Mr. Hamish Porcini, a dignified pig in a tailored tuxedo, sits across from Mrs. Lila Porcini, his elegantly dressed sow companion, her pearls gleaming subtly.
The gentle clink of cutlery and quiet murmur of other diners create a serene background, punctuated only by their soft laughter.
"You know, Lila, I still can’t believe you agreed to a second date after the truffle incident,"
"Well, Hamish, any pig who can laugh at himself is worth a little risk,"
Their eyes meet affectionately, the world seemingly narrowed to their intimate table for two.
Viktor Wolfson, his fur slicked back, projects his voice for all to hear, his jokes laced with unsubtle carnivorous innuendo.
"So I tell the pig, ‘You’re bacon me crazy!’ Get it? Bacon? Oh, lighten up—don’t be such a ham!"
Mr. Hamish Porcini and Mrs. Lila Porcini exchange stiff smiles, their laughter now forced and brittle.
Across the room, Henri, the poised head waiter, observes with narrowed eyes, signaling to his staff with a raised brow and pursed lips.
"What’s a pig’s favorite fairy tale? The Wolf of Wall Street! Hah! You two should watch your wallets... and your necks,"
Mrs. Lila Porcini grips her napkin, knuckles pale, while Mr. Hamish Porcini forces a wavering chuckle, sweat beading just beneath his ears.
"Perhaps we should try the house wine, darling. Might help the... ambiance,"
Henri catches the eye of a junior waiter, both sharing a silent, exasperated headshake.
Henri[/@ch_4] approaches the wolf with a chilly, practiced smile.]
"Monsieur Wolfson, might I tempt you with a private tour of our exclusive wine cellar? Perhaps you’ll find something more... to your refined taste,"
"Now we’re talking! Lead the way, monsieur fancy pants,"
Henri gestures grandly, but his glare could curdle cream as he ushers Viktor Wolfson briskly through the swinging doors, the laughter abruptly extinguished behind them.
A hush falls. Mr. Hamish Porcini and Mrs. Lila Porcini sit upright, eyes wide, as Henri returns—his hands pristine, his composure restored.
With theatrical flourish, a server lifts the lid. The aroma of expertly roasted meat fills the air; atop a bed of vegetables sits a perfectly cooked rack of... wolf ribs, garnished with rosemary.
"Oh, Hamish, they got the special after all,"
"And such a generous cut. Shall we toast to good taste?"
"Marvelous texture. I do hope it’s locally sourced,"
"Nothing but the best for their, shall we say, most... problematic ingredients,"
Henri glides by, offering a discreet, triumphant nod. The Porcinis raise their glasses, savoring the restored tranquility—and their meal.
