This was our
time.
We held hands in
the hushed restaurant and laughed with the backdrop of crisp contemporary and
the winking sky-line.
We spent too
much time examining the Maritime Parc
menus that we were faintly familiar with, weighing the options as if these were
our last choices. To do the prix fixe or not do the prix fixe? To do the wine
pairing or not do the wine pairing? We mixed and matched. We indulged.
We oohed and awwhed
at the refined array of appetizers like the intensely savory French onion soup
mussels, salty with bacon and briny with the sea. Or the decadent lobster gnudi
that slid on the tongue like exotic silk and cream seeped with luxury, studded
with sweet squash and crisp, bitter Brussels sprout leaves.
We wanted to
taste every entrée offered, struggling to imagine each flavor and dish without
proof. But we couldn’t. We wouldn’t. We made up our minds and clung to old
favorites, specialties that we could not escape, nor did we want to. We plunged
our forks deep into lemon scented spiraled strigoli pasta with plentiful
seafood gem obstacles. We reveled
in the succulent scallops, using the sides of our forks cute our prizes and
shift earthy bright green peas and clear corn to create tiny voluptuous bites.
We chatted and
chuckled. We observed soon-to-be-married couples, exploring tasting menus and
venue perks, and sipping pretty colored cocktails that danced in the mood
lighting. And we devoured dessert, despite our satiety from our lounging
dinner. We noted the sweet, the
spice, the cold, the warm.
We relished. We
enjoyed. We slowed down and savored all of the morsels and washed down all the
delicious memories with bubbling prosecco. We lived this meal.
This was our
time.
RER
2.4.16
