"Salut," I say, clinking my glass against his and taking a sip. I close my eyes for a second, savoring it. "God, that'ssogood. I hope the ratatouille lives up to expectations. My grandmother had this specific way of cooking everything separately before layering it all and sending it back to the oven. Actually, trying tosteal a bite of it before it was ready was the first time I ever burned myself on the stove. I was maybe six or seven and so impatient I couldn't wait."
He chuckles, his eyes warm on me. "Eagerly trying to get to the good stuff and learning a painful lesson about patience? That sounds about right for you. I think I did something similar but with lasagna my mom was making. Grabbed the pan with my bare hand like an idiot."
"That would be worth the burn though," I say as my stomach grumbles audibly. "I'm starving. We should have ordered more."
"We ordered four dishes for two people, not to mention the appetizers and desserts," he points out, laughing.
"Your point?" I say, completely serious, and he laughs harder.
The ratatouille arrives first and it's perfect, with vegetables arranged in a spiral, each piece uniform and baked until tender and caramelized at the edges, the sauce beneath rich and herbaceous. It looks almost too pretty to eat.
Almost.
I take a bite and close my eyes, and I'm seven years old again, sitting at my grandmother's kitchen table with my feet swinging because they don't reach the floor yet, watching her move around her kitchen like a dancer. The taste is almost exactly right—the sweetness of the tomatoes, the earthiness of the eggplant, the brightness of the zucchini, all of it singing together in perfect harmony.
"Oh," I breathe.
"Good?" Alex asks, watching me with amusement.
"It's perfect," I say. "It tastes like being a kid again."
He reaches across the table and takes my hand, squeezing gently. "Good, I’m glad it brings you back to those memories.”
I look at him tenderly. "Thank you. For this, for all of it. You're really good at getting me to relax and enjoy life, you know? I think you really won me over that night you made the fig dish for me, after I told you about my grandmother."
He leans across the small table and kisses me and I melt into him. Our mains arrive and we devour them, sharing bites across the table as we talk about everything.
Our childhoods, ridiculous movie and food debates that get increasingly passionate, places we want to travel someday, how much we both love Napa and how different it feels from anywhere else we've lived.
We linger over dessert and coffee, neither of us wanting this meal to end, this day to end, this perfect bubble we've created around ourselves to pop and let reality back in. But eventually the restaurant starts to empty out around us, other diners paying their checks and heading home, and we can't justify staying any longer.
Alex pays the bill and we make our way toward the exit, and I notice an older couple standing near the door talking to some departing guests. The woman is elegant, maybe in her late sixties, with silver hair pulled back in a neat chignon and laugh lines around her eyes. The man beside her is tall and distinguished-looking, around the same age, with kind eyes.
"Oh, I think those are the owners!" I whisper to Alex, recognizing them from a framed photo on the wall near the entrance.
Alex nods. "Let's say hi, tell them how good it was."
We make our way over and the couple turns to us with warm smiles as we approach.
"We just wanted to say that dinner was absolutely incredible," I say. "We're both chefs ourselves, and I think we both agree it was the best meal we've had in a very long time. Everything was perfect."
"Oh, thank you so much," the woman says, and I immediately catch the accent. French, but softened by years of living in the U.S.
"Sorry, I have to ask," I say, unable to help myself. "Are you from France originally?"
She nods, her face lighting up. "Yes, from Provence actually.The Luberon area. We both are," she gestures at her husband who smiles and nods. "But we fell in love with Napa Valley on a trip in the early eighties and decided to move here permanently in 1987."
"Wow!" I say, feeling that same pull of connection I felt looking at the fig tree. "My father's side of the family is from that area too. I still have cousins in the region and I spent summers there as a child with my grandmother. I was just telling Alex earlier how much this place reminded me of her house there, and the food was so authentic, so true to what I remember."
"Oh, that's so wonderful to hear!" she says, clearly delighted. "We try our best. I mean, we're combining our two favorite places in the world here—Provence and Napa—so we want to honor both of them properly. It's a love letter, in a way."
Alex smiles at them. "Well, we're only here in Napa for a short time for work, but I'd honestly fly back from Washington just to eat here again. It was that good."
The woman's expression shifts, becoming a little sad. "Well, I'm sorry to say this, but we're actually thinking of closing by the end of the year. We haven't made a final decision yet, but it's looking likely."
I feel genuine distress in the pit of my stomach, like this place is already a home to me somehow after just one night, a place that feels safe and right, and it's being taken away before I even really found it.
"Oh?" I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "What's making you consider it?"