2022-06-08 - Who Knew Rockfish Were Historically Ignorant?

The Pink Door.

Ravn wanted something either unashamedly an American take on Italian food or actual, as-close-as-possible Italian food. The Pink Door, located on a slope about five city blocks from the Seattle Aquarium, is about as authentic Italian as Ariadne can think of in the immediate area. The place is cozy in the sense of it being a narrow piece of property, but the weather is so nice that why be stuck inside? Ergo, Ariadne asks for a deck table if there's one available -- and lo and behold, what luck, there is.

As such, she's seated in the fall of shadow from the overhead awning and looking out onto the spread of Elliot Bay below with a local's fondness. It's a pretty nice view, to say the least. She hasn't looked over the wine menu yet, but orders for water (ice in her glass, please) have the waiter currently inside.

"This is lovely," she sighs, closing her eyes as the breeze scented of saline whispers past them and lifts light sections of her hair. The lunch menu remains held between her fingers and angled as she takes a moment to just exist.

"It's gorgeous," Ravn agrees and takes a good look around before settling at the table to which the two are directed. The place does have a kind of Italian feel to it -- as much as somewhere not Mediterranean can emulate a Mediterranean feel. Some places try and fail miserably, with faux vines and faux sandstone walls, often mixing several Italian regions into their menu, along with empty wine bottle chandeliers from both ends of the country -- the perfect way to make anyone actually Italian cry. Other places, a little more self-aware, acknowledge the Mediterranean inspiration but keep it where it is -- in this case, the city of Seattle with its splendid views and its distinct lack of Italian vineyards.

He neglects picking up a menu and says instead, "Surprise me. I want to not go with my usual defaults. That's part of what being in a relationship is about, yes? To test your own boundaries, to learn new things. Just, please keep in mind that I'm not really great with large menus so please, no half a cow on a spit."

"Ooh, brave soul, letting me order." Ariadne gives her beau a fond little smile and then considers the lunch menu in earnest. "The wine list is there if you want to take a peek at it. I defer to your expertise there." It's a laminated, solid-backed affair set down earlier by the waiter.

Manicured nails tap musingly at one of the listings. "I vote...arancini to start and then...cioppino Pink Door for you and...rigatoni and Mama's meatballs for me. Done. That was easy...and it gets my garlic fix out of the way." The lunch menu is laid aside for her to reach for the smaller drink menu. "I wonder if they've got anything good to drink..." -- says she who's not yet perused the wine menu.

Ravn takes it and glances at it -- and makes up his mind with the speed of somebody who has very particular tastes in wine, particularly when it comes to Italian food. "In that case, we'll take the Chianti Classico Riserva from 2017. Tuscan classicos are rich without the bitterness of tannin. It's a lovely and somewhat special taste -- I can't really describe it beyond, Tuscany is a very beautiful place with a lot of history.

Maybe this is not the man to hire if you want to describe the characteristics of wine.

He glances over at the menu. "It looks like they're not from a specific region of Italy, then. If you order something from another region while in actual Italy, you'll get the stupid fucking tourist treatment every time."

"See, now I'm curious about this treatment you're talking about. I've never been to Italy and I wouldn't have figured they're so particular about their dishes that you'd get illegally overcharged for mis-ordering something from the menu," Ariadne muses with a half-smirk. "But I'll go with whatever wine you chose and only one glass. Can't have too much or the headache will be ridiculous."

She gathers up menus out of habit and pushes them off to one side but for the lunch menu in easy reach for when the waiter returns. "But seriously, this story. Someone else did this? Or you got this treatment because you were in Italy?"

"It's one of those things I've seen happen, yes. But also one of those things everyone warns you against when you're going there for the first time. My father was adamant about it -- never order anything that is not a regional dish because you do not make a fool out of yourself in public." As is his habit, Ravn keeps it short and matter-of-factly when speaking of his family and his background; there is little love lost there.

He raises an eyebrow at the observation about headaches. "Chianti is a strong wine. I suggest we ask to have it in the Italian fashion. That is, one glass for each in a small pitcher, and a decanter of chilled, sparkling water. You mix it about one third wine to two thirds water for the meal -- the taste is powerful enough to enjoy the wine, but you don't leave the table drunk."

Then, after a moment, "It's just a suggestion, mind. I don't mean to tell you what to do. I have a bad habit of lecturing people whether they want to be or not, and I really need to shake it."

"Ah, okay," nods Ariadne. She'll truly keep this in mind for when she ever manages to get back to Europe again. Without knowing, she hadn't managed to make this faux-pas, and counts it as beginner's luck to herself, especially given she's an American. Not so proud to not admit she would easily make this easy mistake.

Ravn's next comment, however, after his explanation about the dilution of the wine, takes her off-guard. "Uh. You...didn't lecture me there? Nor did you tell me what to do? You suggested and I think it's a wise idea. I'll need to dilute it or else I'll get a headache. I'm grateful for the information and don't feel lectured at all." Reaching out an arm to rest it on the table, she offers a palm to be taken as wanted. "Somebody get on your case about it or something?"

"It's something I'm trying to be aware of." Ravn rests his palm on Ariadne's on the table, kidskin to skin. "People let me know every so often, in the way that people will. Some say it -- call me a nerd and a know-it-all. Others just do that thing -- you can see it in their eyes, the way they talk, the way they quickly try to change the subject or act as if I'm a very frustrating person to be around. I am trying to teach myself to talk less and listen more."

He glances at the wine glasses on the table; one for red, one for white, one for water - and the waiter will take away the one that isn't needed once orders have been placed. "I come across sometimes like I always need to remind people of all the things I've seen and all the places I've been. I sometimes forget how privileged that makes me sound."

Gently, Ariadne squeezes the fingers clasping hers. A nod, her smile equally as understanding.

"It might sound privileged, but the people who know you well know it's not. Maybe there's a different way to word things, I dunno? Where it's just sharing a story and not just plain information. You're not a teacher all the time, right?" A tilt of her head comes with dimples to see about charming the Dane a bit more. "Though speaking of which, I'm curious. Summer sessions for you to teach? Or you're off for the summer, oh scholarly one?"

"I'm never really off." Ravn returns the little squeeze. "I am off officially but a number of those blokes I help tutor have no one else to talk to when it's three am and they're terrified of snipers in the dark. They should be calling somebody back there but, it's three am and my icon is green on Discord. Most of the time, all they need to know is that they're not alone, and they're not in Afghanistan."

He nods at a waiter in passing; the subtle code for we're ready to order, but we're not in a rush. Then he looks down at their entwined fingers. "I forget sometimes how I've had a lot of opportunities that most people don't -- and how much people resent being reminded. How I must sound to somebody like, say, Jules Black -- when I'm talking about something abroad and she tells me Gray Harbor is the furthest she's ever been from the reservation."

