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Chef’s Kiss
The personal chef had already set up in the kitchen when Richard’s first texts arrived. They were full of apologies and reasons: Sorry, Becks. Work…blah, blah, blah…a last minute meeting…blah, blah, blah…can’t be helped. There was more, but it all boiled down to Richard being late for the start of our romantic getaway. Recently, no matter what I planned, he ended up arriving late.
I sent my obligatory no worries text in response, then put my phone face down on the table and went to stare out the doors that opened onto the house’s upper deck. On this, December 21st, the winter solstice and first official day of winter, the sky was a dull gray, threatening rain even though the forecast hadn’t predicted it. I was doubtful, though. Despite it being only four in the afternoon, the light was already fading, and it was too cold to go outside without bundling up in my coat and scarf.
Still cocooned in the warm house, I was able to see a stretch of the Russian River just beyond a small gate at the edge of the property’s backyard. The photos on the house’s rental page showed a dock that was used in the summer, and kayaks and a canoe available for use, but the dock and watercraft were stowed away until next year. The view was still beautiful, stark with the mix of bare trees and redwoods, and I had envisioned walks along the river’s stony banks, followed by a glass of wine in front of a roaring fire in the house’s ornate fireplace.
Though the view was beautiful, it did nothing to help my mood. This wasn’t just a getaway weekend in wine country. At least not for me. We had time right now; I was on winter break between semesters, and Richard had taken a few vacation days in addition to the Christmas holiday his law firm gifted to all employees.
Tonight, I’d planned to propose to Richard, my boyfriend of the past three years, the man with whom I wished to spend the rest of my life. The fantasy of sipping wine by the fire also included watching the flames reflect in the diamonds encircling the ring I planned to place on Richard’s finger at the end of our special dinner. But now he was going to be late. He’d promised to be at the house by six, but if he was still at the office, it was likely to be closer to seven with the way traffic tangled up getting out of San Francisco even on a weekday.
As I gazed out at the river, listening to the sounds of the chef preparing the meal we’d meticulously designed around Richard’s ever-changing dietary habits — this month it was keto — and tried to remind myself that Richard was just going to be late. He hadn’t canceled. He was only delayed.
I turned away from the view and went to inform Simon, the personal chef I’d engaged to prepare our meal, that we needed to adjust the timing of his preparations. I hoped it wouldn’t throw his schedule off too much. It wasn’t that I was worried about the food being affected, more that Simon had put such thought into the menu and even accommodated Richard’s last minute shift from Mediterranean to keto, that I didn’t want it to be ruined.
The kitchen already smelled fantastic, and the large center island was covered in containers and dishes. I’m sure there was some order — I wasn’t a chef, so I couldn’t find one — but I stopped to admire the way Simon moved around the kitchen with a sureness and grace. Even though he’d only arrived half an hour ago, he’d quickly made the space his own. The house had been advertised as having a chef’s kitchen, but Simon had told me he never took chances on what that really meant nor what condition the knives and pans would be in, so he traveled with his own equipment.
He’d had come highly recommended by a colleague, another professor in the English department at Berkeley, of which I was the department chair. Simon and I had met once via Zoom, then coordinated the details through email. He was pleasant, seemed highly competent, and, I’ll admit, very attractive, but I wasn’t prepared for the way he came to life as he began cooking. His intensity and passion came to the surface, his eyes danced as he began assembling his ingredients, and I’d had to force myself away so he could work in peace or else I’d have been staring at him for the past thirty-five minutes.
I didn’t want to disturb him, but I was going to have to.
“I’m afraid our meal is going to be a bit delayed,” I said as I passed through the doorway into the kitchen. “My boyfriend got hung up at work.”
Simon looked up at me. He’d been whipping together a sauce with fresh lemon juice and olive oil and some other ingredients I couldn’t name. I loved good food, but for the life of me, I couldn’t cook. A grilled cheese sandwich and canned tomato soup was about the limits of my culinary skills.
“How long do you think?” His voice was melodic, almost amused rather than the irritation I’d been expecting.
“I’m not sure. Probably an hour, but then he has to deal with the traffic coming out of the city on a Friday evening, and God forbid there’s an accident on any of the bridges.”
With a nod, Simon surveyed the island and the counter tops. The calculations running through his mind as he adjusted for the time delay made him purse his lips, and the line that appeared between his eyebrows as he concentrated was adorable. Mentally, I shook my head at myself. I wasn’t that kind of a guy. I’d been committed to Richard for three years. I loved him. I wanted to marry him. But I could still look and appreciate, right?
“I can make that work,” Simon said, and turned back to his sauce.
I watched him for a few more minutes. He was dressed in a chef’s white jacket and black-checked pants. His long hair was tied back and curled into a bun that only highlighted his beauty. His face was Byronic. High cheekbones, intense eyes, full and sensuous lips, and a deep cleft in his chin that harbored a tiny shadow of dark hair though the rest of his face was clean-shaven. I forced myself to turn away from him, and, as I did, I caught sight of our dessert.
Richard’s switch to keto had almost derailed my plan to hide the ring inside his dessert, but Simon had risen to the occasion. He’d proposed tarts made with a ground almond crust and filled with fresh raspberry jam — sugar free, of course, in deference to Richard. They’d be topped with spiced cashew cream just before being served. They looked delicious, and I was happy to see there were four of them instead of the two we’d discussed because I loved desserts.
“Which one is the ring in?” I asked.
Simon looked up again, and a blush rose to his cheeks. “I was going to tell you before we got to the dessert course. My assistant forgot to put the ring in one, so I had to make an additional pair, and then…” he bit his lip. “I don’t know which one it’s in.”
I looked at the tarts, then back at Simon. “So, there’s a chance I could end up proposing to myself?”
Simon blanched, but then smiled when he realized I was teasing.
My phone buzzed from the other room, and I excused myself to answer it wondering if the mix up over the dessert was going to be prophetic.
Sure enough, the text was from Richard: sry mtg going long nothr hour at least
I shook my head and wandered back to the kitchen to inform the chef.
Simon took it in stride and assured me that this wasn’t the first time he’d had to account for late meetings and traffic. “Occupational hazard,” he said as he surveyed the neatly arrayed bowls on the countertop. “It just means that the proteins will be able to marinade longer. More flavor. In the meantime…” He picked up a bottle of wine. “Can I offer you a glass of wine and an amuse bouche hand-crafted by the chef especially for you?”
When I nodded, he indicated one of the three chairs arranged on the opposite side of the island. “Consider this a chef’s table,” he said with a smile. “Best seat at any restaurant.”
As I sat, he deftly poured a glass of wine and placed it in front of me. “This is an Italian white made with Fiano grapes that originated in the Campania region of Italy more than 2000 years ago. It’s said that this is the wine drunk by Roman soldiers.”
I swirled the liquid in the glass, then raised it to my nose and inhaled the wine’s scent, letting it roll to the back of my tongue, before taking a small sip. I didn’t have the most educated palate in the world, but I knew what I liked, and this was delicious.
