Page 73 of Sort of Seeing Someone

“This is called Church Basement Coffee, aka Swedish coffee, aka egg coffee.”

“Eggcoffee?”

“Swedes like to add a raw egg to their coffee grounds.”

“Dare I ask why?”

“In a nutshell, less bitterness, more caffeine. And if you’re die-hard like my dad, you throw in the shells, too. But don’t worry, I left them out this time. Don’t want to scare you away.”

And here I was thinking I was the only one who had to worry about scaring the other person away.

Even though I could have done without knowing a raw egg was part of the brewing process, I look down at my light-colored coffee and appreciate the fact that there’s absolutely no bitterness or acidity to it. The velvety texture is easy to drink and I can feel a nice caffeine buzz starting to creep in. I still miss my French press, but this beats a K-cup completely.

“Best of all? It pairs well with these.”

In front of me, Ollie sets a plate with three thin rolled up Swedish pancakes. They look more like crepes than the short stack you’d get at IHOP, but they’re steaming hot, smell like melted butter, and are coated with perfect golden-brown spots from the hot cast iron pan.

“These look amazing,” I say, grabbing hold of my fork and knife.

“Wait until you taste them. And you can’t forget the lingonberry jam.”

Ollie ushers over a white ceramic ramekin with the purple-colored jelly in it. He uses a small gold-colored espresso spoon to scoop some of the jam and drape it across the rolled pancakes. He does the same for his plate before setting down the bowl and taking a seat himself.

“You don’t find stuff like this very often in the apartments of single guys,” I comment about the cute little serving pieces.

“Have you been in many single guys’ apartments lately?” he asks, I suppose both to give me a hard timeandto subtly survey my dating life yet again.

“No, but if I was, I’d fully expect to see gaming consoles and empty pizza boxes, not ramekins and fancy little spoons.”

“Confession: I took them from The Brockmeier.”

“Figures. Am I good to dive in now?” I ask.

“Ja,” he says—Swedish foryes, he clarifies after.

Tender. Buttery. Snappy with a burst of tangy fruit preserve. Where has this Nordic delicacy been all my life? To be clear, just talking about the pancakes.

“Verdict?” he asks.

“Two thumbs up,” I say. “I just need a napkin.”

I hold up my hands to show him thelingonberry schmutz I got on my cuticles.

Ollie hops up from his seat and pulls open a drawer. He grabs two wads of linens and places them down on the table. Upon closer inspection, they are not wads at all.

“Are these…swans?”

“A little trick I learned from the catering department nearly twenty years ago.”

File “Napkin Artist” under things I would have never expected to show up on Ollie’s resume—and also under: Cutest. Thing. Ever.

“You’re full of surprises,” I can’t help but state. “Guess that’s par for the course when having breakfast with a stranger.”

“You don’t still consider usstrangers, do you?” he asks.

The answer is no. But still, I shrug my shoulders in reply. I want a temperature check on whathethinks we are.

“We’ve now shared three meals together, navigated an infestation of possessed lab rats, and have officially eaten each other’s favorite foods—Cali burrito for you,pannkakorfor me. That’s pretty damn intimate, wouldn’t you say?”

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