Lorne and Catherine stepped out of the launch at the float and walked up the ramp arm-in-arm. "Molly's Reach is slow this evening. Probably only locals, no tourists." She nodded toward the large false façade. "Looks like a new sign, though. Much bigger than I remember from the reruns."

"Yeah, my thought was they're trying to keep some business. All that built-in marketing from the TV series. My mother was hypnotised by it. She boasted she'd seen every episode, all eighteen years of them." He chuckled. "Then all the reruns."

"Dad said he used to watch the Beachcombers so he could poke fun at the errors in the boating scenes and to laugh at the hokey plots." Catherine shrugged. "But I guess that was CBC in the 1970s and 80s."

"Yes, but as hokey as the shows were, a booth or the counter at Molly's Reach was always central to the plot. A whole generation of TV watchers in Canada, the States and a dozen other countries know the restaurant. Those viewers are now the moneyed tourist."

Lorne pointed up the slope. "The new place is directly behind it, Molly's Beach. Clever play on words, picking up on the built-in marketing. I can't believe the name was allowed. I guess they brought in high-power lawyers to badger the small guy."

As they stepped through the doorway, she said, "Wow! It appears much busier, what time is it?"

He popped his iPhone from his pocket and thumbed it. "Twenty thirty-two. Yeah, it's really hopping. Hope we can get a table."

They were told it would be about a quarter-hour, so they spent their time skimming the reviews, which were neatly arranged in frames on the wall of the waiting area.

He squeezed her hand "Were you ever in Molly's Reach?"

"We came over here once — I was still a kid. Mum wanted to see the old TV set after it had been turned into the story's diner. The only thing I remember about it was the strawberry milkshake."

"That building was the storage shed for the show. They dressed it up with a false façade as the diner for exterior shots. This new reception area, lounge and bar are decorated to look like the TV studio set, a gussied-up version of the diner from the series."

He pointed to a driftwood-framed doorway beyond the reception desk. "The restaurant runs across the waterfront through there."

"A lot of reviews here. Seems as though everyone has reviewed it. Is yours here?"

"No, I've dined here only twice so far, but I have yet to find anything kind to say."

"Yeah, that's in the banner on the Unknown Diner blog — your blog." She squeezed his arm and lifted her face for a kiss. "You never write a bad review."

"I'd rather forgo the writing fees than say something damaging to a business." He bent to kiss her again. "The kindest thing I can do to some restaurants and wine producers is say nothing."

"Your silence speaks loudly, though. Most astute readers clearly interpret your lack of comment. You have a huge following."

"I let them make their own assumptions on my silence." He squeezed her waist, then nodded his head toward the restaurant entrance. "A large group coming out now. Looks like from a tour-bus. Our table should be soon."

"You can see this as part of a great bus tour. Start in Vancouver, thread slowly through Stanley Park, across Lions Gate Bridge, along Marine Drive to Horseshoe Bay, then the ferry through the islands to Gibsons and Molly's for dinner, then the ferry back. The Beachcomber Tour. Do a lunch one too."

"There's another busload," he nodded again. "Guess they're heading to the ferry. Let's ask if we can get a window."

A few minutes later they were led to a table overlooking the marina lit by the fading glow of sunset and a waxing gibbous moon. The room was decorated in driftwood, seashells, whalebones, seashell and driftwood sculptures and framed seashell pictures. Naïve wood carvings were caught in tatters of fishnet that framed the windows and hung from the ceilings.

Lorne smiled at the hostess and said, "I'll adjust the table to take better advantage of the space." He turned the pedestal two-top diagonally, and they took side-by-side chairs across the corner, looking out into the night. "That's better."

The hostess watched with a quizzical expression, shrugged her shoulders and pointed to the cocktail list. "Whatever... We have a special on cocktails and other mixed drinks this evening."

He handed the cocktail list back to her. "We'd prefer the wine list, please." She headed back to the front.

Lorne put his hand on Catherine's thigh. "This is better than sitting across from each other." He turned and ran his gaze around the room. "How would you describe this decor?"

