Willow turns to me, the look on her face that same one she gets when she's about to offer an opinion, but instead she stops herself, settling for a simple, functional smile instead.
"Sure," she says.
"First though, let's eat. If you're up for a tour of the menu now?"
"Oh hell yes. A man after my own heart," she teases.
We move back to the main area to sit side-by-side at the large round table in the center-the only table that isn't stacked up against the wall or covered in linen. I pop open a bottle of sparkling water and pour a full glass for each of us.
"So … " Willow says, looking around her as the raucous sound of the chefs' shouting increases, "how is this going to work, exactly?"
"The kitchen will prepare every single item on the menu for us," I say, pulling out my leather-bound notebook and Montblanc pen. "Just the way it would be served to a customer. Course by course. You'll try a bite of each and then tell me what you think. Whatever it is. Don't hold back."
Willow nods confidently.
"Ok. I can do that."
When the plates start coming, Willow transforms. Whatever was on her mind all morning is gone now as that burning passion and wisdom about food starts to show itself. If there's one thing I've learned about her in the short time I've known her, it's that the path to her heart is through her stomach-only it's more like a bullet train than a path.
"Can I see a menu?" she says, after taking a bite of an appetizer salad.
"Sure, I've got a printout right here," I say, pulling the sheets from my briefcase and handing them to her.
She flicks a sheet, sees what she needs to see, then shakes her head.
"Yeah, ok," she says, pointing at the salad. "Maybe this is just me, but I would not use this dressing. The orange zest is overpowering. It's amazing, but if someone orders it and then orders the fish with the mint-roasted potatoes the flavors are going to clash horribly."
///
It takes only a half second for me to understand what she's getting at, insight so clear I almost kick myself at letting it pass. I scribble down a note as Willow pushes aside the salad to try something else.
"Oh," she says, eyes lidding over with pleasure. "This salmon mousse … "
"You like?" I say, enjoying her expression.
"I love."
"So do I."
She looks at me for a beat, a slight moment of wild, inarticulate tension passing between us, before the presence of the watching waiter and the obligation of the job at hand pull us back to reality.
"You know, maybe a dash of something red to make the color pop. Paprika? Saffron?"
"Slow down," I say, scribbling in my notebook. "You're critiquing faster than I can write. And we've got a long way to go."
Willow doesn't slow down, though, and for the next three hours she runs through ideas, impressions, and opinions that would put a dozen food critics out of business. We argue over the Escoffier sauce, agree completely on the wild game dish, and both teach the other something when it comes time for the eclairs. I go through about seventeen different emotions with her during each course, swinging from offended and contemptuous of her American-style ideas, to marveling at the utter brilliance with which she seems to cut through to the heart of what makes great food.
Tongues alive with the onslaught of flavors and textures, bodies humming with the satisfaction of a thousand different ingredients, minds almost working as one by the time we reach the final dessert, I find myself realizing something very singular: This woman is absolutely incredible.
She slouches back in her chair, hands on her stomach as if it were potbellied and not as perfectly toned as the rest of her, and sighs happily.
"Is that it?" she says.
"That's it," I say, slapping my notebook shut.
"That's a hell of a menu."
"You just made it a hell of a lot better."
She looks at me with a curious smile.
"I doubt you're going to take any of my advice anyway."
"Is that because of a lack of confidence in yourself? Or in me?"
Willow tilts her head slightly.
"In you, of course."
I laugh along with her and check the time.
"We should get going," I say, standing up.
"Aren't we going to talk interior design?" she asks.
"Soon. For now I've got something more important I wanted to show you."
Willow squints at me, trying to decipher my half-smile-and then my phone rings. It's my second in command, so I need to take the call.