"You're good people to be there for them," Ariadne replies softly. Lack of volume does not indicate lack of sincerity. The waiter nods back to Ravn and disappears inside, no doubt to find their cohort specifically minding the table occupied by redhead and Dane.

"I also forget how having a higher education is rarer. Or that I came from a family who's middle class. And I ask for forgiveness if I genuinely misstep. Now, if someone's hunting for a fault in me and I can tell? I'm not going to apologize. They'll get an answer to their question if they want to know whether or not I'm using my degree for something useful, quote-unquote." Mild eyeroll.

The waiter arrives at the table with the pitcher of water, ice cubes within. "And what will the gentleman and lady be having this afternoon?"

"Which wine was it again?" Ariadne asks of the man, needing to let go of his hand to collect up the lunch menu.

"The Chianti Classico Riserva 2017," Ravn replies with a small smile for the waiter. For some reason he's reminded of the old adage for young girls on first dates: How he treats the wait staff is going to be how he treats you, once he feels sure of you. He has yet to see Ariadne act dismissively or impatient with a server; it's entirely possible the odds are off when the partner in question works retail herself, and knows just how shitty people can be. "A glass for each of us, and a pitcher of chilled, sparkling wine, please.

He's not going to try to order it in that 'taking it for granted' way he would if this had been actual Tuscany. The restaurant may be Italian but that doesn't mean every waiter in it grew up in Florence or Volterra.

Then he looks back at Ariadne and nods. "It's something I have to keep in mind at all times. How I very easily end up sounding like I think I know everything, and how whatever people have done, I've done better, faster, longer, harder."

Ariadne nods to confirm the wine order and then reads off her original decisions per appetizer as well as late-lunch platings. The waiter nods, collects the menus, and politely returns the redhead's smile. Yes, there's a sense of camaraderie there, unspoken between the two food service individuals.

Her attention returns to Ravn now as she pours herself some water. Ice cubes clink into the large bulb. "It's fine to keep this in mind. It's a form of manners in a way, I suppose. It doesn't mean there's not other things to talk about. Also, excellent musical reference in case you were being deliberate about it -- Daft Punk," the barista notes before setting the water pitcher within Ravn's reach. "And maybe one day you figure out a happy medium where it doesn't sound to anyone's ear that you're being a braggart. Now, me? I want to hear..."

Ravn gets a thoughtful squint. "What continents haven't you been to?"

"Harder, faster, longer, better is a Gene Simmons quote. Though I'm not surprised to hear others lifted it." Ravn chuckles. "It's tbe business plan for KISS, as they laid it out when the band was formed. I watched some interview sometime, probably stuck in an airport or a hotel."

He mirrors Ariadne's movements, pouring two thirds water and one third Chianti over ice. "Let's see -- that's going to come down to Antarctica, pretty much. Egypt is on the African continent. The Galapagos Islands is South America. Tokyo is Asia, and so on. Thing is, though, I haven't really visited those continents -- just a city or a resort on them. Having dinner in an airport restaurant before flying out to a dive resort on the Red Sea or the Great Barrier Reef does not mean you know Africa or Australia."

"Daft Punk decided it went, 'harder, better, faster, stronger'," Ariadne notes with a small smile. She watches the chianti-water combination come to be and notes the dilution ratio. Personally, she'll be diluting it more, just in case, when she gets to wanting a glass.

Ravn explains where he's been and the barista tilts her head. "No, of course not, it'd mean you'd been to one or two cities, good job and all. I'd hazard one would need to stay on a continent for at least a year and travel continuously in order to have any idea of knowing of the lands themselves. Or be a local, obviously. It's a bit of a daydream to me to be able to go continent-hopping like that, but hey, maybe one day I'll have saved up enough to see poke around Hungary. My mom..."

Her smile twists to something almost grieving. "My mom doesn't like to talk about it, how she grew up. I get it...and it's not my place to pry. But I can also go and see for myself, y'know? See where my family is from and learn more about them. I know so little ultimately and that makes me sad somehow."

"Hungary had a pretty turbulent twentieth century. Denmark took in a lot of Hungarian refugees in the fifties -- we have a lot of Hungarian surnames in the country still, for that reason.. Your mother can't be old enough to have been one of those, but from what you're saying, she's the daughter of people who didn't flee when the Revolution got ground into the dirt under Soviet tanks." Ravn raises his wine glass and samples the diluted wine before nodding; apparently, it meets his expectations.

He looks at Ariadne over the rim. "If we want to -- we could go somewhere, sometime. I suggest that if we do, we go to one place and spend time there, get to know it properly. Not breeze through ten towns with half a day in each, like the cruises do. Better to know Florence somewhat intimately than to have seen the facade of twenty Tuscan towns, does that make sense?"

"I'm not one for helter-skelter cruises, no. I like learning about the land," Ariadne agrees. "I want to get a feel for it, maybe understand why the people are how they are. It's a wisdom, to take the time to learn of someone else's life. It helps one evaluate their own in turn, to make sure there's nothing they're taking for granted." Perhaps an addendum to their earlier point of conversation about whether or not to share tales at whim.

But still, solemnly, Ariadne then nods. "I think so," she says softly, confirming Ravn's suspicions. "I don't know much about my grandparents at all. But I have family there still and I want to know. I don't see my mother getting mad about it, if she finds out I visited and learned about people I've never met. But I guess what comes will come of any decision I make. Consequences." Droll brow flick.

"I'm reminded sometimes how fortunate I am." Ravn looks at the wine, admiring its deep ruby colour -- it turns paler when mixed with water, but it does not turn pink. "Growing up sheltered, protected. Sure, my great-grand made some arrangements with the Wehrmacht but then Engelsholm got taken over as a residence for Luftwaffe officers, and when the war ended, he was a victim of brutal oppression, returning home to reclaim what was ours. First world war? Denmark literally invented the term 'goulash barons' -- people making obscene amounts of money tinning crap stew for the troops on either side. I have no living family with terrible stories. War and misfortune is something that happens to other people. To poor people, to the suckers who live in less pleasant parts of the world. But not to good, proper people like us."

The barista's brows meet gently. She puts aside her water and sees about mixing up some sparkling water plus chianti as well. The arancini should arrive at any minute now, her food service intuition tells her, optimally plated and brought out still almost too hot to eat off the bat.

"I'm assuming you don't take this view to heart, given it's truly a totalitarian and...well...disturbing take on things? A winner's take on things?" Ariadne asks with no real concern in her voice. It's merely an opportunity for Ravn to expand more as he feels fit on his thoughts.

