Page 66 of Single-Minded
“Oh, I love that place,” I say. “Tapas is one of my favorites because I like to try a little bit of everything.”
“Me too,” he says. “Sangria it is.”
We drive downtown, which is busy even on a Sunday evening with locals and tourists. Parking karma is with us, and we find a spot a half block away from the restaurant. As we walk down the sidewalk, he gently places his hand at my back.
We’re seated more quickly than I’m accustomed to, even though there’s a bit of a crowd. The hostess is smiling and flirting with Daniel, who seems generously oblivious.
Once we’re seated, our waiter is with us in a flash. Neither of us has even had a chance to take a peek at the menu.
“Do you want to start with some wine or sangria?” Daniel asks, and I nod yes in response.
“You pick,” I say. “Not my forte.” I’m starving, but feeling weirdly self-conscious about ordering food or wine in front of my famous chef date.
“Red, white, rosado?” he asks.
“What’s rosado?” I ask.
“It means it contains enough of the grape skins for a lovely pink color, but not enough to call it a red. You’d call it roséif it’s French, rosado if it’s Spanish or Portuguese.”
“That sounds good,” I say. He selects a bottle from the wine list and the waiter confirms his choice. Our waiter returns quickly and pours the wine. It’s light and fresh, not too heavy. The perfect choice for a warm evening. Daniel and I each peruse our menus, and we rattle off a few different dishes to start with: the beef tenderloin with carmelized onions, a goat cheese spread, sea scallops sautéed in butter and wine, chilled artichokes. Our waiter leaves and we stare across the table at each other for a few seconds, suddenly at a loss for words.
“I’m so glad you agreed to have dinner with me tonight,” says Daniel. “I was worried that in light of everything you’ve been through, that last night things might have been moving too fast for you.”
I smile, unsure of what to say. Last night, the dancing, the kissing, all the emotion—itwasfast.
“Thank you for the invitation,” I say.
He laughs. “You certainly like to play your cards close to the chest.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. I know exactly what he means.
“It means I’m going to have to work a little harder to get to know you.”
“Knock yourself out,” I say. His eyes dance at the challenge. It’s tough not to stare at his face. Apparently I’m not the only one having this issue; the hostess has peeked around the corner at least four times to gape at him, and a nearby table of women clearly enjoying a girls’ night out seem to be fascinated with Daniel as well. I can’t blame them; with mesmerizing blue eyes and broad shoulders, he does cut quite the dashing figure.
The chef arrives at our table before the first dish is brought out, and introduces himself to Daniel. His chef’s jacket is starched white, a dramatic contrast to his black hair and caramel skin.
“I’m Jose, the executive chef,” he says in a thick Spanish accent. “We’re so honored you’ve come to dine with us, Mr. Boudreaux.”
“This is Alex Wiggins,” Daniel says, gesturing to me. “Please call me Daniel. Chef, I’m so pleased to meet you, I’ve heard great things about your menu. I hope that you’ll join us for dinner once Boudreaux opens up next week.”
“Alex, very nice to meet you,” Chef Jose says to me, grasping my hands in his. “I hope you are delighted with your meal.” He turns to Daniel. “I’m an admirer of your family’s restaurants, and of course your legacy. I will be honored to dine at Boudreaux.”
“That’s so kind of you,” says Daniel with a wink. As Daniel and Chef Jose talk food, I see that the table of ladies to Daniel’s left have taken notice of the special attention he’s receiving from the chef. Sarasota is a small city, low on big shots.
“I’m preparing something special for you,” says Chef Jose, “I hope you will enjoy it.”
“Thank you,” says Daniel. “We’re looking forward to it.”
I smile. “Thank you so much. It was so nice to meet you.” Chef Jose nods his head and excuses himself to go back to the kitchen.
“I’ve never had a chef come to my table before,” I say. “Does that happen to you all the time?”
“Professional courtesy,” says Daniel.
“Is that a yes?” I ask.
“That’s a yes.” He smiles at me. “Tell me your story, Alex.”