"The long version or the short one?"

"Give me the long one, I love your eloquence." He leaned to kiss her cheek.

"Horrible kitsch."

"And the short version?"

"Either word, no preference, your choice." She squeezed his hand, which was lightly kneading her thigh. "What's yours?"

"Naïve tourist bait. Guess it would enthuse those not from the coast, and the die-hard Beachcombers and Gerussi fans who..." He interrupted himself when he saw the reflection of the waiter growing in the window. "Here's service."

"What can I get you to drink?"

"We had asked for the wine list. We still need one."

"We have a special on cocktails and highballs this —"

"And we'd still prefer the wine list." The waiter placed two cocktail lists in front of them and headed to tend other tables.

A few minutes later, another waiter came, but without the wine list. "Have you decided on drinks, yet?"

"Yes, we've asked for the wine list. Could you please bring us one?" Lorne handed him the cocktail lists.

After the waiter had left, Lorne ran a finger around Catherine's ear. "So far, the service compares to my previous visits." He paused as he played with her earlobe. "I love that you don't wear earrings. You've such lovely ears. Be a shame to spoil them."

"I've never been much for jewellery. Never understood the piercing craze. Have you ever been pierced?"

Lorne stiffened, took a deep breath and contorted his face trying to stop the tears and fighting his gag reflex. He grabbed his napkin and put his face down into it, his shoulders shuddering with his sobs.

Catherine moved her hand to the back of his bowed head and gently stroked, her other hand squeezing his thigh. "Let it out, Lorne. Don't try to hold it. I love you, Lorne. Let it out." 

His sobs became more subdued and gradually subsided, but he continued to hold the napkin to his mouth. He mumbled through the napkin, then lifted his face to continue, "...all came back through my mind the other day when I heard he had died. Guess it's still coming through... Sorry... I... It had been quiet for years. So sorry to dump this on you."

"You're not the one to be sorry. Not in the least. Do you want to go back to the boat? We can fix a nice dinner there. Maybe grab some sushi, a pizza, some Chinese, some whatever in town to take back to —"

"I'm fine — these things are mercifully short. Give me another few moments. Have you looked at the menu?"

"You have no idea how silly that sounds, you silly man. I love you to bits. Have I looked at the menu? No, have you looked at the menu?"

"No... I guess not." He wiped his face again, then turned his crooked smile toward her. "Been a bit busy to look at it."

She smiled back at him, nodded and started into the menu. "My God! These prices. There can't be much local trade, all tourists. This is mostly pub food. Very expensive pub food."

"Those are the Casual Favourites pages. Flip over to the next page, Fine Dining. Tell me what you think."

"Some interesting items. Well maybe interesting with the less complimentary interpretation. Seems to be all old school. There are things I haven't seen except in historical menus: Shrimp Cocktail, Oysters Rockefeller, Halibut Belle Femme, Chicken Cordon Bleu, Veal Parmigiana, Beef Wellington for Two."

She looked up from the menu. "Great tour bus client fare. I would think the camper crowd too. Now they're retired, they can tie into some of that fancy grub like rich folk eat," she drawled out in a good imitation of a Midwest accent, then chuckled. "Plain to see what they're doing, isn't it? Look at the prices!"

"Don't order the halibut — I had it the last time. It looked and tasted like pangasius, basa, tra, swai, whatever you want to call frozen farmed catfish from Vietnam. The Cordon Bleu I had the first time seemed to be frozen and deep-fryer ready."

"How could they eff-up a Beef Wellington, a tenderloin?"

"You want to find out?"

"I'd love a big piece of meat. Been craving one..." She squeezed his hand and let her mind wander, smiling, feeling a tingle in her... Everywhere, I tingle all over at the thought of his big meat. Must remember not to mention piercing. Wonder what that's about. I'd love a big piece of meat...

"You're off somewhere. I love the sublime expression on your face, but you're going to crush my hand."

"Sorry... I... I guess I was off exploring." She loosened her grip, picked up his hand and brought it to her lips. "The Beef Wellington will do — for now."