"I feel guilty as hell about it." Ravn nods and looks at his wine. "I feel -- ridiculously privileged. Like for some reason or other, I have been given everything. I haven't done anything to earn or deserve it. And I feel as if -- if I was anybody else, I'd resent me for it. Resent how unfair life is, how some people are born with everything and others with nothing, and there's no rhyme or reason to it. I don't believe in some higher power testing us, or putting each of us where we deserve. I don't believe in divine right. I don't believe that might makes right."

He taps the glass with a gloved finger. "Sometimes I feel that it's inevitable. Some day you're going to realise that that's who I am -- somebody who is inherently unlikeable. Because I hate that person, so how could you possibly not?"

"Well..." drawls Ariadne softly. She's leaned back in her chair and gives Ravn a level look.

"My blunt thoughts on this: one, don't make it a self-fulling prophecy by thinking I'm going to do this. Also, gently, don't assume you know what goes on in my head, dearheart. That's always going to be impossible and you'll just drive yourself batty over it. Two, so you were born into this life. You can't be un-born into it. Might as well make use of it, right? Who's around to stop you at this point? You're an adult and your own person. You've already got HOPE up and going. What else can you do? Possibilities abound," she shrugs lightly.

"Mm-hmm. There's a term for it. Imposter syndrome." Ravn smiles a little, returning that look head on. "I don't presume to read your mind, Venelite. I just wait for you to see through me. And I pray that you already have, because then the damage is done and it was not enough to drive you away."

He puts the glass down and looks out at the bay. "I could spend my entire life trying to be a hero, a saviour. And it would never be enough, because deep down, it's a different issue. I feel apart from mankind, and no amount of trying to turn myself into Jesus is going to change that. The only thing that does change it -- is Gray Harbor. How we look out for each other, how we offer a hand to anyone who's willing to hold on to it. A place where it doesn't matter who you were somewhere else. The only thing that matters is what you do now."

"Yep, that really is...about it," Ariadne agrees in her nonchalant continued pragmatism. "What happens next. The past is in the past. I'm not about to go Rafiki on you, but hey, you're doing good things. One snowflake to start an avalanche. Build up enough snow, set the thing rolling, watch it do its work. You also can't save them all. It sucks, but...that's the thing of it." Her glass of sparkling chianti is tilted to one side in a semi-shrug, no spilling before she sips at it.

"And remember how I told you I'm pretty good at reading people? And you said it's hard to be a grifter around someone you're fond of? Well." And yet again, another gesture of her glass, this time accompanied by a charming little grin. "I think nobody's perfect, including me. You could be worse. You could be an axe murderer. Or someone who collects dolls and has an entire room of them because fuck thaaaaaaaaaaaaaat," the barista whispers in a pitch meant to evince funning horror. "Something is always haunted in those rooms."

"You are very good at reading people." It's a matter of fact as far as Ravn is concerned. It's also part of what he admires about the woman; that she's razor sharp and that she uses that razor to cut through the crap -- whether the crap is his or somebody else's. "And I have -- a lot of baggage. A lot of self esteem issues. I don't want to delude myself you had not figured that out long before we even kissed the first time. There's going to be times when I think, why the hell is she still here. And you don't need to answer that question because sometimes, all a man needs is to shut up and be grateful for the good thing he has been given."

A sage nod from Ariadne, who smiles in a manner both pleased and calm.

"Yes, dearheart, you were good very early on about sharing your baggage with me and I with you. That's why we're on an even footing and together at this time. Nothing wrong with being grateful though -- with taking that step back and saying to yourself -- ooh, arancini."

Wait, what? Oh: the waiter is dropping off the arancini plate. Ariadne thanks and then leans in to smell over the dish of puffballs of deliciousness.

"Try one if you'd like," she says to her beau. "No ketchup, house rules." Forking one up, she takes a bite and makes a happy, little sound. Booted feet kick a little under the table without thought. Yum.

"Oh yes. Those are wonderful." Ravn picks up his fork and steals one off Ariadne's plate. He nibbles on it, like a candy apple on a stick, before nodding his agreement. "Ketchup is for hot dogs. You don't apply it to Italian food. Sorry, I don't make the rules. At most, you get Italian tomato sauce which is entirely different. Far more just, tomato puree, no spices or additives."

He smiles, and there's genuine warmth in those grey eyes as he says, softly, "I love the way you react. As if this is something truly special and wonderful. I like to watch that joy of life, through your eyes. Food is good. Food should not be a challenge."

"Hmm?" Ariadne had agreed to herself with no ketchup as well as experience with tomato puree; the manner in how Ravn looks at her summons up the perennial paste-pink blush to her cheeks.

"I figure it's good stuff in good company. Why not open myself completely to the idea of enjoying it? I haven't had arancini in literal years. Anastasia doesn't like Italian food very much, so we didn't opt to do a lot of restauranting in this vein as a family. You're enjoying one too and why not? It's deliciousness. I bet you'll like the cioppino too, it's one of those things where you can pick out what you like most out of the broth and all." Thoughtful of her. "Me? The pasta, yesssss, the pasta. Carbs. Can't resist them." Another pert bite of her arancini ball and happy sound.

"I like Italian. I am not quite as fond of parts of the Asian kitchen, nor the American -- strong spices and me, well. I'm a white kid from Scandinavia. I die if a jalapeño gives me a hard glare." Ravn chuckles. "I would like to find a good Maltese restaurant somewhere though -- they can do some pretty remarkable things with fish. Though I suppose recipes would be altered to what fish are available here, but that would prove interesting, too. They have a fish that's a bit like tuna but not quite so strong tasting -- lampuki, it's everywhere in those waters, and it's an absolute must."

"I actually think I've heard of lampuki before." Ariadne gestures with her be-forked arancini in Ravn's direction as she clearly thinks harder. "Lampuki..." A sudden snap of her other hand's fingers. "Mahi-mahi, right, the white fish. Dude. That is good fish. What's the recipe they used? And mahi-mahi is an easy import around here because we're on the West Coast; they'd be sourcing from Hawaii. That, and you'd probably be able to find a place with legit Maltese-style cooking if you hunted hard enough. Seattle's big. Do some digging," she encourages.

Another sip of the wine and another soft, pleased sound. "Good call on the chianti, dearheart," she tells Ravn with a soft smile.

"Are those the same? See, now you taught me something I didn't know." Ravn grins a bit. "I've had lampuki in various ways in Malta, but the best is honestly fried -- bit of lemon, potatoes or fries. The sauce can be tomato or pepper or white, it's all good. The Maltese also use them in pies and fish balls but that takes away from the taste. They're migratory and bloody hell, it's the first dish on any Maltese menu. Possibly the second -- rabbit in wine is the other big one."

