He widened his eyes, trying for innocent and failing. He was many things, but innocent wasn't one of them.
"Now, let's start negotiating on dinner," I said.
"You make it sound like a chore."
I sighed. "Before you came along, I thought food was something you ate so you wouldn't die. I will never be as enamored of food as you are. It's almost a fetish with you."
"Hardly a fetish, ma petite."
"A hobby, then."
He nodded. "Perhaps."
"So just tell me what you like on the menu, and we'll negotiate."
"All that is required is that you taste what is ordered. You do not have to eat it."
"No, no more of this tasting shit. I've gained weight. I never gain weight."
"You have gained four pounds, so I am told. Though I have searched diligently for this phantom four pounds and cannot find them. It brings your weight up to a grand total of one hundred and ten pounds, correct?"
"That's right."
"Oh, ma petite, you are growing gargantuan."
I looked at him, and it was not a friendly look. "Never tease a woman about her weight, Jean-Claude. At least not an American twentieth-century one."
He spread his hands wide. "My deepest apologies."
"When you apologize, try not to smile at the same time. It ruins the effect," I said.
His smile widened until a hint of fang peeked out. "I will try to remember that for the future."
The waiter returned with my drinks. "Would you like to order, or do you need a few minutes?"
Jean-Claude looked at me.
"A few minutes."
The negotiation began.
Twenty minutes later I needed a refill on my Coke, and we knew what we wanted. The waiter returned, pen poised, hopeful.
I'd won on the appetizer, so we weren't having one. I'd given up the salad, and let him have the soup. Potato-leek soup, hey, it wasn't a hardship. We both wanted the steak.
"The petite cut," I told the waiter.
"How would you like that prepared?"
"Half well-done, half rare."
The waiter blinked at me. "Excuse me, madam?"
"It's an eight-ounce cut, right?"
He nodded.
"Cut it in half, and cook four ounces of it well-done, and four ounces of it rare."