"We still need the wine list." He turned to see if he could find a server, and he spotted a clutch of them standing in a corner, talking. His waving finally caught an eye, and they all dispersed to head to their stations.

He asked again for the wine list. It arrived half a minute later, and he ordered two entrées followed by the Wellington rare. "Put in the order and come right back. I'll find a wine quickly."

He opened the wine list. "Still the cleverly crafted selection. Wines from poor producers in the famous appellations or poor showings from well-known producers. What's your preference?"

"I'd prefer a great wine from a great producer in a great area." She smiled at him and giggled. "Well, you asked."

"That page seems to be missing. How about an inexpensive Argentinian? Their economy is still bottom-feeding, offering great values. Here's Finca Los Primos Malbec, a nice wine, and even with the two hundred percent markup here, it's not far out of line."

He ordered the wine, and they resumed their light banter. They have never been short of words, always an easy flow, usually filled with clever turns of phrase, plays on words and fun. After five minutes, Lorne turned again to see where the wine was. They waited.

The two entrées arrived before it did, escargots bourguignon and paté maison. "Which do you want to start with?"

"The wine." She smiled. "Why do you continue doing this, Lorne? You know you won't review this place. Why punish yourself?"

"Fairness. Give every place the same three unbiased chances. Nobody knows me as a restaurant reviewer. They know me as a wine writer, a competition judge, a wine educator. I always dine anonymously and pay my own way —"

"But you get lots of freebies and —"

"Yes, but because of the wine and my reputation there. I never write reviews based on my freebies. Not even my editors know my identity — you're the only one I could trust."

She shook her head. "And I didn't know until —"

He leaned over and kissed her. "I'll divide these. Notice, no breadbasket yet?" He began dividing the two appetiser plates. "The paté's commercial, probably from Oyama or Freybe. The escargots are canned. Tough to go wrong with them, add olive oil, garlic, parsley and... Finally, the wine's here," he said as he caught the movement of the waiter's reflection in the window.

"We're out of the Finca Los Primos but this is similar."

"I'm not familiar with the producer. What's the price?"

"It's also forty-two, Sir."

"I assume you're still out of all the other inexpensive wines on the list."

"Yes Sir, but we've recommended replacements for all of them."

"Okay, let's get on with this. We also need bread."

The waiter unscrewed the cap, poured a perfunctory taste and left, Lorne calling bread at his back as he went. The waiter nodded over his shoulder and was quickly back with a basket. Catherine took a piece and sighed. "Feels freshly sliced this morning."

While Lorne finished dividing the two plates, Catherine poured the wine. They raised their glasses in a toast, had a sip and turned to their entrées. They had barely begun them when the main course arrived, wheeled in on an ornate trolley by a young man in a tall white toque. Seeing it was useless to buck the current, they resigned themselves to the inept timing as the carver bungled away with the tableside service. Lorne tapped Catherine's arm and nodded at the Wellington being carved, raised his eyebrows and whispered, "Rare?"

He caught the carver's eye. "This is much closer to grey than pink, and a long way from red."

"The kitchen's all out of rare, Sir. We just had two busloads. This was the last medium."

"So this has been freshly microwaved?"

"Yessir, did it myself." He smiled proudly as he continued to fumble with the carving and plating.

They watched as the hacked mess was heaped onto plates and fingered around. The comedy continued as contents of pseudo-silver vessels were dumped with flourishes to further sully the plates, before they were ceremoniously presented by two waiters who had been standing by. The toque and the waiters bowed and marched the trolley away to the applause of several diners in the room.

"I cannot believe your patience, Lorne."

"I'm simply analysing what enthuses the gullible unwashed. The non-thinking people who automatically vote Conservative here, and Republican down south. They're such an easy market for the greedy, the corrupt, the sleazy. This place preys on them."

"This is definitely what you were talking about last evening at La Luce. Those reviews out there in the foyer, all glowing — probably all bought."

"Or self-written. Let's get the bill, pay it and leave. Would you prefer Chinese, some sushi or a pizza?"