He chuckles. "Maltese food is interesting -- and I mean that in both senses, it can be fantastic and it can be horrifying. It's a strange mix of Arabic, Italian, and English, with whatever's available locally. Some of that turns out absolutely wonderful. Swordfish with green pea soup or date pizza are not wonderful."

Ariadne sips at her sparkling wine admixture again and polishes off her first arancini ball while Ravn explains Maltese cuisine.

"The place is small, if I remember, so it makes sense that sometimes, it's the proverbial kitchen sink and whatever everybody brings in via boat is what's for dinner tonight. I haven't had rabbit. I imagine it's lean? Like elk? Though no swordfish. That's a no-no. They're not a sustainable harvest and high on the mercury watchlist. Nope. Faux pas to be serving that," the marine biologist opines firmly.

She forks up another arancini ball. "Date pizza, I...might be brave enough to try," the young woman then laughs.

"Less than 400,000 people mashed together on two inhabited islands out of seven, more than three hundred churches, and the geographical space of one of the smaller Danish islands. I'm used to think of my country as small and densely populated, it's got nothing on Malta. On the up side, the Maltese have really good manners in public -- no shoving or acting like you own the street because every tuna needs to fit into that very small can, somehow." Ravn wanders down Memory Lane a bit.

He nibbles another bit of rice ball. "Rabbit is light meat like chicken -- but they marinate it in a red wine sauce for two days before serving, and when they do, it's very dark and very tender. It's a quite unique dish, and one I heartily recommend. Best I had was in a local soccer club's sports bar, with fries and non-matching cutlery."

"Huh." A soft sound for the factoid of marinating the otherwise light meat for so long. Ariadne can't help but laugh, however, at the locale of this fabled rabbit dish.

"A soccer club's sports bar, for rabbit. I wouldn't have guessed! My dad is a bit of a soccer fan, though not to any real extent. Hockey's where it's at, if I must pick a sport -- though go Seahawks, woot." Hometown, low-key rah-rah pump of fist for the Seattle football team. "So...find any Templar while you were in Malta? Or are you one now and sworn to an oath of secrecy you must never break?" Dimples for Ravn.

Ravn laughs softly. "At the time the Knights Templar were disbanded, Malta was under Arab rule so I'd be surprised. It passed to the Knights of St John -- the Knights Hospitaller -- in the 15th century, and you can't not see their influence everywhere. For one, they built the entire capital. Their flag still flies everywhere, and they still maintain an embassy there as well."

He smiles slightly. "But no, I'm not a member. If I was, it would be of the Protestant branch which still operates in Germany. Some of my ancestors were members -- the Knights kind of split into two groups after they were kicked out of Malta by Napoleon. The practical work under the Catholic Church -- they run a surprisingly large part of the ambulance services in the world, particularly in Africa, South America but also Ireland and Germany, for one, and here in the US as well. And the -- how to put it, the proper knights who by then had become a gentleman's club for aristocrats. That lot moved to Russia until the Revolution kicked them out of there too, and these days, they are in fact the world's smallest micro-nation -- consisting of one building inside the Vatican State. They are still recognised as a sovereign country under the Roman Catholic Church by more than half the countries in the world."

"Ah, the Knights Hospitaller. I'm learning," admits Ariadne before falling silent to continue listening. Her knowledge of the Templar extends to the ends of a few novels and one film regarding Les Chevaliers de Sangreal.

Her mouth parts in surprise at one point. "Oh whoa, their own wee sovereign country? Holy crap." Blink. "And so your ancestors were part of which group, the ambulance drivers or the micro-nation?"

"The gentleman's club in Russia, sometime during the 19th century. It's pretty safe to assume that if some kind of posh invitation-for-titled-gentlemen-only club existed in the 19th or 20th century, I have an ancestor in it somewhere. European aristocracy was -- and is -- horribly inbred." Ravn makes that little shrug -- the one that's expressed by kanji in text messages, can't be helped, out of my hands, it's fucked up but what can you do.

He manages to polish off the rice ball. "Ambulance and hospital services are a business. The Roman Catholic Church is a business. There's an ideal behind it, of course -- go and heal the sick -- but it's still a business. At the time Napoleon got involved, the Knights Hospitaller had pretty much become an international gentleman's club for rich investors. And they still are. They gave up on maintaining any kind of military branch after the defeat at the hands of France. But they're still old money pulling strings in particularly the Catholic countries."

"Huh. No wonder there's all that intrigue about them -- old money and all," Ariadne explains with another dictational circling of her bite-pocked arancini ball. "It makes me think of 'The Da Vinci Code' and all that stuff, which...sure, maybe there's some truth here and there in the book, but I'm fully aware of the majority of its content being aggrandized for entertainment purposes."

Ah-hah: the waiter, arriving with the main dishes. The cioppino, sporting prawns, rock fish, mussels, clams and calamari in a tomato and white wine broth, is set down before Ravn. Ariadne's simpler dish, the rigatoni with meatballs in marina, is set before her and she thanks the waiter before agreeing to a twist or three of parmesan, thank you.

"God, this all smells good... Can I spoon up some of the broth for a taste test?" she asks of Ravn's dish.

Ravn's smile widens slightly. "The Da Vinci Code is a fictionalised version of a conspiracy theory from the 70s, published under the name Holy Grail, Holy Blood. It was quite convincing but also debunked when the supposed leader of the secret society, Prieure de Sion, descendant of the French kings and whatnot, turned out to be a fraudster from Paris. It annoys me in the same way that the Vikings show does -- not that somebody would create a fictional series inspired by history, but that it gets marketed in ways that make less history savvy people think it's authentic."

He turns his place to invite sampling. "Please do. We're that couple who eats from each other's plates, and I like it. I am not great at eating, you know that -- I like watching your excitement about it, so please, try everything and tell me how great it is. It's certainly a feast for the eyes!"

Spoon gleaming in her hand, Ariadne first makes to turn and offer her plating of pasta as well. "Feel free to fork up a few noodles of rigatoni too, okay? I can tell it's not got too much pepper in the marinara sauce. There might be some heat in the meatballs, we'll see."

A swoop through the broth and the barista mulls through the taste, her tongue appearing to brush across her lips. "Hmm." Brows lift. "That's interesting." Another spoonful and taste-test before she nods. "Yeah, that's not hot at all either, spice-wise. Wine reduction. You'll like it, try some," she gently encourages with a poke of her utensil at his spoon in turn.

