It took me a moment to realize “tea” meant dinner. Stepping up to the end of the bar, I gave her a weak smile. “It doesn’t look like there’s a table.” And I was hungry. So, so hungry. The smell of delicious food was intoxicating me.

“Not to brag, lass, but my Dexter’s food is known all over Northumberland. We keep busy at teatime. If you want to eat here, you let me know and I’ll reserve a table for you. For now, if you’re happy to, you can eat at the bar.”

I nodded eagerly. “Yeah, please.”

Perhaps my relief was palpable because Milly chuckled and gestured for me to follow. I rounded the bar, ignoring some men on stools who blatantly ogled my legs.

The second dining room was just as busy as the first.

Sliding onto the stool Milly gestured to, I gave the woman next to me a small smile when she turned to see who her new neighbor was. She returned the smile before giving her attention to the man beside her.

“There, lass.” Milly placed a menu in front of me. “Now what can I get you to drink?”

“Oi, I was next, Milly!” a male voice shouted from the other end of the bar.

She raised an eyebrow in that direction. “I say who’s next in my pub.”

“Fine, but I’m next after Legs,” he shouted back.

Presuming “Legs” was me, I scowled.

“Her name is Evie,” Milly informed him crisply.

I wanted to hide under the bar.

“I prefer Legs.”

“Oh, aye? Do you prefer going somewhere else to drink, man? Because I don’t cater to rudeness in my pub.”

“Aw, I was only joking, Milly. Get the lass a drink and put it on my tab.”

She nodded and turned back to me with a smirk.

“I’ll pay for my own drink,” I replied.

She grinned. “And what will that be?”

“A cider.”

“What kind?”

I shrugged. “Whatever you recommend.”

While Milly disappeared to get my cider, I perused the menu. After googling it, I’d discovered The Anchor, just as Milly had said, was a gastropub. Deciding to continue eating “British,” I ordered the battered haddock and chips, remembering that chips in the UK were like a plumper version of fries, and crisps were what we in the US called chips.

My fish and chips arrived on a wooden tray, the chips served in a miniature frying basket, with sides of tartar sauce and mushy peas in little ceramic pots. Everything was delicious, and although I’d had a fish and chips dish at a British bar in Chicago, the tartar sauce I’d had there didn’t even compare to Dexter’s.

“Enjoying that?” Milly asked as she passed me to serve someone a drink.

I swallowed a chip I’d layered with mushy peas and replied, “Your husband’s a genius.”