Entrecôte, s'il vous plait. Bleu—-vraiment bleu, oui? Merci.

*It's been three years or more since she's used her French but it comes from her smoothly and flawlessly, thank heaven for small favors. She's ordered a thick cut with a bone in it, almost raw, and doesn't care a Sickle for what he'll think: even considering what's about to arrive on her plate she might just cry with anticipation. But she manages to be fairly opaque about it, considering. The wine arrives and is poured and she raises her glass to him.*

Cheers.