"And then try to convince me you wouldn't look great as a Knight Templar a la Prieure de Sion for Halloween. You've got the bearing, the scruff...it's my short sword though, sorry, can't borrow it. You can find your own sword," she teases, hazel eyes twinkling. "Though." Professed costume fiend that she is, Ariadne goes on to note, "Duuuuuuuuude. We could be characters from Lord of the Rings for Halloween too, holy crap. I do have that sword... I still get what you mean, about the inaccuracies being frustrating, especially for a historian. Spread of misinformation and all, in a way."

"My dear, do not hurt me so. The Templars are dead and gone. They have been since 1312, no matter what the video game industry thinks. There's been a couple of modern attempts to establish a new order on their legacy, every single one of which has been a scam to make people pay for membership and a knighthood title that isn't recognised outside their ranks." Ravn makes a face. "Add to that, the Prieure de Sion was the Hospitallers -- supposedly, and assuming that it ever actually existed which I honestly doubt."

He picks up a prawn and makes certain to get a spoonful of broth with it. The expression on his face is certainly appreciative. "This is very, very good. I hope you'll help me make sure I don't need to return half of it to the kitchen like I didn't enjoy it because I do."

Then the folklorist cants his head. "So if you're going to be Strider, cloak and sword, what does that make me -- the elf princess? What's her name again, Arwen? Also, remind me to show you actual contemporary illustrations of Knights Templar -- you'll find they were clean shaven, with a bowl cut just above the ears, which is the only sensible haircut under a bucket helmet."

"Ooooh, some good old-fashioned knightly intrigue there," laughs Ariadne to herself. "Alright, alright...no Knights Templar for you -- and of course I'll assist you. Not with all of it, but at least one bite of everything in it, broth and all." Communal soup bowl, apparently, by how both spoons dip in and out.

Ravn earns himself more chuckling. "So...no, your hair does not deserve the insult of a bowl cut and I rather like your scruff. Definitely not Knights Templar then...and no, not Arwen either, even if your ears work just fine for it. I was actually thinking Faramir, believe it or not. Peter Jackson made him blond, but he had darker hair like yours -- well, darker yet, in the books. I'm clearly Eowyn, we've definitely agreed upon this -- hell, Dita and Una agreed upon it," she grins. "If I were more of a book geek, I'd name-drop one of the Elves from the Silmarillion for you, but alas: my geekery only extends so far."

A moment later, her smile is curling, close-lipped and obviously coy. With a theatrical innocence of tone, the barista asks, "So...none of this...Assassin's Creed working counter to the Knights Templar is real then? This flimflam? Shenanigannery?"

Ravn gestures with his spoon -- take that, you historically ignorant rockfish! -- and laughs softly. "Well, it's not pure bull. There was an Assassin order -- the literal word is theirs, Asāsiyyūn. They were based off a castle named Alamut in modern-day Iran. They were a fundamentalist Shia Muslim order, no doubt inspired by the Christian knighthoods, and like them, considered a sovereign state. The Mongols put an end to that but the order never formally disbanded, and like the Hospitallers, still exists -- in some form where we're talking about a small Shia Muslim sect with no influence or agency. So there is a core of truth to your video game -- although it's worth noting that the Templars actually had diplomatic relations with these fellows off and on, unlike the other other Christian knighthoods. The Templars were, among many other things, master diplomats."

While Ravn expounds, his girlfriend tries indeed one of each morsel-type in the cioppino: clam, mussel, rock fish (so historically ignorant, this fish!), prawn, and calamari ring. He certainly gets a big grin from her when she places aside her spoon for the moment in order to cut the meatballs into better bite-sized pieces for sampling. One is obviously pushed to the side of her plate in offering towards Ravn.

"You are, in fact, the biggest geek and I love it," the Dane is thus informed with a smooch of a kiss in his direction. "Ruining all my fun with Prince of Persia too, but that's okay, it's the same producer who did Pirates of the Caribbean, and that was swashbuckling madness, pure and simple. If they were such master diplomats, it's a bummer the Knights were disbanded. You'd figure maybe they'd be of continued use, even with the turbulent time period."

The offering is accepted; eating out is far less stressful like this, and Ravn greatly appreciates it. He gets to try different things but he does not feel the same pressure to at least make enough of a dent in his portion that the chef doesn't think he hated it. Are we the couple who eats off each other's plates? We are the couple who eats off each other plates.

Ariadne's observation makes him chuckle. "There's nothing wrong with letting fiction be inspired by history, though. It's fiction -- it's meant to be all the exciting bits and none of the boring stuff. I only get grumpy when it gets marketed in a way that makes people think fiction is the historical stuff. Pirates of the Caribbean doesn't make any pretense at being historical -- it has sea monsters and ancient gods and walking skeletons, for heaven's sake. And then there's the historical stuff, like the Washington out of Hoquiam being used as one of the ships in it -- which just adds a dimension more for the nerds."

He smirks. "Anyhow, the greatest legacy of the Knights Templar lives on and it's doing better than ever: They invented banking -- the idea that you can deposit a sum of money in an order house in France, then go to the order house in Jerusalem and hand over a voucher, and get your money. It revolutionised international trade because until then, if you had money you wanted to spend somewhere else you had to bring it, and travelling with large sums makes you an instant target. Banking is their legacy, just as healthcare organised beyond physicians operating out of their own house, get there on your own and if you need another specialist, sucks to be you, is the Hospitallers'."

"It was really freakin' cool how they used the Washington in it, yep," the barista agrees, pleased that Ravn remembered such a detail. In hindsight, she thinks to herself that she's not terribly surprised after all and smiles into her sparkling chianti.

But -- "Oh my god, that's right, banking. I'm sure that's at least part of why they became powerful so quickly and probably why there's always an undercurrent of suspicion against them. Big money movers...still big money movers, like you said, though different strain of old money. Thank god for the expansion of the caretaking though, with the Hospitallers. Just...all those times I ever had to get to the family doctor or urgent care and thinking it had to be some person's house instead, god only knows how far away..." Her shudder is empathetic for all patients involved in such a scenario. "Oh, as far as overnighting goes: any idea where at? Or are we flying by the seat of our pants and hoping there's a room open somewhere?" Ariadne dimples up a crooked grin. "It'd better have room service or we'll have to leave to scrounge up dinner...though I was eyeballing the dessert menu and I'm probably taking a slice of the coffee cake to go."

Ravn likes the prawns in particular; or maybe it's just that they're bite sized and he feels less like he is fighting them to see who'll still be here when the meal is over. "It is both amazing and depressing to consider. Most of our society is built on the need to mobilise people and funds for war. It also explains a lot sometimes, I find."

