“What I had in mind was a matured Red Leicester with a precocious little Shiraz. Not . . .” Crowley indicated their surroundings with a sweeping hand gesture that fittingly summed up his contempt for the cheap, bourgeois restaurant.
Dean ignored him, only lifting his head when the sassy blonde waitress arrived at their table. “Welcome to The Cheesecake Factory!” she said. “What can I get you boys?”
“The cherry deluxe, please, sweetheart,” Dean replied, handing her the menu. “Extra large.”
“And two spoons?” she asked, glancing at Crowley.
Dean frowned. “What for?”
Crowley sighed. “I’ll just have coffee. Black.”