Platters arrived in orchestrated elegance under the chandelier's golden flicker—the waiter gliding soundless as a shadow, balancing domed silver salvers that he unveiled with theatrical flourish, steam curling aromatic into the booth's velvet hush.
Emily's lobster thermidor gleamed first—plump claws nestled in creamy cognac sauce, bubbling beneath a golden gratin crust flecked parmesan, accompanied by her heirloom tomato gazpacho—ruby-chilled orbs in frosted bowls, basil oil pearling iridescent atop microgreen wisps.
"Wow, it looks really good!" Emily's mouth watered just by looking at her food.
Hellen's wagyu tartare mounded pristine ruby towers, hand-cut flecks crowned with a single quail yolk golden and runny, crisp brioche points fanned beside for scooping.
