To propose to a woman—to ask for her hand and heart in life's longest journey—is a form of madness. To get down on one knee in the middle of a busy restaurant is to test both courage and cartilage.
To do all this on Valentine's Day night is the greatest theater of love. And I saw it happen at 45 Degrees Kitchen. The woman, hand covering mouth, tears flowing, as a chorus of female wait staff urged her on: "Say yes!" "Say yes!"
These are some of the things that make me certain that I wouldn’t want to come back as a woman in my next life. What pressure is that, surely? Imagine if I didn’t even like this man enough to give him my hand? Imagine if all I wanted was free food on Valentine’s Day? And maybe a few glasses of Merlot with a man who finds me “intriguing.” And then here I am, in the middle of the restaurant with my fellow women selling me down the river. I’d run out of the restaurant, my dessert in hand. And I’d walk back home, heels dangling from my fingers.
One thing is certain: 45 Degrees seems like the perfect place to feed a woman before you propose. It's not pretentious (neither is true love), the décor quite unassuming.
All the imagination was saved for the food. Undeniably, hand on my heart, this is the only place where I've been completely blown away by the cuisine.
The food is insane! Magical. If this wasn't a paper of repute, I would almost describe it as a pornographic culinary experience. And this means something, coming from someone who doesn't care much for food.
The chef and owner, who I assumed was Harold Sena-Akoto, came out and placed a fatherly hand on the man who had proposed, speaking to them gravely, perhaps saying, "Whatever you do in your marriage, don't do it hungry."
