Page 16 of On Tap for the Bear
My bear has been restless all afternoon, pacing with a certainty that felt inevitable, undeniable. When Quinn walked through the door at 5:15 PM, the relief that washed over me was almost embarrassing. She ordered the mushroom risotto and another honey-lavender, and when that expression crossed her face—surprise and relief and something close to wonder—I knew I had to push further.
Which is how I ended up in the kitchen with Beau, scrambling to put together a tasting menu on a Tuesday night.
"You're insane," Beau says, not looking up from the grill where he's searing trout for the crostini. "You know that, right?"
"I need to put together a tasting menu. Four courses, each paired with one of my brews."
"For the food writer who you definitely don't have a thing for?"
"Shut up and help me."
He grins but doesn't argue. We've worked together long enough that he knows when I'm serious. "What are we thinking?"
"Start light. The honey-lavender with something delicate—maybe the smoked trout crostini with herb goat cheese. Then the pale ale with the arugula salad, lemon vinaigrette. The mushroom risotto she ordered—that works with the IPA. And finish with the stout paired with the dark chocolate torte."
"That's ambitious for a Tuesday night."
"Can you do it?"
Beau studies me for a long moment, and I see him making calculations—not about the food, but about me, about what this means. Finally, he nods. "Yeah. Give me thirty minutes."
"Twenty-five."
"You're lucky I like you."
I head back out to the bar, where Quinn has settled onto her stool and is making notes in that ubiquitous notebook of hers. She looks up as I approach, wariness flickering in her eyes.
"So," I say, pulling a clean glass from the rack. "Change of plans. If you're really here to write about this place, you should experience it properly."
"I ordered properly."
"You ordered one dish. I'm proposing a tasting menu—four courses, each paired with one of my brews. No charge. Call it research."
She narrows her eyes. "Why would you do that?"
Because you're my mate and I need to know if my food can break through whatever's blocking your palate the same way my beer did. Because watching you taste things—really taste them—is quickly becoming my new favorite activity. Because I'm half in love with you already and we've barely spoken.
"Because you're writing about Redwood Rise," I say instead. "And the Bear Claw is part of that story. I want you to get it right."
She doesn't look convinced, but the food writer in her is clearly intrigued. I can see it in the way her pen hovers over her notebook, in the slight forward lean of her body.
"Four courses," she says slowly. "Four pairings."
"Twenty-five minutes, give or take."
"This feels like a lot of attention for someone who's just passing through."
I meet her eyes, hold her gaze. "Maybe I don't think you're just passing through."
The moment stretches between us, weighted. She opens her mouth like she's going to argue, then seems to think better of it. Instead, she flips to a new page in her notebook.
"Alright. I'll bite. But I'm taking notes, and if your food is terrible, I'm writing about that too."
"Fair enough."
The first course comes out in exactly twenty-three minutes: delicate crostini topped with smoked trout, herb goat cheese, paper-thin slices of radish, and a drizzle of lemon oil. I set it in front of her alongside a fresh pour of the honey-lavender.
"Start with the beer," I instruct. "Let it open your palate. Then try the crostini."
