treasure box

I need lunch. I thought I could go without, but a salad(e) keeps nagging the back of my throat, so I give up and sneak off from our field trip area. I won't be gone for long, Lori won't mind/notice.

I leave the building, it's probably not a big deal if she sees me, but I make sure to walk parallel the big glass windows and breeze away into a neighboring street. Breezy. I’ll keep walking straight. Hope I don’t get lost. I’ll go through this odd little tunnel. And now I’m on the sketchiest street of my life. It’s not too bad, ranging a good 6 on the danger scale, but I flip a hard left down a random little side street in order to escape. There’s nothing on this narrow little thing. Wish I could find a salad.

Wait.

I pass by a window. It looks alright inside, most likely salad-worthy. I heave a tired sigh and slouch in through the doorway.

Everything is hushed. It’s like I’ve entered a vortex, the mediocre grainy grey street lies worlds behind me. Plush reds and high ceilinged beautifully wooden beams rise and fall around me; an architectural medley; an ode to old Paris. The beautiful waiter gives me a teeny French smirk. One, I tell him. He leads me to a table and we awkwardly silently converse over which chair I sit in. I choose the one against the wall and settle down.

This place looks five-star. Layers of utensils blossom around my ceramic plate like a metallic labyrinth. Violets drape themselves in the modest vase, paired with a sleepy candle.

I order the fish fillet. Everything on the menu sounds good. They pluck away half of the silverware and replace it with other necessary food items. I rustle through my bag, unsure what to do with my awestruck nervousness.

And then they unveil the fish; it’s served on a platter, my hot waiterman lifts away the shiny lid and softly dispenses the creamy sauce in a sweet semicircle around my fillet with a separate dish. He is watching me watch the sauce. I won’t look up.

The fish is amazing. Everything feels light and creamed and rich. I probably eat it too fast, but I can’t help it. The place glows with a hazy afternoon atmosphere, with the occasional decadent lunchers picking at their meals. The cutie returns. “Dessert?” I hesitate. I ask for the time. He answers in French, so I lean forward to look at his watch. I can make it. Yes please, I tell him.

I order the mixed berries with chocolate and a cloud of pesto. It sounds sort of odd, but it’s the only thing on the menu without gluten, and I love chocolate, and I’m confident that it will be lovely. I can hear the French chef yelling in the background, which only adds to the authenticity of the place. I sip at my evian water. Listen to the interesting, vaguely racist conversations between the British man and woman seated beside me, munching on salads.

My dessert arrives in a similar fashion, it looks absolutely fabulous, sweet red dollops of fruit girdling what appears to be literally a cloud of pesto. I turn my eyes up at the classic French waiter type, who pours a thick chocolate syrup in and around the berries, drizzling it carefully over the crest of the white creamed pesto, with an artist’s attention to detail, until it awaits like a chocolatey soup, or maybe an ocean, with melting icebergs of cute little berry droplets. He smiles and departs, and I do my best to handle the spoon they left me. It’s too big. The chocolate runs down my lower lip.

I am a very tactile person. This sort of sensuality sticks with me. I lean back. they bring the bill, but of course what they actually hand me is this adorable little treasure box, and when I open it, the check unfurls into my hand. Of course.