“Yes, that might be too fancy.” A two-year anniversary is kind of a big deal, but they'd both be uncomfortable. Someday they'll try it and get kicked out, probably.
She pats him on the shoulder and steps forward to hail a cab; they always stop for her, she's impossible to miss and it's a benefit of casual sexism she isn't above taking advantage of. She squeezes in the back like a sardine. Ordinarily they'd just walk, she hates cabs, she gets claustrophobic, but she can see why they'd not want to tonight. Also, it's freezing. She'll take it.
When they get out she guns it for the door with a little quickstep. Taptaptap. At least it's not as cold as the winter two years ago; she remembers that blizzard unfondly. When they're seated she manages to smile at the waiter (not a hardship, he'll be bringing her liquor) until he leaves, then she leans over and stage-whispers, “I don't know how to pronounce any of this.”