Meredith orders for us both, and I’m surprised that, after all the time that’s passed, she still knows exactly what I like. Or rather, what I might like; I’ve never eaten French cuisine before. We start with cheese crepes smothered with mushrooms and a creamy béchamel sauce so delicious, I want to lick the plate. The next course is a heady onion soup gratineed with more cheese, served with a spinach salad garnished with grapes, cherries, walnuts, and champagne vinaigrette.
As each dish is served, I quiz Meredith for the name of it in French. Then I hold up different ingredients and ask what each is called. The words trip off her tongue flawlessly—crêpe au fromage de chèvre, soupe à l’oignon, salade d’epinards. Everything sounds so sexy in her sultry voice. For the main entrée, she orders