Then he smiles at the inquiry about hotels because who really wants to sit and ruminate on how the need to conquer, exploit, and destroy has been the main driving element in the history of western civilisation? He sips his chianti and admires its colour, and then admits, "I have actually not considered it. Seattle is large enough that there will be a free hotel room somewhere. It may not be right where we want it, and it may be a little cheaper or a bit more expensive, but it's certainly there. This city has a higher population number than my entire country."

Needing a moment to sit back and sip at her own wine, Ariadne sighs as she looks out across Elliott Bay. Far on the waters, the ferry trundles along with its burden of travelers and locals alike. A giant tanker ship even farther out muddles its way towards the shipyard to the south, with its giant red cranes marking its location at all vantage points.

"It's going to be inner-city rates in a fairly touristy district unless we're thinking to look elsewhere, maybe farther south yet. Head north and you're dropping some serious change," the barista shares with a rub of her fingers together. Cha-ching. "That's Northgate for you, Bellevue too. I suppose it really boils down it you want a view or not. But really? A higher population than your entire country? Really? Throw some numbers at me."

"Just short of seven million people in Denmark." Ravn laughs softly. "And, I don't insist on a view. Don't get me wrong -- I'll pay for one if you'd like one. I'm just as happy in a small place without a view myself because we can spend the entire evening somewhere that does have a view. And neither of us are dressed for a truly fancy place, nor have I sort of prepared mentally for it."

After all, get upscale enough and you need evening gowns, tuxedos, and a whole layer of social etiquette where jeans and shirt simply will not do.

Ariadne nods at the number listed. "Ah-hah. Hate to burst your bubble on that one, but Seattle isn't that populated. You're looking at..." Her hand gestures in a circle before herself to include all of the city before she adds, "About eight-hundred thousand people here. Now, Washington state itself? Yes. About seven million people, so more than your country, which...still really different to consider. Whoa. An entire country the size of the state. Not that I haven't considered this before, but...wow." This requires another sip of sparkling chianti.

"And a view isn't critical to me either because you're not wrong. A view around here means dropping some serious money for a place where they'd just have to deal with my Target-quality boots and Kohls-quality blouse and I'd probably leave migraines in my wake because of my windbreaker from a sporting good's store overtop those. I'm part of the rabble," she then giggles. "Great word, rabble."

"I don't care what they would have to deal with. I care whether you have a good time. Feeling judged or having to dash out and buy clothes you're not comfortable in, in order to fit in? That's silly. We can go to some upscale jet set place sometime if you're dying to see one from the inside. But trust me -- the food may be fancier and there may be a jacuzzi, but you'll feel far more welcome in some family run bed and breakfast where they are too busy making sure you want to come back to sit around judging whether you're up to standards." Ravn laughs.

Then he nods. "I got that wrong, yes. Still, Seattle's large enough that it's safe to say it never sleeps. I would be very surprised if we can't find some nice little street café or garden bar with a view to spend time in, if we want to look at the Sound. Once we get to the hotel or bed and breakfast, I suspect we might end up being too busy to look at the view anyhow. I heard a few inspiring things back at the Aquarium."

Score, Ravn. Sipping at the chianti-blend doesn't hide how Ariadne's cheeks pink up in their usual pastel hues. It certainly doesn't hide the anticipatory gleam in her hazel eyes, lined with kohl as they are.

"Well, there is the movie, Sleepless in Seattle. Classically famous around here. That's a good idea though, a bed and breakfast, and I like that idea a hell of a lot better than a hotel room. You're good, you," she tells Ravn with a pleased smirk. "What if...alright, we take our time here because this food is far too good to rush through and then find a café? Late-afternoon cup of coffee to energize and then we hunt out a bed and breakfast? I'll have ordered the coffee cake to go, so there will be something to tide over if it's also a matter of hunting out food nearby to the bed and breakfast once we're checked in. Sound like a plan?"

"I like that plan." Ravn smiles as he manages to murder another prawn. "And I remember that movie, too. Tom Hanks is in it. I remember it annoying me a little because it's a cute rom-com but it also kind of -- validates that it's cool and no big deal when big corporations like Amazon run mom and pop bookstores out of town. If I remember correctly, Hanks is kind of an idiot for not realising that this big chain store which is definitely not Amazon has far better service than his own little place."

He nods his approval. "I like this plan. And really, no rush. I mean, I don't want to be pushy. I want to enjoy all of this day -- here, a café, and then a bed and breakfast. It's all good." Because of course Ravn Abildgaard is the kind of man who'd promptly worry he comes across like interested in one thing only, bless his overthinker heart.

"It is all good...and it's a plan," the barista nods before she sits up, all the better to see about spooning up another ringlet of calamari from the cioppino broth. "Mmm." Happy food sound, yes. "Who knows, there might even be time for a nap at the bed and breakfast after the café. A nap after having coffee? We'll be wired and able to take on the world! It's how I survived college. Some term papers required late-night elucidation."

A droll flick of brows from Ariadne. Not a procrastinator, no, but perhaps one to cut deadlines a little closer than appreciable.

"You're not being pushy anyhow. If anything, I might be a bit pushy, but I just like having rough itineraries," she explains.

"I like it when you're pushy." Ravn gets very busy with that prawn -- the one that's left on his plate, look how it's trying to hide behind a mussel, the dodgy little bitch. He coughs lightly and reaches for his wine. A conversation for another time, and perhaps somewhere a lot more private. "Late-night elucidation is either the best metaphor I ever heard for turning a thesis in late, or the best metaphor I ever heard for not turning it in at all because you were too busy screwing."

Who doesn't know the agony of running late on an assignment? They're both academics, and one of them receives those assignments to boot.

"How did I survive college, I wonder. I mean, I do wonder. Because I remember it as bailing as much as possible, running with a bad crew, dealing pot, and generally not giving a fuck. It's a miracle I made it into university."

Such a pleased little foxy smirk from Ariadne. Duly noted, Mister Abildgaard, the young woman thinks to herself as she watches the prawn attempt to escape the Dane's spoon. It is a dodgy little bitch, but the mussel clearly gave it up in an attempt to save its own life. Cruel and unusual!

But then, Ravn has her snort-laughing hard enough for bubbles to appear in her watered-down chianti. Yet another score for him -- and how gauche, the bubbles. Somewhere, the Dane's aunts are clutching their pearls and wondering why.

"I should inform you that I wasn't so busy screwing as to turn in late assignments," she retorts loftily, a sliver of her teeth showing in a challenging grin. "Remember that I like rough itineraries...so things were...timed as to my personal inclinations." How daintily she picks through the sentence, such exaggerated innocence. "I had no bad crew and there was no pot, but there were some parties and some skipping classes...at least, when the lectures were so large in student body that my body wasn't going to be missed."

