A Date with a Foodie (The Dating Series Book 7)

Maddy because I wanted to see if she remembered me, and if she did, if she harbored any ill will toward me. It was, without a doubt, my fault that we didn’t keep in contact. Once I arrived in New York with my first job, I was on the go from three in the morning until at least eleven, if not later. I survived a full year on coffee and donuts. A caffeine sugar high to get through my days, first as an intern who became an assistant, who then became the low man on the totem pole, sent out in the hazardous conditions or to a slaughtering plant to cover animal cruelty. I took every assignment given and never said a peep. When I was offered a job as a junior producer, I accepted it, even though it wasn’t what I wanted to do. It was then, I realized, I was never going to sit at the early morning table and deliver national news. A life behind the scenes was what I was good at, even though it wasn’t my dream.

The hostess sits me at a table for two—if nothing screams single—I don’t know what does. From here, I have the perfect view of the Navy Pier—lit up in all its glory. The streets of Chicago are busy. It’s warm out, I can see some of the boats anchored in the lake with their lights on. Aside from the small chatter around me, I can hear some of what is going on outside. There’s music, laughter, and the general feeling of summer, which is something I’ve never experienced in Chicago until now.

When the hostess hands me the menu, I ask if Madeline is available and chuckle a bit when she refers to her as Ms. Metcalf. I also notice the term Ms. over Mrs. and internally give myself a high-five.

“I’ll see if Ms. Metcalf is still in the building, Mr. Paulson.” The hostess walks away, and I’m completely taken by the amount of professionalism Madeline’s staff has. From the moment I walked in to just now, I’ve been treated with more respect than I ever have from any other establishment.

A young man dressed in black plants and white shirt and a black apron brings a glass of ice water to my table. I take note of his attire and appreciate the color of his apron, which hides any stains, but something tells me if he had one, Maddy would insist on making him change.

“Good evening, my name is Robert. Have you ever dined with us before?”

I shake my head and smile. “This is my first time.”

He beams. “Great. Thank you for joining us tonight. Would you like to hear the specials?”

“Yes, please.”

Instead of looking down at his pad, he focuses right on me and goes through the whole spiel. Everything sounds amazing but I end up deciding on the balsamic glazed porkchops and the orange creamsicle cake for dessert. Usually, I’d wait until the end to order a treat, but he politely tells me there’s only one piece left, and he wouldn’t want me to miss out.

As soon as he has my order written down, he nods and speed walks away. I glance around, noticing the well-polished floors, the antique looking bar, and rich dark colors that you wouldn’t normally find in a tavern. What strikes me as odd is that every chair is in place. There are no stranglers or haphazard chairs sticking out, even at the bar. The linens are soft, the utensils are sturdy, and the water glass is etched with the tavern’s name on them. I shouldn’t be surprised. When Maddy and I dated or hung out as the kids like to call it now, she was meticulous in everything she did. I asked her once, asking if she had obsessive-compulsive disorder because I wanted to make sure I wasn’t adding to any anxiety she might feel. She told me no, she just liked things to be uniform. As much as I wanted to adopt her way of thinking, it would’ve never worked for me back then.

It doesn’t take long for Robert to set my dinner down in front of me. Balsamic glazed pork chops, mashed potatoes, and caramelized brussel sprouts. My mouth waters at the site. Every single bite is perfection. I savor every single second of my meal. That’s when you know you have a good dinner. You don’t want it to end.

After I’m done, Robert comes back and sets down a tray with an assortment of drinks on it, along with my dessert. “You’re probably wondering what this is all about.”

“I am,” I tell him.

“You’re my last customer of the night and I’m training to get my bartenders license. I wanted to offer you an array of drinks that would pair well with our cake, as well as a cup of coffee, freshly brewed.”

Normally, this would irritate me, but considering the young man is trying to advance his career, I smile and reach for the coffee. I need the pick me up after the long day of travel. Granted, New York to Chicago is a two-hour flight, but I’ve had numerous meetings today, both here and back home. I’m exhausted.

“I taste something tangy.” I set my cup down and look at my waiter for confirmation.

He smiles and nods excitedly. “Orange zest, just a dash. You’ll find it’ll blend well with the cake.”

“And the rest of these?”

He rattles off an orange vermouth, blood orange martini, and an orange dreamsicle floatini, all of which taste amazing. I’m a social drinker, but then it’s mostly a scotch or gin. Tonight, however, has really changed my tastes. I’m interested in what he’s brought to the table and let him know. His smile, wide and bright, shows me my acceptance has made his day.

I’m three bites into my cake when an attractive woman approaches my table. She introduces herself as Katy, the manager of Maddy’s Tavern, and asks if I still need to see Ms. Metcalf.

“I’d love