"It's true, I'm a rare breed of woman," Which is, you know, true enough all things considered; most women aren't secretly vigilantes.

It takes her a quick second to scan the bar, both for threats/exits and for somewhere to sit, before she spots a free booth that will let them have their meal in reasonably privacy for a public place (it's natural, to search out that sort of space). She walks over to it, sliding into a seat.

"But for the record, you're terrible at giving compliments."