Nina and the Enchanted Fork: The Pleasure of Dining Out
Once upon a time, in a town just on the edge of everywhere and nowhere, lived a woman named Nina. She had no wings nor wand, but those who knew her swore she cast spells with nothing more than a smile and an appetite. For Nina was no ordinary wanderer—she was a seeker of flavors, a storyteller of plates, and a dreamer in love with the soft clink of cutlery and candlelight.
Her tale begins not in a forest or castle, but in a tiny restaurant tucked behind a crooked bookshop in Remtalina. Its windows glowed amber each evening, as if inviting stardust to settle. It was here that Nina first fell in love—with a plate of tagliatelle tangled like golden ribbons and crowned with mushrooms as earthy and wise as old oak trees. The moment she took a bite, something shimmered in her chest. The pasta sang of forest walks after rain, and the mushrooms whispered secrets only soil knows. She smiled, not just with her mouth, but with her whole being. And from that day, her quest began.
Nina did not simply eat—she adventured. Each restaurant she visited was a realm of its own. There was The Velvet Spoon, where waiters moved like dancers and every dish arrived under silver domes that released clouds of thyme-scented dreams. There was The Glass Hare, perched by a lake, where menus changed with the moon and tables overlooked water lilies that blinked open like eyes at twilight. In each of these places, Nina found magic—not the kind in fairy tales, but the quiet kind you taste, and remember, and carry home.
Wherever she went, she asked the same question: “Do you serve tagliatelle with mushrooms?” Some smiled knowingly, some frowned in confusion. Some served it rustic, others dressed it in truffle oil and crisped sage. And Nina would close her eyes, take a bite, and listen. Each version told a different story—of the chef’s childhood, of the region’s soul, of what mushrooms meant in a land where seasons still mattered.
Yet it wasn’t only the food that drew her. It was the togetherness—the gentle murmur of voices around her, the laughter that bubbled like good broth, the comforting feeling that, for a few hours, nobody was alone. Nina adored the way restaurants made space for celebration and solace alike. First dates and last goodbyes. Birthday candles and rainy-day retreats. She watched them all unfold like little theater scenes, and in some way, felt part of each.
One rainy evening, Nina found herself in a coastal inn called The Gull’s Lantern. The walls were weathered, the floor creaked like an old ship, but the air smelled of rosemary and salt. She asked her usual question.
The chef—a gray-haired woman with eyes like sea glass—nodded. “We do,” she said. “It’s not fancy. But it’s honest.”
When the plate arrived, steam curled like a genie above it. The tagliatelle was handmade, tender as a lullaby. The mushrooms were foraged that very morning, their flavors deep and wild. Nina took a bite, and her heart stilled in that beautiful way it always did when something was just right.
She wrote later, in her little leather-bound notebook:
“Some people chase treasure. I chase tables. I seek out moments where joy is plated, and time is seasoned with garlic and grace.”
And so Nina’s journey continues—restaurant by restaurant, forkful by forkful. She is out there, somewhere, perhaps right now, lifting her glass to the light and whispering thanks to the chef, to the mushrooms, to the moment.
And if you see her, do say hello. She’ll probably ask what you’re eating—and she’ll mean it with all her heart.
+ + + Pleasure of the day, with Nina in Remtalina-Restaurant + + +
