Page 52 of We Can Do
Inside, the excitement is palpable. Couples lean close together, their voices creating a pleasant hum of anticipation. The host, a young woman with her hair pulled back in a sleek bun, guides us through the main dining room – all exposed beams and candlelight – to the outdoor patio.
Our table sits beside a small fountain, its gentle splashing providing a soundtrack to the evening. The sun hangs low, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. Noah pulls out my chair, and I lower myself carefully, already calculating how long I can sit before the pressure becomes unbearable.
The menus wait on our table like promises. My eyes scan the evening’s offerings: seven courses of locally-sourced artistry, not including the amuse-bouche and the petit-fours.
Local oysters on the half shell, because of course – we’re in New Hampshire, after all. A summer salad that probably features vegetables picked this morning. Apple and cheddar soup that sounds like autumn in a bowl despite the warm evening. Beet carpaccio, lamb with lavender-infused honey glaze, risotto with locally foraged mushrooms, a charcuterie board, spiced maple panacotta, and a selection of small tarts served with coffee and tea.
Everything sounds amazing, and I can’t wait to taste it all. Too bad I already feel the need to find the bathroom, and we’ve barely sat down.
“You doing okay?” Noah unfolds his napkin with practiced ease, smoothing it across his lap as our server approaches with the first course.
“I’m okay, thanks.” The lie flows smoothly from my lips, anxiety thrumming in time with my pulse. I need to shift in my seat to relieve some pressure on my lower back, but I force myself to sit still.
The oysters arrive on a bed of crushed ice, each one nestled in its shell like a pearl. I pull out my notepad and pen, then fumble with my phone to capture the presentation. The camera never quite captures what the eye sees – the way the ice catches the light, the delicate placement of microgreens, the artful drizzle of mignonette sauce.
I can feel eyes on me. Not Noah’s – his gaze is warm, patient. But from across the patio, I catch the owner watching from the doorway to the kitchen. His expression is carefully neutral, but I know what he’s thinking. My review could make or break his summer season. One negative comment about service or seasoning could mean empty tables when he needs them full.
The weight of that responsibility presses on me almost as much as my bladder.
“Thank you for coming with me,” I tell Noah, needing him to know how much his presence means.
“You think I would miss the opportunity to come to a tasting like this?” His fingers slide across the white tablecloth to capture mine. “I’m kidding. I’m here because I get to be with you.”
Despite everything, I find myself smiling. “You sure you aren’t here for the lavender-infused honey glazed lamb?”
“She’s my backup, in case you decide to dump me tonight.”
That word – dump – sends a flutter through my stomach. It implies we’re together, really together, not just circling each other in this complicated dance we’ve been doing.
“I’m not dumping you.”
His brown eyes soften, catching the golden light. “Good. So, we’re in agreement.”
“Yeah. We are.”
The summer salad arrives as the oyster shells are whisked away. I photograph the careful arrangement of greens, the paper-thin radish slices, the edible flowers scattered like confetti. My pen moves across the notepad:Delicate balance of bitter and sweet, crunch of candied pecans against soft goat cheese...
But the pressure is building, insistent and uncomfortable. I shift in my chair, cross my legs, uncross them. Nothing helps.
“I need a break,” I whisper, hating how weak it sounds, how unprofessional.
“It’s okay. Go for it. Your next plate will be here waiting for you, and I’ll take initial notes.” His squeeze of my hand is reassuring, understanding.
“Thank you.”
Standing makes it worse, as it always does. I navigate between tables, trying not to rush, trying to look like someone taking a casual stroll rather than someone desperately seeking relief.
The restaurant’s interior maintains the farmhouse charm – wide plank floors that creak softly underfoot, walls covered in local artwork, mason jar light fixtures casting warm pools of light. The bathroom is exactly what I feared: a converted closet with a single toilet and barely enough room to turn around.
And there’s a line.
Two women stand ahead of me, deep in conversation. I lean against the wall, trying to look casual while my body screams at me.
“Ooh, I love Magenta Bakery,” the taller woman says, her voice carrying that particular enthusiasm people reserve for their favorite food spots. “That’s my favorite.”
“Really? Not Rye Again?” her friend responds, genuinely surprised.
My attention sharpens despite my discomfort.
