I immediately know where we are.
“The Whale?” I ask, excited.
He nods. “I thought it might be fun, since it has a Las Vegas vibe to it. You know, taking it back to where we started.”
“Clever. Have you been here before?”
“No, but I’ve heard it’s good. Have you?”
I shake my head. “No, but I’ve always wanted to try it.”
Pike holds open the large metal door for me and guides me inside with a hand to my lower back.
Taking one step into the building feels like taking a time machine back to old-school Las Vegas. A classy, sophisticated parlor room is how I would describe the setting. A large bar to the right, the back wall covered in blue subway tiles laid out in a herringbone pattern. Gold accents and blue, tufted leather bar stools line the bar top. Archways are a common theme throughout the space, whether built into alcoves in the wall or offering privacy walls to each of the red, leather booths. Damask wallpaper covers the walls that aren’t tiled, lending to the sophistication, and in the corner is the most refined and beautiful jukebox I’ve ever seen. Not one of those neon rainbows you see at a dive bar. No, this one is sleek in cream and gold colors with a flat top.
“I can tell you right now, I love it already,” I say.
The hostess greets us. “Welcome to The Whale. Do you have a reservation?”
Pike nods and says, “Under Greyson.”
“Yes, party of two.” She gathers menus and says, “Right this way.” She guides us to an arched booth in the back, right next to the jukebox.
Pike steps up behind me and helps me remove my jacket before helping me into the booth. I’ve never experienced such gentlemanly attention before. He hangs my jacket on a hook outside the booth, then hangs his leather jacket there as well. He slides into the booth in the seat across from me.
The hostess happily hands us menus and tells us Mika will be with us shortly to grab our drink order.
“This place is incredible.” The distance between us is a three-foot table’s width, but it feels like a football field, and maybe that’s because I’m so used to having to share a small shoebox space with him. Our dining table is curated for two, but really comfortable for one. This is so different.
“I’ve heard great things about it. Bit of a foodie.”
“Wait . . . are you?” I ask.
He glances up at me from over his menu. “I am, so all that charred food you served the first weeks of our marriage nearly destroyed my palate.”
I cover my mouth with my hand as I chuckle. “But you still ate it.”
“Because you made it, even if it was out of spite. Plus, you know . . . food waste and all.”
“Let me ask you this—what has been the worst thing I’ve served you?”
He sets his menu down, laying it flat on the polished wood between us. “The worst thing you served me? Well, you almost served me microwaved tea and that would’ve easily taken the cake, but since you never truly served it, I can’t count that.”
“Ugh, Englishmen and their tea. Is it really that big of a deal?”
“Yes.” His thick brows draw down into a V. “I dare you to serve microwaved tea to the queen.”
“Bet she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”
His mouth draws into a flat line, making me chuckle even harder. “Are you saying we need to do a taste test later? See which one is microwaved and which one is properly brewed and steeped so I can prove you wrong?”
“Nothing would give me more joy.”
He lifts his menu and casually looks at it as he says, “Fine by me. A tea-off it shall be later tonight.”
“Things are about to get frisky.” I nudge his leg under the table, and he smirks while staring at his menu. “You never answered my question. What was the worst thing I served?”
“No brainer. You made it a few times, and every time I felt like it got worse and worse. From your vengeful tactics, I believe you did it on purpose.”
“Probably. What was it?”
His eyes quirk over the menu, and in a deep voice, he says, “The mushy peas.”
A rumble of laughter pops out of my mouth as I nod. “Oh, yes. I wanted to destroy any hopes of you connecting back to England through food.”
“Well done. I don’t think I ever want to see mushy peas again. The last time you made them, they tasted fishy.”
“Because I added anchovy oil to your helping, but only to yours. There was no way I was going to stomach that.”