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Simon nodded. “Not to mention those oysters were quite pricey. I didn’t want them to go to waste, so I got creative. And, you know, I thought the metaphor of the pearl was kind of appropriate.”
“Very true.” I held the pearl between my thumb and forefinger. It was an apt metaphor, indeed.
Taking another bite of his own dish, Simon hummed again. “To answer your previous question, these tastes always remind me of my mother’s father’s kitchen. He’s French. Which means lots of wine and brandy, cream, rich flavors. They make me feel warm, cared for, safe.”
I appreciated that Simon hadn’t dodged the question by distracting me with the pearl or the revelation about the oysters. I felt the metaphor expand to include how something I’d reviled had been transformed, and how the object of my revulsion was also the means by which this tiny miracle had been created. All things coming full circle and revealing deeper truths than had been apparent at first glance.
“Well, now my experience of this moment has to include the surprise of discovering how something I thought I would hate can become wonderful.” I finished off the ravioli and used the fork tines to catch a last bit of the sauce. I closed my eyes. “Similar to you, these tastes make me think of my childhood. My grandmother grew up in New England, the daughter of a fisherman, and she loved to make all kinds of seafood: lobster, clams, scallops, mussels – you name it, if it came from the ocean, she could cook it.”
A thought occurred to me, and I took a sip of wine while it coalesced.
“It’s interesting that, even though I had no idea what was in the filling and honestly wouldn’t have guessed that as the main ingredient, my thoughts still went to those summer beach bakes.”
“Food is a powerful trigger for memories,” Simon said. “As an English professor, you know that.”
I nodded. “Proust and his blasted madeleines. You know, I’ve eaten hundreds of those things and never had an experience like that.”
“You just haven’t found the right food, then,” Simon said as he picked up my now empty plate and his own and moved them to the sink.
The next course was a root vegetable soup made from roasted parsnips, carrots, sweet potatoes, and a host of others. I’d seen Simon assemble the pan before it went into the oven, but everything had already been cut into uniform cubes. I couldn’t say for sure what was in the soup, but it was creamy and nutty and delicious. The brandy made another appearance and lent a rich, warm base note to the simple dish. Simon served it with crisp almond crackers sprinkled with smoked salt.
I noticed how the kitchen had begun to feel cozy, and as intimate as a candlelit table in a bistro as we shared this meal. Simon still stood on the opposite side of the center island, but he leaned towards me as he waited for me to nod my approval and remained in that position as we chatted over this latest course.
His hand had brushed against mine as he’d passed me the bowl with the soup, which had caused a pleasant warmth to flare to life in my belly. That warmth now radiated throughout my body as I consumed the delicious soup. Under other circumstances, I might have described the sensation as arousal because of the way in which I was aware of my physical self. My skin tingled, my limbs seemed to stretch and extend, while my core almost pulsed with every beat of my heart. It woke me to an awareness of how circumscribed my experiences had become over the past year. Pleasure had almost become a foreign concept in anything but the bedroom, and even there it was sometimes a difficult commodity to come by. Not that Richard had been an inattentive lover, a voice in the back of my head whispered.
Why are you defending him? I asked that voice, knowing full well that both sides of the conversation were my own.
“Is something wrong with the soup?” Simon asked.
His quiet voice startled me, and I shook my head as I brought him back into my focus. “No, it’s delicious. Though I might need to consult a thesaurus. I think I’ve used up my evening’s allotment of that word. Why do you ask?”
“You were scowling at your bowl as if it had said something you took offense at. And no worries. There’s not a chef in the world who doesn’t want to hear their food is delicious. Your allotment is quite generous this evening. I promise, I won’t get tired of hearing it.”
I laughed. “Good to know.”
When we were done with the soup, Simon extended his hand for my bowl, and, again, his long fingers brushed against mine as he took it from me. I watched his back as he turned away and placed the bowls in the sink. There was quite a pile now, both serving dishes and pots, and I was wondering who was going to clean them when Simon turned back to me with a wicked grin.
“Do you want to help me with my meat?” he asked.
I nearly choked on the sip of wine I’d taken but recovered quickly as I realized he meant the remaining dishes which were all meat-based.
Sliding off the stool, I saluted him. “Yes, chef.”
“Well, first…” Simon stepped forward and took the wine glass from my hand. He threw back the remaining contents in one swallow, then grinned at me again. “I know. Shocking, but I didn’t want it to go to waste because we’re about to change gears.”
He produced yet another set of wine glasses, this time the flared rim told me he was about to uncork a pinot noir, and I wasn’t wrong. The heady aroma of the wine mixed with the fragrant scents of what we’d already consumed. I returned Simon’s grin with a stupid one of my own.
“Fill ‘er up,” I said.
The wine, of course, was exceptional, but it didn’t compare to standing next to Simon at the stove as he cooked our final three courses to perfection. My assistance was merely needed in case two things needed turning at the same time.
We sipped our wine and continued our conversation, meandering through a variety of topics including what it was like to work in a Michelin starred restaurant — not as glamorous as one might think when the chef was a raging egomaniac addicted to uppers. That’s another reason I didn’t want to work in someone else’s kitchen, Simon had said, and I suspected there was more to that story than a stray comment, but Simon said nothing more, and I didn’t ask. I told him about attending academic conferences — also not as glamorous as one might think, I quipped, and Simon laughed.
I liked his laughter, I decided. It was light and genuine, neither forced nor polite. At least I hoped not.
“You aren’t just laughing at my jokes because I’m the client, are you?” I asked, suddenly wondering if I might be making a complete fool of myself.
“No,” Simon said. He lifted his gaze from the stove top and stared at me. “And, technically, you’ve kind of crossed the line from client to assistant. I don’t need to ass kiss my assistants.” He paused as if he were going to say something else, reconsidered, then turned back to the duck and venison. The smoked trout was in the oven. Because Simon was going to serve them to me at the same time so we could sit at the dining room table and actually eat together, there were also various sauces and purees that would be plated with each of the dishes.