"I wasn't too busy screwing. Not because I didn't wish I was, but because there's a certain kind of male teenager that the girls know very well to avoid the hell out of, and I was that guy. The one who thinks he's been dealt a bad hand but really, if you could be bothered to get past his bad attitude, you'd understand he actually has a heart of gold. Only, any sane woman takes one look and thinks, yeah, no, they don't pay me enough to be this guy's therapist." Ravn laughs softly and sips his wine. "Honestly, I was -- not a very pleasant person back then. Whiny, sulking, looking for somebody to blame."

His aunts probably clutched some pearls over that, too.

He leans forward a little to rest his chin on one hand; the mussel will live to another day unless it meets a hungry Ariadne. Even if he's quite full, there's still chianti and a beautiful view to enjoy, in the company of a beautiful woman. "There's one thing I want to do, though. Not necessarily today, just -- sometime. I want to dance with you somewhere nobody knows who we are, and nobody remembers us tomorrow."

Ariadne shrugs agreement, her smile gentle. It's true: it sounds like unpleasantness in general to her. She's relieved for the now --

-- and charmed as all hell about the one-day inclination of dancing.

"Oh. Well...geez." Barista re-pinks with a fury. "Um. I can think of a few places around the city that can happen. There's...the Botanical Gardens. One of the bigger boardwalks. Um. The...fountain display over by the Pacific Science Center. Geez, Ravn, make a lady blush, won't you?" She even rubs at a cheek for a moment while she forks up rigatoni, pleased and so pleased as to be a little sheepish about it.

"I make innuendos about sex and you don't bat an eyelid. I suggest dancing where no one knows our names and you turn crimson." Ravn laughs softly. "I just want to think about nothing else but you. No photographers, no Alice Hampton and the society pages, not even our friends watching and commenting and offering up opinions. Nothing but you and me and dancing together."

"Oh, well, pfft, you -- "

Make a lady pink up more, will you?

"Just...maybe it's an American thing, but the dancing is super romantic, okay? Sex is...to be expected. That sort of mind-track? Telling me that it's just you and me and all of the people and I don't why, I can't take my eyes off of you -- anyways, song lyrics, you get the point." Ariadne almost started singing it...almost. "It's romantic and...nobody's ever really told me things like that, not before you, so..." She shrugs and the mussel finally meets its demise as she scoops it up. Mmm, deliciousness, even when she can feel the heat rising from her cheeks.

"I'm surprised at that." Ravn looks at Ariadne, chasing the mussel and winning the battle. He admires the view and makes no secret of it; no one here knows his name either, and if they leave laughing about the bloke who looked at his date like he worships the earth she walks on, fine by him. "But maybe I shouldn't be. It's difficult enough to say those things. I never did before -- with Benedikte, I mean. Or with Hyacinth. It never felt right with Benedikte -- I felt like there was just enough doubt in my heart that I would be lying. And Hyacinth, it never got that far -- and I still think that's why she lost interest, she felt I was simply not genuinely interested."

He looks down at his plate, in all its near-empty glory. "And that's why I decided, I am not making this mistake again, with you. If I am thinking it, I want to say it. Even if it's tacky and weird."

Ariadne had been intending to take a sip of her wine; instead, she sets aside the glass in order to reach out a hand palm-up upon the table again. Looks like folks are going to be laughing at both of them looking at one another as such.

"I don't think it's tacky and weird. It's honest. I like honest. Honest is simple and...pure, in a way. Certainly more meaningful. Pretty words are pretty and all, but that's a plan of action. I can't wait until we can do this, dance and know that nobody knows who we are. It's a privacy in itself. Hell, if the bed and breakfast has a nice garden, maybe there? I'm easy-going though. It can be whenever," she tells Ravn, eyes gone soft. "And...well, don't be too surprised. I guess my exes felt I was getting enough out of the relationship that it didn't need to be full of sweet nothings. Thing is...I like sweet nothings and little romantic things. It's like finding your favorite candy hiding away behind the rest at the display or something when you thought they were out."

An eyeroll at herself. "Whatever. I was young and I didn't know any better. I was stooping. I know myself better now and isn't that how life just goes? You live and you learn."

"I promised myself that I will never be in a relationship again where I feel there are things I should not say -- whether it's embarrassing or syrup sweet. If that's how I feel? That's what I want to be able to say. I want to feel safe. I saw my father make this mistake, and then I went and made it myself too. Not going to make it again. I can live alone. I am not unhappy alone. I am happier with you, but if we have to change who we are, then it's just not worth it, you know?" Ravn reaches out to take that offered hand and cover it with his own. "I want to be silly with you. I want to laugh and make bad jokes, and sometimes be a sappy romantic. What's the point of being together if you don't actually like each other?"

"There's...no point at all, as far as I'm concerned. I get the whole deal about the regency era, where it was a thing of standing, or maybe repopulating an area after a war or something like that, but these days?" Ravn's hand gets a gentle squeeze. "We have the luxury of being more picky and why the hell not? You literally only live once. One trip as many times around the sun and that's it. Why not slide into your grave having had a good time, y'know? A good time with somebody by your side who was supposed to be there because somehow, it made perfect sense to the heart and soul as well as logic."

Ariadne then laughs softly. "Call me a romantic too, I guess...and it doesn't always have to be romantic. But the little gestures count, as do the little words." It seems like she's forgotten all about her food at this point, too lost in Ravn's eyes.

It's admittedly a little silly, but hey, the older couple one table over is whispering to themselves about somebody being head-over-heels.

In fairness, somebody are head-over-heels. Ravn thumbs over Ariadne's hand in his own, soft leather against skin. "I think it sometimes. Why do people marry other people they don't even like? As you say, it's not a necessity. Even the kings and queens of Europe don't marry for dynastic reasons any more. There is no reason I can think of that you have to be with somebody you don't see as your other half -- unless being alone is so terrifying that you'd rather be with anyone. And I suppose that for some people that is the case."

"Yeah...it's true. Some folks can't handle being alone...which I also get. Loneliness is a big driver for behavior in...well...all living things, including humans. I guess it's just not enough to make me less than picky about my suitors, how about that?" Ariadne muses with a quiet laugh. The brush of his thumb over her knuckles is both soothing and goosebump-inducing. "I'm sure I could get into a little diatribe about self-worth and self-respect, but I won't. The view is too nice."

She says. Looking dead at Ravn.

Of course the waiter shows up about two seconds after that, having not been in ear-shot for her comment. Are we wanting anything off the dessert menu?

