"This place is really nice," John says, draping his napkin over his lap. The waiter brought him a black one, so he wouldn't get white lint on his pants. He appreciates that sort of attention to detail.

"It's okay, I guess." Rodney stays with the white linen; his jeans won't show anything anyway.

They talk about their respective days over wine and their salads, then discuss Jack and Daniel's latest dramatic breakup and inevitable reconciliation over their entrees. The conversation dwindles as the plates are cleared and they order dessert.

Rodney's eyes widen as a perfect wedge of Linzer torte is placed in front of him, then glances covetously at John's pumpkin spice cheesecake. He picks up his fork and takes a deep breath, then carefully spears the point of the torte slice and places it in his mouth. John watches as his eyes close in an all-too-familiar expression of bliss. He takes a sip of his water to cool off, then turns to a stand of potted palms off to the side.

"You can come out now, Radek," John calls. "He approves. Your restaurant is officially a success."