I am a sucker for lakes: when I have wheels at my service and there is a lake nearby I want to see it, even if someone has claimed that the water temperature is 50 degrees F and I have no swimsuit with me.

Before I left the Bay Area for points north I had discovered that there was a restaurant at Lake Crescent Lodge. I sent Carol a link to the menu, told her I’d like to go for a splurge meal there and phoned for a reservation. So, after Carol and I visited a restaurant, a bookstore and a coffee joint in Port Angeles and I tried to make an appointment through Zillow to see a Victorian cottage in Port Townsend the next day, we drove out to Lake Crescent for dinner.

We arrived to find a beautiful, blue lake ringed by mountains. Children in bathing suits swam and played in the water. Adults cruised about in small boats. Carol and I saw a sign for boat rentals.

“Do you like kayaking?” I asked her.

“Spike does,” she answered.

Spike, Carol’s husband, was back in St Helens, Oregon, so we walked to the dinner reservation desk and I gave my name.

We were half an hour early and could have had a drink on the screened porch, but every table was taken. We walked to the dock instead. Unable to resist, I told Carol, “I’m just going to go put my hand in the water.”

I bent down at the shoreline. The water was completely clear, revealing pebbles underneath, and about 70 degrees. If we had not had a pending dinner reservation I might have gone wading, but I restrained myself — I didn’t want to fall in and be unpresentable.

After dawdling and taking photos of each other, Carol and I re-entered the lodge, admiring the dark wood, fieldstone fireplace, multi-paned windows, leather chairs. Someone showed us to a corner table overlooking the lake.

We studied the menu, even though both of us had seen it before. We both wanted a chilled corn and crab soup (when in the Olympics eat Dungeness crab). I eyed an autumnal salad featuring greens, berries, feta and hazelnuts and a dismaying lavender dressing.

When our server returned to the table I outright lied: “I’d like the seasonal salad, but I’m allergic to lavender. Could I have it with another dressing?”

He offered me Caesar dressing, ranch or balsamic vinaigrette. Then I scored points by asking whether he recommended cider, Prosecco or Riesling with my meal. I ordered Riesling, a wine I first had with shellfish when my late father ordered it at Spenger’s Fish Grotto in Berkeley. My father died decades ago in a hiking accident in the Olympics and it made me happy to sip Riesling on his birthday.

Carol ordered salmon. The server brought her corn soup and my salad. I watched her swoon over the soup and wondered why I had not received mine. It arrived as my second course. It tasted vaguely Indian, reminding me of coconut, cilantro and chiles, with sweet bits of crab. We agreed it would be worth returning for this soup alone.

While we ate, our server seated a party of four at the adjacent table. They arrived with double martinis and cosmos in hand and promptly ordered a bottle of wine. They appeared amused by a wedding that was taking place on the dock and suggested that the bride conclude the ceremony by jumping into the water. Then they ordered another round. “They’ll be good tippers,” Carol said.

Carol urged me to get dessert. Nothing stood out, so I asked what kind of ice cream was on offer. Vanilla or huckleberry. No contest: how often am I going to taste huckleberry anything? I urged Carol to taste it. She ate a few modest spoonfuls and half of a chocolate-lined pirouette cookie while I watched the sun sink over the lake.

As we walked back through the lobby, I said, “I’ll take this one,” meaning that of all the buildings I had seen this was the most to my taste. I began dreaming about holding a late summer writing retreat there, housing my students in the rows of expensive little cabins, starting a scholarship fund. Carol wondered aloud if Spike would like to come stay at the lake another year. I bought postcards of the lodge and lake, Carol bought Spike a t-shirt, and we left, driving in a few circles before regaining the highway to Port Angeles.