"A slice of the coffee cake to go, please," Ariadne asks politely, not bothered at the (hilarious) timing of the waiter. A job needs to get done just like anything else. A lift of her brows inquires as to Ravn.

Ravn nods, smiling slightly. "Nothing for me. Not because I don't think the coffee cake isn't good but because I am on a strict diet." It's easier to say that, than to explain his eating disorder to some waiter who really just wants to know how many slices of cake to bring.

He looks away first. Does he get it? Oh yes. It makes him blush slightly, even. "Self worth I may be short on, Venelite, but self respect -- no. Knowing that you're perfectly happy alone puts a man in a position of power. I don't need somebody. I want you. Not somebody, you."

A strict diet? Fair. Ravn isn't the first customer here to plead as such. Plates are lifted and taken away with the check sure to arrive along with the slice of coffee cake to go. "This is special coffee cake anyhow," Ariadne notes as she pulls the dessert menu over to herself again. "It's called...Gianduja coffee pie, excuse me, with candied hazelnuts. The addendum is, 'it’s a magical mystery tour'. Either the pastry chef is quite pleased with it or that was some great quote from a customer they decided to keep. Either way, it bodes well."

She then listens to Ravn and again, smiles softly. "It's powerful, being able to stand alone, but with our powers combined and all..." she all but singsongs, slowly grinning. "Let's take over the world sometime. We'll have a secret under-ice volcano base somewhere in Iceland and nobody will find it because we'll have seal sentries and no humans and of course there's no humans near the volcano, what lunatics would try it? Oh wait, us."

Someone needs no more coffee today.

"Me and you," she says with another lapse back to fondness. Ravn's knuckles are gently stroked by her own thumb in turn. She's gone and put her chin in her other palm now. The couple one table over definitely murmurs with smiles about twitterpation now.

"It does sound like very good cake." Ravn grins slightly. The description is mouthwatering -- but he also knows that after eating as much as he managed of the real food, attempts to tuck cake away too will just make him sick.

Then he cants his head. "Iceland, eh? There's glaciers aplenty, certainly -- but does the word dimmuborgir ring any bells? It's a lava field in Iceland -- I've been there. Those formations are sharp as glass, and you definitely want a pair of solid boots. More importantly, it's secretly an entrance to Hell and the underworld. Black magicians and elves live below. The name literally means dark castle. I suggest that we take over existing real estate, kick out the elves, and make it ours. If it's good enough for the Devil, it's good enough for me."

Maybe he should lay off the caffeine too.

Watch Ariadne's brows nearly disappear into her hairline -- and isn't that an enabler's foxy grin almost ear to ear.

"Fuck yes," she breathes before succumbing to giggling she must stopper up behind her free hand. Chianti must wait. "Oh no-ho-ho-ho, I had no idea! I just picked a cold place with volcanoes! The other option was Siberia." Wheezing this as she needs to sit back into her chair, she's apparently tickled her own funny bone enough by the unintentional serendipity to need a moment. Maybe four. Hopefully the kohl stays on and doesn't run from amused tears. Sorry, Ravn, your hand is getting ditched, she needs both to cover her lips. Wow, this is really hilarious for some reason.

The waiter comes back with both boxed coffee cake (pie) and looks between them curiously, check in the other hand.

Ravn nods to the waiter; he's quite happy to cover the check (and he will be leaving a generous tip as well because the food is delicious, the locale is pretty, and the service has been exemplary). He looks highly amused at Ariadne's lucky shot -- of all the cold places one can think of, and then the right bloody spot on it too.

He can't resist. "I suppose we could settle for the Tunguska crater too, but I think that any secret underground cave networks in the Siberian taiga are remarkably frozen. And well, in case of Tunguska, also kind of crushed."

Color the waiter curious as hell, but lingering is in bad taste. Ravn receives the check and off the waiter goes to tend to other tables.

Emerging from her giggle-fest, Ariadne swipes under an eye and sighs. "Look, it'd be just perfect there too. Nobody would be hunting because they assume it's all crushed to hell. Excellent cover. Alright, secret base location decided, next is super weapons," she continues, unable to stop grinning. "But that can be later. We have to go figure out coffee after this anyhow and I think I'll be too distracted in a few hours to concoct any plans about world domination."

Ravn gets a blatant eyebrow waggle because...well...American tart.

Ravn coughs lightly even as he leaves payment. "Will you, now. Did you bring a good book, then?" Somehow, he manages to keep a straight face. Must be all that dance and deportment as a kid.

He returns a smile. "Now, what kind of coffee place are we after? I think I would like somewhere not too noisy. Somewhere we can have a conversation and you can tell me about your plans for getting all distracted. Did you have any specific authors in mind? Please tell me we're not watching whatever telenovela is on. I'll be crying in Spanish."

"Oh, but you know I wanted to see you weep those precious Catalan tears!" Ariadne easily plays along as the check is settled. One last sip of her chianti and she rises to her feet, coffee cake (pie, really now) in-hand. "Those are worth more than gold to my heart, mi amor!" Dramatic hand to brow and winsome contrapposto pose for a split second. Then smiling, the redhead makes to lead the way out, windbreaker over her arm.

"Don't worry, I'll tell you my plans," she reassures the Dane over her shoulder and damned if it isn't just as coy and charming as a look as she can manage in his direction. The flutter of lashes isn't theatrical in the least and neither is the subtle swish-swish of hips. Come along, sir.

Don't tell a man to not follow those swishy hips. Tell him not to, if you like, but he's not likely to pay you a whole lot of attention. "Please tell me everything. Give me a proper Bond villain speech. I promise not to thwart you -- unless of course, being caught, thwarted, and put over the knee is part of the master plan."

Getting bold there, Abildgaard. Ravn pulls himself together and follows Ariadne out through the restaurant and into the street. "I don't know a whole lot of Spanish," he murmurs. "But I'm not quite deaf to the fact you just called me your love. I am going to treasure this moment and look ridiculously smug for some time now."

"You'll just have to see, Mister Bond," the barista purrs back in obvious enjoyment of their current bantering. The hostess minding the front desk looks up from her notes about available verses reserved tables, slightly wide-eyed, and smiles to herself at the departing couples' back.

Out on the street, Ariadne waits until Ravn drifts up beside her to see about finding his gloved hand. She has to lean in slightly to hear his murmur, given there's some traffic along the street, and once again, she finds herself blushing. It turns out that she did, in fact, do this.

"I'm...not taking it back either, so you just...get to look smug and treasure the moment then, Mister Abildgaard," she replies with an airiness, as if she wanted to laugh but only barely can't manage it. Ravn gets a sparkling grin.