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“What does it make you think of?” Simon asked. He was studying me intently, more interested in my reaction than in the food in front of him.
I closed my eyes and let my mind drift as I took another taste. There was a memory… “Summers spent at my grandmother’s house. She had pear trees. It always struck me as odd because most people had apple trees, but my grandfather loved pears, so they planted an entire orchard with as many varieties as they could find. Tiny Madeleine pears were my favorite. Sweet, delicate…”
As I continued talking about warm summer days spent on my grandparents’ farm in Casa Robles, I heard Simon shifting bowls and beginning to mix something together. When I started to open my eyes, he told me to keep them shut and to continue talking.
“About what?” I asked.
“Anything,” he said. “Tell me, besides your fiancé, who would you most want to have as a dinner guest?”
If my eyes had been open, I would have rolled them, but then it occurred to me that, if I had my choice of dinner companions, Richard wouldn’t be my first choice. Though my boyfriend and I enjoyed each other’s company, our conversation was often more functional than an enhancement to the meal. We shared the events of our days, made plans for the weekend, I talked about departmental and university politics, Richard told me as much as he could about his cases, and we compared calendars to ensure we were available for each other’s work functions.
The wine glass was still in my hand, so I raised it to my lips, savoring the bright acidity of the taste on my tongue, as I thought about my answer.
“As an academic,” I started, “I feel I should be more interested in important literary figures, but I get enough of those at work and most of them are complete bores, to tell you the truth. I’d want someone with whom I could have a good conversation, so it wouldn’t be someone who was merely famous or had accomplished a single thing.” I took another sip of wine. “And it should be someone from whom I could learn something as well as someone who was interested in what I had to express.”
I was so absorbed in my thought process, that I didn’t realize Simon had completed his dish until he told me to keep my eyes closed. “Inhale first,” he said, then laughed as I took a deep breath and coughed at the abundance of aromas. “Inhale gently. Like you did with the wine.”
When I did as commanded, a sweet, lemony scent filled my nostrils, then teased at the back of my mouth with a spiciness I hadn’t detected at first. I felt the warmth of it slide into my chest.
“Now a sip of the wine.”
My eyes popped open at the change in the flavor as the liquid touched my tongue. It was still the same, but it had been transformed, made richer, earthier.
“Now open your mouth,” Simon said as he brought the morsel to my lips. He held his hand beneath my chin as I took the food into my mouth. “Chew.”
I did as I was told, flavor exploding on my tongue. It was spiced pear, lemon, and a bit of heat. But there was also almond and…
“Parmesan?”
“Manchego,” Simon corrected me. “I find it has a nuttier taste and doesn’t overwhelm the other flavors.”
He had placed the other half of what I now could see was a cracker topped with diced, seasoned pear and a wafer thin slice of shaved cheese. I popped the remaining bite into my mouth, then followed it with a sip of the wine, marveling at the mixture of tastes in my mouth.
“You,” I said, as I finished the mouthful and swallowed.
“Me?” Simon asked.
I nodded. “You are who I would choose to have my dinner conversation with.”
He laughed. “I think that’s cheating.”
“I don’t agree. You’re interesting, you know more about food and its history than I do, and you’ve shown me you have an astute mind by how quickly you’ve been able to accommodate changes in the menu and still come up with something that is absolutely delicious.”
Simon ducked his head as he turned away to shuffle some of the containers on the counter. I could tell it was a distraction because I’d seen the blush rising to his cheeks.
“What about you?” I asked, wanting to keep the conversation going. “Who would you want to have dinner with?”
“My great-great-grandfather,” Simon said without hesitation. It made me wonder if he’d done this with previous clients as a way to break the ice.
The thought sent a pang through my chest, though I pushed it away. I was his client, and I knew from his website that he had been doing this for nearly five years, ever since graduating from the Culinary Institute.
“Why him?” I asked and raised my glass once more, so Simon didn’t feel too put on the spot.
At first, I thought he was going to ignore me as he scrutinized the counter, but as his hand reached for a jar, I realized he was considering what he could prepare next in the altered timeline of the dinner.
“He was a chef in China before coming to the United States in 1921.” He turned and smirked at me. “I know, right? I don’t look Chinese.”
I considered the young man before me, searching his face for evidence of a distant connection to that country, but I couldn’t see it, which didn’t mean anything in point of fact. I shook my head in response.
