Punchy decides it's safest to go with the most stereotypically romantic restaurant he can imagine. Unfortunately, he can't read French, so he's going to have significant trouble with that menu. Not that it's even legible beyond the curly-que cursive.

Roses on the table. Candlelight. Fine wine. Some guy playing some classical bullshit on a violin across the room.

He holds his arm out for her. "This what you got in mind?"