Immigration Interrogation

Rotterdam airport is quaint. Immigration lies at the foot of the gates and I wave JP ahead, well aware that my passport will bear greater than EU scrutiny.
Where are you going?
London.
Where do you live?
London.
Why were you in Rotterdam?
For lunch.
Now I not only have the young, dashingly uniformed immigration officer holding my passport's attention, I have the one next door's as well and I am cross examined with far greater interest that is usually warranted on such an occasion.
For lunch?
Yes.
For business?
Well, sort of.
Just for lunch?
Yes.
They are far too refined for a nudge nudge wink wink....
In a restaurant? (This from officer not holding my passport).
Yesss.
Where?
Uhmmmm... how do you say it?! Ricewig?
Ah, in Rijswijk
That's the place.
What is it called?
Creme Crue.
With the big boss? (my chappie with understanding nod)
Sure (why the hell not?).
Miraculously, my smirk is really tiny.
Big celebration?
Clearly.
You travel a lot. (He who holds passport and flicks through the pages with far greater focus).
Yes.
Was it a good lunch?
It was excellent.
Now you go home?
Yes.
The boys have now run out of questions, and reluctantly, he stamps it and they both graciously bid me a good journey.