"You don't really get to choose from a rack," he tells her, amused and faintly apologetic. "It's more like one of those little machines where you put in a coin and hope for the best." And, upon consideration, "Sometimes it pelts you with rocks."

The waiter reappears, now with their chicken, and John sits back to let him serve it. He still gestures with a fork.

"Black steel and only a little bit of leather." He lets this sink in as an objectively cool sword, and adds, "The leather is also black."