Continued from TFLN

[miracling]

Aziraphale always feels that it's the rare bad day which can't be improved by good food, good wine and good company, and to his mind that makes his dining establishments of choice as much a blessing to Earth as any more direct angelic influence. Who wouldn't be cheered up by a sumptuous meal and impeccable service? Even demons in a foul mood, which Crowley certainly seems to be, though Aziraphale is used to his snapping and not a bit troubled by it. He has their table ready, just as promised (he really does think of it as their table, after all this time, and on the occasions when Aziraphale dines here alone he has himself seated elsewhere, because the same table without Crowley slouched on his left just doesn't feel right) with a sympathetically large pour of single malt scotch at each of their places to get them started, and a beautiful Cheval Blanc on order.

All very lovely; he smooths his lapels, turns a blossom in a vase on the table just so, and hopes that Crowley remembers to miracle away the smell of seal before he arrives.