A/N: Hart Hanson owns Bones, but he doesn't give you all the great B&B moments you crave. That's why you read fanfic :-)


"Ma'am?"

Brennan set her menu on the table. "Yes," she said, ignoring her companion's smirk. "I'll start with the insalata caprese, and for my entree I'll have the wild-caught cedar-plank salmon."

The waiter nodded and turned to Booth. "Sir?"

Booth drummed his fingers on the tablecloth as he made his selection. "I'll start with a caesar salad," he said, unable to contain his grin, "and I'll have the buffalo New York Strip," he said. "Medium rare."

"And for your side dishes?" the waiter asked with an arched eyebrow.

"Lobster mac and cheese," Booth said. Brennan narrowed her eyes and shot him a strange look. "What?" he asked in feigned shock. "Don't give me that look—you'll love it, Bones. It won't be as good as yours, but it'll be awesome. Just you wait."

Brennan rolled her eyes. "We'll also have the asparagus," she said. "Hold the hollandaise sauce."

"Come on, Bones," Booth groaned. "That's the best part."

"Ugh," she grunted and turned to the waiter. "Hold the hollandaise sauce, please," she said, ignoring Booth's petulant sigh.

"Alright," the waiter said with a vague smile as he took their menus and tucked them under his arm. "I'll be right back with your salads."

Booth watched the waiter walk away and smoothed his tie. "This is great, Bones," he said. "I'm glad we found the time to enjoy a nice restaurant for a change."

"Well," she said. "The FBI expense account is extraordinarily stingy, but since it's our last night in Chicago, I thought it made sense to do something besides a chain restaurant, a street-food truck or a diner."

"The street food here is pretty good," Booth observed. "Great hot dogs."

"True," Brennan agreed, "even though you ordered your hot dog wrong."

"What?"

"You put ketchup, spicy mustard and sauerkraut on your hot dog," she observed. "That's a sure sign that you're an out-of-towner." She lifted her glass and took a sip of her Sauvignon Blanc. "A Chicago-style hot dog comes with chopped onions, sweet pickle relish, yellow mustard, tomatoes, pickled peppers and a dash of celery salt."

"Tomatoes on a hot dog?" Booth furrowed his brow and shook his head. "That's just wrong."

"Actually, the Chicago hot dog has an interesting history, Booth," Brennan said. "The story is that a shop called Fluky's developed a 'Depression Sandwich' that included an all-beef weiner—because the proprietors were Jewish, so they wouldn't serve pork—and a large serving of complementary fresh and pickled vegetables, because they were cheaper and more filling than meat, so you could get twice as full on a nickel's worth of sandwich."

"That is interesting," Booth admitted, taking a sip of his Cabernet—which he had only recently started drinking again after a long hiatus precipitated by the case involving the wine critic whose pickled corpse was found in a cask of Cabernet—and loosening his tie. "But still, I like ketchup on my hot dogs. You can call it crass or proletarian, Bones, but that's just the way it is."

The waiter returned with their salads.

"Ma'am," he said, gently placing her insalata caprese in front of Brennan. "Your buffalo mozzarella salad," he said with a nod, then turned to Booth to deliver his caesar salad. "Fresh ground pepper, anyone?" They both nodded, and the waiter ground up a generous dusting of pepper over each of their salads. "Enjoy your salads," he said with a smile, then walked away.

"See?" Booth said with a grin. "We've got something in common—you ordered a buffalo mozzarella salad, and I ordered a buffalo steak."

Brennan smirked. "Booth, they are from completely different animals," she said, rolling her eyes at his ignorance—which she sometimes had trouble determining was real or feigned. "This cheese, mozzarella di bufala, comes from the milk of the domesticated water buffalo, Bubalus bubalis. The steak you ordered is actually not even from a true buffalo, but rather from the American bison, bison bison. They aren't even the same genus. Bison have shaggy coats and are native to colder climates like the northern American plains and northern Europe, whereas true buffalo are native to Asia and Africa and have been domesticated in southern Europe."

Feeling thoroughly put into his place, Booth sighed. "Okay, well, I guess we don't have that much in common after all," he laughed.

"That's too bad," she said.

"Yeah," he said. "Too bad, isn't it?"

They laughed, and clinked their glasses together.


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