Raha Mehrkish
Google
My husband surprised me by bringing me here for our two-year anniversary. As we stepped inside, we were led through a shadowy corridor to the back of the restaurant—a secluded alcove whispered to be reserved for lovers. A bottle of crimson wine, which my husband had so thoughtfully requested when making the reservation, awaited us like a silent sentinel on our table. The moment the wine kissed my lips, rich and velvety like a dark secret, I knew this night would etch itself into the marrow of my memory.
Surrounding us was an enchanting gothic ambiance: flickering candlelight cast trembling shadows upon the stone walls, and the air was heavy with the heady perfume of roses and aged wood. The entire room breathed intimacy, like a cathedral of indulgence. Upon first glance at the menu—gilded and inked in an elegant, archaic script—my mouth watered with almost sinful anticipation. Everything looked positively decadent, but alas, I knew I must show restraint, lest I be consumed by my own ravenous desire.
Our waiter appeared—Gehrig, a vision of aesthetic perfection, with cascading brunette curls and eyes that seemed to hold ancient, knowing mischief. He recommended that we begin with three to four plates. We chose the baked brie, lobster ravioli, Eva’s steak, and Eva’s pizza. Each dish arrived like an offering to some delicious pagan ritual, and my husband and I devoured them as though spellbound. With each bite, we released low, primal murmurs of pleasure—“mmmmmmm”—echoing like chants in a haunted chapel.
For dessert, we indulged in the crème brûlée, its sugar crust cracking like old parchment beneath our spoons, revealing the creamy, golden heart beneath. Beside it sat a decadent marvel: a dark chocolate cup filled with warm, molten ganache, crowned with scorched marshmallows that looked like ghostly little clouds singed by candlelight. As I took a bite, the toasted sweetness gave way to a rich, velvety darkness that coated my tongue like a forbidden spell—smoky, sweet, and utterly divine. It was less a dessert and more an incantation, casting a spell that sealed the evening in delicious eternity.
Throughout our two-hour reverie, sweet Gehrig floated in and out of our little sanctum, always arriving precisely when needed, as though summoned by some invisible incantation. His enthusiastic spirit and hauntingly bright smile elevated the evening to something almost supernatural. Eva wouldn’t be Eva without Gehrig—our charming guide through this gothic culinary dreamscape.
My husband and I agreed that all future anniversaries must be consecrated at Eva. After the dark and stormy year we had endured, it was this night—bathed in candlelight and cloaked in enchantment—that rekindled the sacred fire between us. Thank you, Eva, for the most unforgettable night we could have ever imagined. Here’s to many more nights of shadowed magic, shared laughter, and delicious resurrection.