Last Olive Bistro ✓

Chapter 14: Date Night (Part two)

Jacob ordered a bottle of wine for us to share—one of the more expensive reds. I chose a roasted duck entrée and he went for the filet mignon. We toasted to our evening and dug in.

"Why have you never ordered any food at my place?"

He coolly sipped the wine, visibly pleased with its tartness. "You're asking as if you know how I'll answer."

I sipped my wine and raised my eyebrows, playing dumb and waited for his answer. I really wanted to test his initial perceptions of the place.

"I could tell from the looks of the menu that the food wasn't any good. There's too many cuisines to be able to function properly in the kitchen."

"Okay, Gordon Ramsay," I replied, laughing. The wine was starting to get to me; it was my third since we ordered. I needed to eat now.

Jacob chuckled and asked, "Is it frozen?"

"Couldn't you tell by the way every plate that came out was uniform?" Of course he did, he was a professional, but I had to make the joke anyway.

The duck was melt-in-your mouth tender, and the side of couscous was its perfect pairing. Jacob's filet looked equally heavenly, cooked at medium well.

"Yet it seems so popular," he mused. "Why do you think people go there when there's an overflow of fantastic restaurants across the city?"

I cautiously swallowed my food so as not to choke. A ridiculous yet subtly flirty answer crossed my mind but I didn't filter it before I let it out. "I'm not sure. But I know there's some people who come just for the drinks and the service."

He chewed slower, then swallowed with a sip of wine. He coughed once into the cloth napkin to clear his throat. My mind raced with ideas about what was going on in his head. His lips tightened in the slightest, as he held back another sly smirk.

"How long have you been at the Bistro?" he changed subjects abruptly. "Did you go to college?"

"I've been working there for two years. My parents retired to Arizona and I didn't want to go." I ate a bite of the couscous. My voice lowered and I continued flatly, "No, I didn't go to college."

Jacob refilled each of our wine glasses, but I wasn't sure that I wanted more. I still felt tipsy even though I'd eaten most of my meal so far in an attempt to balance out the alcohol.

Before we could continue the topic, the waiter showed up and handed us the dessert menu.

"You pick first," Jacob said. He placed the menu in front of me and I looked it over.

I can hardly read this either.

A chocolate mousse with strawberries and whipped cream was the most modest sounding dessert. Jacob chose an apple tart served warm with walnuts and a glaze. The entrée made me satisfied just enough to enjoy a dessert. I was happy with myself that I actually ate.

We ordered our respective after dinner sweets, then Jacob returned to our previous subject. "I didn't go to college either. It was a culinary school, but not for four years."

"What made you want to learn to cook and open a restaurant?"

He sat back and adjusted his suit jacket more comfortably. Then he folded his hands together on the table.

"My father owned a small grocery store in South Philadelphia—he inherited it from his dad. My mom was naturally an excellent cook, which I know she learned from her side of the family. So, I grew up around food, ended up being good at it too, so I went for it."