windows of the restaurant and realized it was still light.
“Yes,” I said. Ready for anything.