“It’s a bookshop/craft shop,” he makes a point to say. “Lauren gets mad if I don’t include that as well.”

It’s called the Cozy. They have a website. Gabe recommends books on it, even though he’s said in past interviews that he was never much of a reader as a kid.

“My mom was an English teacher, so having a kid that didn’t like books was so embarrassing,” he says. “But I was just a late bloomer—I’m a big reader now. The bookstore was her dream. And Lauren’s always been good at making things—baking, crafting, that kind of stuff. She still knits me a sweater every Christmas.”

I bite my tongue to keep from making the obvious joke: “What are they made of? Boyfriend material?”

In case you’re wondering, he is single.

“Rumors,” he tells me when I ask about Jacinda. “We’re co-stars and friends.”

Jacinda Lockwood—the newest Bond girl for the newest Bond. She and Gabe have been photographed numerous times coming out of restaurants, standing close to each other on dark sidewalks in Paris, even holding hands a few times.

“She’s a sweet girl,” Gabe says. “But there’s nothing there.”

He orders a second beer. I’m a lightweight so I decline.

Remember this detail later, friends. Two roads diverge and all that.

I ask how he feels about taking on such an iconic part—about being the first American to step into the role.

“Nervous,” he tells me. “Anxious. I almost said no.”

That’s the narrative his people and the film’s producers have been pushing, and I was skeptical when I heard it. But Gabe’s entire demeanor changes when I ask. He’s been open and cheerful, answering questions eagerly.

Bond puts a somber hush on the conversation. He’s not looking at me, staring down at his napkin, which he’s twisted into a tight knot. He’s silent for a long time.

I ask if the backlash bothered him.

“I’m beyond lucky,” he says. “All I care about is doing the part justice.”

He shrugs.

“But do I worry that they’re right? Yeah, sure. Who wouldn’t?”

“They” are the fans writing angry articles and blog posts detailing all the reasons why Gabe is the worst possible choice for Bond. Because he’s American. Because he’s not Oliver Matthias. Because audiences are used to him playing hunky, dim-witted himbos.

And then there’s the whole Angels in America thing.

He orders a third beer.

“My publicist would have my head if she saw this,” he tells me. “I’m supposed to stop at two, but it’s Friday! Hey, what are you doing after this?”

Twenty minutes later, with puppy in tow, we’re on our way to look at a house in the Hollywood Hills.