The place is called The Boat Dock. Cute, quaint, and unique. It has a very much misplaced nautical theme, considering the lake it’s on is barely big enough for Jet Skis and tubing. I wouldn’t call it pretensions of grandeur, exactly, but close. Big thick nautical ropes on the walls in ornate knots, which probably have complicated names and functions. Oars from ship’s boats, the ten-foot-long kind meant to lock into rings on rowboats. Draft charts and maps with incomplete representations of shorelines with antiquated names for familiar places. But it’s cozy, with little booths in shadowy corners, votives on the tables and single-sheet laminated menus with imported fish-and-chips and tender veal and overpriced lamb chops. Low ceilings and big windows overlooking a maze of weathered docks festooned with an excess of largely decorative ropes.

We sat outside, and there were tiki torches that gave off thick smoke smelling of citronella. In the center of the table was a small glass vase with a single bright orange Gerbera daisy.

“Those are my favorite flower,” she said, in a by the way sort of comment.

I tucked that tidbit away—Gerbera daisy. Got it.

There was music playing low in the background, a playlist that seemed to waffle between accordion-heavy French-inspired instrumental melodies and old standby Frank Sinatra tunes. She flipped the menu over several times, and then set it down decisively. She ordered chicken parmesan, and when it came, let it slip that if a restaurant had chicken parmesan, that’s what she got. She’d tried a million times to make it at home, but could never get it to come out right. The breading was never crispy and golden brown enough, and the cheese never went stringy the same way, and the sauce never had the right balance between smooth and chunky. So, chicken parmesan remained a delicacy she could never get anywhere but a restaurant.

Another tidbit.

She hated Frank Sinatra—I learned that, too, on that date. She thought he sounded smarmy, like yeah, I know I’m hot stuff and would you just listen to this voice of mine? I’m crooning, baby. Doesn’t it make you swoon?