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“Come here, prof,” he said and stepped away from the tabletop, indicating that he wanted me to stand in his spot.
I gave him a quizzical look and took one step to my left. Simon moved behind me, then moved in close and wrapped his arms around my waist. Startled by the contact, I would have jumped away except his arms really were quite strong, and, truth, the feel of them was very nice.
“I’m going to teach you how to knead dough,” Simon said. “Put your hands on it. Don’t be afraid of it, you’ve got to teach it who’s boss.”
As I did as he instructed, Simon laid his hands on top of my own and began pressing down and pushing forward. I mimicked his movements. He kneading my hands, I kneaded the dough, and little by little I felt it give more and become elastic. I became so engrossed in the work that I almost — almost — forgot about the hard chest pressing against my back and the muscular arms wrapped around my body, not to mention the hands that were almost caressing my own.
I bit back a groan as Simon brought our movements to a halt. He held on to my hands, though, his strong palms flexing against the back of mine, and pressed my index finger into the ball of dough so slowly it was almost obscene. It made me think of other places I could press into, of flesh that would yield as readily as this mixture of flour, eggs, and oil.
“See,” Simon said, “the way it bounces back now?”
I nodded, even though I couldn’t tell much of a difference. I, on the other hand, was drastically altered, my body humming with an energy that was completely foreign to me.
“What did you think about your first cooking lesson?” Simon asked as he turned away, leaving me chilled at the loss of his warmth and bereft at the loss of his touch.
“It was good. Very…hands on.” I quickly rounded the island and sat on my bar stool, taking a large gulp of wine from my glass to calm my nerves. If Simon noticed, he didn’t react as he extracted a length of plastic wrap from a roll and encased the dough in it.
“It needs to rest,” he explained even though I hadn’t really been paying attention to what he was doing as much as I was watching his hands again. They were extraordinary with long, thin fingers like a pianist, but muscled like an artist. The veins were clearly visible, and the bones rippled as he moved them.
“So do I,” I said under my breath.
“Want to help me some more?” Simon asked, and I had to wonder if the younger man knew what he was doing to me, but then the corner of his mouth quirked upwards and answered my unspoken question. Yes. Yes, he did. Was he teasing me, flirting, or trying to distract me from my recent breakup? I couldn’t tell.
“I like watching,” I said.
“Do you? Now, that’s very interesting. Also, unfortunate.”
The wink he gave me as he turned to the box that held all his equipment was clearly flirting. At least I thought so. It had been so long since I’d had to figure that out, I was horribly out of practice. But then it didn’t matter because Simon had moved on to preparations for the remaining dishes, and his focus was on his work. I sipped and watched and thought about the way this evening had gone so far and wondered again — briefly — why I wasn’t more upset at Richard or our breakup. I had loved him. Hadn’t I? Was it possible for love to stop so completely, or had I only been feeling Richard’s comfortable reliability and mistakenly called that love?
When Simon placed the parsnip and fennel salad in front of me, I blinked, so caught up in my thoughts I was surprised by the plate’s arrival. Simon refilled my glass and watched as I took my first bite. The flavors were bright and acidic, an explosion of taste in my mouth from the sweetness of the parsnip, the anise of the fennel, the tanginess of the dressing, and the subtle richness of the asiago Simon had grated over the top. I closed my eyes and let myself savor every sensation, but when I opened them, I realized Simon wasn’t eating.
“I taste as I go,” Simon said when I questioned it. “And I’m usually in the kitchen, so no one sees me scarf down a PB&J while I cook.” He gave me that wicked grin again, the one I was quickly learned was Simon’s way of teasing.
“Well, please? Eat with me? I feel awkward eating alone in front of you.”
“Okay, but only if you cook with me. That way we can do more than one dish at a time.”
I agreed, and Simon served himself a small portion of the salad. He ate standing up, the kitchen island between us. Though I was disappointed he hadn’t sat next to me, I curbed my emotions and concentrated on the food. The next course was supposed to be the soup, but Simon gathered up the plates from the salad and replaced mine with a small bowl of sliced mushrooms.
“Brined oyster mushrooms,” he said as I raised an eyebrow at him. “I could tell you didn’t like oysters when we discussed the menu, so I made a substitution for you.”
“Thank you.” I took a small taste and my eyebrows shot up. “These are delicious.” I took another taste, marveling at the complexity of flavors.
There was garlic and lemon, black pepper, and something else that was giving it a bit of heat, but the true magic was that it built on the flavors from the salad. Simon took away my wine glass and replaced it with a new one into which he poured a different white. This one was a richer color, more like honey than straw. When he nodded at me, I raised the glass to my lips and took a sip. This wine was lusher, its feel on my tongue slightly heavier, thicker, and it made the earthy notes of the mushroom come to the fore on my next bite.
Simon moved back to the mound of pasta dough on the island.
“Aren’t you having any?”
“I will, but I need to make the ravioli first so it will be ready for our next course.”
While I continued to sip the wine and savor this dish that was at once hearty and delicate, Simon rolled the dough into a thin sheet on a large, wooden cutting board. He divided the dough with a knife, then began spooning dollops of filling in a neat row on one side. I wanted to ask him what the filling was but decided to let myself be surprised. Simon was a magician with food, and you never asked a magician to reveal their tricks.
Once the filling was laid out, Simon placed the other half of the dough on top, sealed each packet and separated them with deft cuts of his knife. When that was done, he left the pieces on the board while he picked up his own serving of the brined mushrooms. I could tell he was evaluating the taste rather than savoring it.
“It’s really wonderful,” I said, lest he think there was something wrong with it.
He nodded but continued to chew slowly and deliberately. Would he tell me if he thought it could have been better? Technically, I was still the client, but something had shifted in that dynamic while we talked and ate together, and I desperately wanted to know what he thought about his own cooking, what went into the combination of tastes he created, and how he felt about both food and the people for whom he made it. I wanted to know what he thought and felt. Food was such a highly symbolic substance for humans — the gathering and cultivation of it, the preparation, the sharing of it were all sources of some of the most profound rituals in human society. Wine, especially, figured heavily in traditions and celebrations throughout history, and the sharing of food and wine could make or break alliances between families and countries. Many cultures, both contemporary and ancient, had traditions of sharing food and wine with strangers, of the sacredness of offering hospitality to travelers, of the bonds formed from the simple act of eating the same food in the same place at the same time. It bonded humans through their vulnerability and shared experience of trust that the food being offered would not kill them.
