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Ensley leans forward. “Doesn’t escargot mean snails?” Her face pulls into a grimace. “I used to pick those off the fence after a rain.”
My dark mood lightens a bit. “Did you ever salt them and eat them? They’re quite delicious.”
Her mouth drops open.
“I kid. I kid. You’ve never had escargot?”
She shakes her head. “But I’m game. Isn’t escargot French?”
“Usually. But you’ll find all sorts of things on the menu here.”
I can tell by her sudden frown that she thinks I come here often. “It’s my mother’s favorite place to eat in Atlanta.”
She seems placated and scans the small card. “It’s definitely not the menu at Olive Garden.”
Now I’m back to smiling. What is this about her?
She turns the card over. “No prices on this, either. How can I order the cheapest thing on the menu to avoid looking like a gold digger if I don’t even know what they cost?”
Her concern doesn’t surprise me in the least. These were all things said to girls growing up where we did. If your economic circumstance was lower than the person you went out with, obviously you were doing it for the money. If you had more, you were showing off. You couldn’t win.
“Nobody’s judging you here,” I say. “Enjoy yourself. Go with the flow.”
She lifts her chin. “Did I just hear Drew Daniels, the grumpiest veterinarian in the state of Georgia, tell me togo with the flow?”
She’s got me there. “Just trying to help.”
Her finger slides along the edge of the card. “I’m afraid I need to google all these things to even know what they are. I don’t want to accidentally eat candied brains or something. It’s what happens on all the TV shows when a lowbrow girl like me steps into a joint like this.”
“I’m happy to explain.” I run down all the options, from sauces with admittedly complex Italian descriptions to the braised meat and seafood.
“What’s the most decadent pasta on this list?” she asks.
“Tagliatelle alla bolognese. It’s an egg pasta with a rich meat sauce. You’ll swoon.”
“That’s it.”
The sommelier returns with our wineglasses and the bordeaux. Ensley is rapt as he opens the bottle, pouring only a small amount in the glass next to me.
She frowns. “So only themangets to sniff and swoosh? I watch TV. I know what to do.”
I slide the glass across the linen tablecloth to her. “All yours.”
She rotates the glass, lifting it high to watch the wine swirl. She brings it to her nose for a proper sniff, then takes a small sip.
Her eyes go wide. “Oh my God. That’s better than sex!”
I have to hold back a snort, but the sommelier is not fazed. “Very good,” he says.
Ensley sets down the glass, and he fills it, then mine. He rests the bottle, wrapped in linen, in a silver bucket and leaves us to it.
“I shouldn’t’ve said that, huh?” Ensley asks.
“I think it amused him.”
“I’m not exactly a twenty-year-old ingenue.”
She’s such a study in contrasts. In one moment, she’s self-conscious about her upbringing, and the next taking over a wine approval and using words likeingenue. I could never get bored with her.
