The Palate Purist

Chloe sat across from Mark, admiring his expensive watch and the way he critically sniffed his wine. "Ah, a subtle hint of *terroir*," he declared, swirling the Cabernet like a seasoned sommelier. Chloe, a self-proclaimed connoisseur of budget box wine, just nodded, impressed despite herself. Mark then launched into an anecdote about his recent trip to Tuscany, detailing the precise pH levels of the local olive oil.

The waiter arrived with their bread basket. Mark, mid-sentence about Italian soil composition, paused. He eyed the breadsticks, then the focaccia. "Excuse me," he said, turning to the waiter with an air of profound importance. "Could I perhaps have... some *plain* bread? This, you see, is all a bit... *pre-seasoned*."

Chloe blinked. Plain bread? In an authentic Italian restaurant? The waiter, a stoic man who'd clearly seen it all, simply nodded and disappeared. Mark smiled at Chloe, triumphant. "One must always respect the palate, Chloe. Simplicity is key."

Minutes later, the waiter returned, placing a single, unadorned slice of white bread on a side plate in front of Mark. It looked suspiciously like a piece of supermarket sandwich bread, lightly toasted. Mark, however, accepted it with the gravitas of receiving a Michelin star. He then proceeded to meticulously butter it, bite into it, and sigh contentedly.

Chloe took a hearty bite of her herb-crusted focaccia, trying desperately not to laugh. The rest of the date involved Mark critiquing the pasta for being "too saucy" and the tiramisu for having "excessive coffee notes." Chloe, meanwhile, wondered if Mark would prefer his own mother's cooking, or perhaps just a very bland, beige meal from a hospital cafeteria. This wasn't a date; it was an archaeological dig into the origins of culinary neutrality.