typed | a christmas dinner

Entry tags:

artemis,
oom

a christmas dinner

Paul’s door leads, as ever, to the houseboat. (A much improved houseboat in terms of cleanliness, we might add.) It opens out onto the living room, which is no longer a refugee camp for loose papers, but actually a living room. The coffee table at the center has a couple of rolls of wrapping paper on one side, and a few books on the other. The ashtrays and glasses that used to litter the surface are nowhere in sight.

There’s also a lamp on, which Paul neatly steps around as he makes his way across the room.

“So, um. It’s about a ten-minute drive from here,” he says, drawing a set of keys from his jacket pocket, and grabbing an umbrella from a stand by the front door (better safe than sorry – the rain’s been a bit on and off throughout the day).

“And by ten, I am considering traffic. Which shouldn’t be too big of an inconvenience.”

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"Good enough for me," he says cheerfully (right off of Princess Street, and just a little down Bridgeway Boulevard and --).

"And here we are."

Fortunately, Paul is pretty good at parallel parking, so parking the car across the street from the restaurant is done relatively painlessly.

Checking his watch, "Right on time, too."

"Nice way to start things off," she says, getting out of the car.

And that's twice she hasn't shut her skirt in the door. (There may be a little internal fist-pumping of victory.)

"Thanks very much," he replies. After feeding the meter an appropriate number of coins, he offers her his arm (and a mildly apologetic grin) before crossing the street.

Scoma's (http://www.scomassausalito.com/menu.html) is a nice place. It's small, yes, but pleasantly so. They're escorted to a table shortly after getting inside, at which point they are left with menus, and two glasses of water.

Artemis spends a moment ~~fidgeting~~ looking over the menu, before asking,

"So, you have any recommendations?"

"Uh. The smoked salmon's pretty good, for an appetizer. And, uh."

Fidget.

"Pick a section?"

Artemis does not giggle.

Correction: Artemis does not giggle nervously.

"Tell me your favorite."

There's a brief pause as Paul looks back down at his menu, running a finger down the paper.

"Well. The - Pasta Pescatore, and the Broiled Loch Duart Salmon."

She glances down to find the two he mentioned.

"They both sound good..."

"Hm."

This bears Consideration.

"If nothing else really catches your eye, I could order one, and you could order the other?"

She nods, takes a sip of her water--

"Sounds like a plan."

--and grinds her heel into a mental voice telling her she's tanking and to quit acting like a block of wood in a dress.

And with an exaggerated look around and a, "Waiter!" their order is placed, and Paul is ready to try Conversation Round 2.

"I forget if I've asked you this before, but it seems relevant, so: do - you have any favorite foods? Anything you couldn't live without, or, alternatively, the one food you'd take with you to a desert island?"

"Ooh, good question."

Which also makes it a tough question, especially when you've had a couple thousand years to learn your favorites.

"Um...I think I'd have to go with saganaki. It's a fried cheese...Although that's probably not the greatest for desert island nutrition; something Indian, maybe..."

"I've never heard of saganaki," Paul admits, rubbing his chin.

"Indian food, on the other hand - chicken curry with naan. When made well? To die for. Or so I've always thought."

Beat.

Backtrack.

"And I never said you were going to be on the desert island very long, so. Hey. Fried cheese, why not."

"I'm going to have to hunt down a good Greek restaurant, then."

It's probably less nerve-wracking than having anyone in her family cook for them, and capable in the kitchen she may be, but Goddess of Culinary Skills she is not.

"And I'm totally with you on the chicken curry."

She laughs. "Day-trip to the desert island?"

"I'd like that. And, yes, day trip. Just to - scope things out. You know: 'You think living here for an extended period of time with no hope of rescue would be nice?' 'Oh, no, let's go back.' What the movies never show you."

"Like all those boats waiting just off screen to take all the 'stranded' people home."

Paul opens his mouth and closes it again, wrinkling his brow as he considers this mental image.

Finally: "How weird would that be? It'd be funny as hell, as far as I'm concerned, but really. I can just see some, I don't know, extras sitting in the boats with oars in hand, going, 'Whenever you're ready, guys.'"

"And the people on the island--

'Have we been here long enough for it to build enough character?'

'...give it thirty more minutes.'"

"'Actually, maybe thirty-one. That's prime.'"

"And all adventures should last a prime number of minutes."

It isn't quite a question.

"Agreed!"

And, like magic, their food arrives.

Paul has enough self-control not to start immediately.

So does Artemis.

(Even if it does smell really, really good.)

She makes sure her napkin is neatly laid out and takes a sip of water, before she starts twirling a forkful of pasta.

And Paul sets about cutting the salmon.

Before actually starting to eat, he looks across the table, and with a half-sheepish smile, inclines his head.

"Bon appetit."

She ducks her head slightly, smiling.

"Merci."

"Aaand that's as far as my French goes."

But this is not, in light of there being food to eat, anything of real concern to Paul Avery.

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