House stepped into his apartment slowly. Despite a correct diagnosis, his patient had died; Foreman had ratted out his latest unorthodox procedure to Cuddy and Wilson was still at a oncologist's convention in Bayonne.
A crappy day.
He sniffed; the smell of Coquille St. Jacques with its rich buttery tang and sweet scallop scent drifted through the doorway from the direction of the kitchen. House hurried in and looked at the meal, laid out on china with linen and a fine dry white wine.
He looked at Steve McQueen squatting next to Anyone Can Cook!
House smiled. "Merci, mon raton."