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Perhaps one day we could...I don't know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.
I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.
You go too fast for me, Crowley.
Aziraphale stood outside the Bentley, holding the door open, deep in thought. He bent and peeked in the car.
“What’s the date?”
“It’s March 15, 1967. Are you getting back in?”
“The Ides of March. Wait…did you have anything to do with—”
“No, the humans killed Caesar all on their own,” Crowley interrupted. “Now will you get in?”
“I must go,” Aziraphale said as he closed the door and left.
Crowley sat for a while, thinking. He smiled as he drove off.
The next day, a man walked into the Ritz and handed a thick envelope to a young waiter. He looked at the man’s nametag, and said, “John, please give this to the manager. It’s very important,” then left. Several hours later, another man also handed a thick envelope to John, with the same request.
Almost one year later, March 15, 1968, at 7 o’clock, the best table in the Ritz was marked with a “Reserved” sign. The exquisite place settings included Royal Doulton bone china, Waterford crystal glasses, and solid silver cutlery polished to perfection. The finest bottle of champagne was in an ice bucket, and a simple glass vase with one dozen red roses was on the table. John was asked to be at the front door to greet the special guests.
Nobody showed up; the table was not occupied that evening.
At closing time, per the written instructions, the champagne was opened and shared with the staff, the roses were taken to a nearby hospital, and a booking with the same requirements was made for the following year.
On March 15, 1969, the elegant table remained empty once again. As before, the champagne was enjoyed by the staff, the hospital appreciated the roses, and another reservation was made.
The pattern repeated, year after year.
John had garnered some fame at the Ritz for being the only person to have met the two enigmatic men who had planned so meticulously. Eventually, he became the general manager, yet still continued to ensure that the two sets of directions were followed each year. Even after his retirement, he spent the evening at the front door of the Ritz on that date, hoping to meet the mysterious guests once more.
Almost sixty years after their first encounter, at 7 o’clock on March 15, he was surprised and delighted to see the two gentlemen.
“John, how lovely to see you again,” Aziraphale said. “I trust you are well?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr Aziraphale. And hello, Mr Crowley. It’s a pleasure to see you both. Your table is ready.” He led them to the reserved table, removed the sign, and poured their champagne.
Once seated, Crowley rushed to speak. “Angel, I have a surprise for you. I’ve had this table booked for us every year on this day since 1967. When you gave me the holy water you also suggested a real date, one that required planning. I knew we’d be together one day to have that date, so I arranged this.”
Aziraphale laughed, and said, “Crowley, you fiend, I’ve had this table booked every year as well, for the same reason. I know we dine here without an occasion to celebrate. But, as I left the car that night, I realized that I’d just asked you out on a date…only without specifying an actual date. I had the idea to reserve this for our anniversary as I was leaving the car that night, and I wanted to plan for our future.”
“This is why you were so anxious to return to London today!”
“And this is why you wanted me to wear my best bow tie!”
They toasted with champagne: “To Us.”
And that evening, at long last, an angel and a demon had their first proper date, dining at the Ritz.