“Oh? You know what Iwant?” There’s an edge to her voice, something like humor and irony, and it short-circuits my brain, though I don’t know why.
“C’mon,” I press. “Just one bite.” I’m not sure why I’m being so capricious except that Morgan brings out this side of me.
Morgan keeps her eyes on me, twisting her fork across the plate to gather a paper-thin segment of meat, a dab of sauce, and a sprig of arugula. She presses it into her own mouth, sweeping her tongue up the fork to pull it clean.
My heart skips a beat.Don’t be a creep, don’t be a creep. I’m sure she does this with all of her… business associates?
She gathers more on her fork, and I expect it to disappear into her mouth again—but, never breaking eye contact, she holds it out towards me.
I lean down and take the bite off the fork, only afterwards realizing that I probably should have taken the fork with my hand first.
Those thoughts melt away in the presence of the smooth, buttery meat, incredibly flavorful despite being raw, offset perfectly by the bite of the sauce and the crunch of the arugula.
I’m reluctant to swallow, because I know I’m not getting a second bite.
“Oh wow.”
“Told you so.”
“See, Iknewyou wanted to rub it in.” I look down at the caviar, feeling a little guilty. I force myself to take a second bite. It’s… notasbad as the first. And there’s only like four bites,anyway.
“You don’thaveto eat something just because it’s on a plate in front of you,” Morgan says.
“The menu said it was healthy, at least. So, better to not let it go to waste.”
“The sturgeon’s already dead, whether you eat that or not.”
I frown. “I thought roe could be harvested without killing the fish?”
“Salmon roe, sure. But sturgeon? Nope.”
“Oh…”
Morgan gives a light laugh. “It’s just a fish.”
“Yes, butIam a bleeding heart.”
“I can see that.”
I resolve to scoop the rest into my mouth and swallow it in one bite. Morgan watches my throat bob.
A wicked smile pulls at her lips. “You have a lot of practice?”
I’m not exactly sure what she means, but I can kind of guess, and my cheeks burn with heat.
I’m saved by the waiter returning to take our orders for the main course.
“Your ordering privileges are revoked,” Morgan informs me, and rattles off dishes to the waiter for four more courses. He jots them down with brisk efficiency.
When the food arrives, I can’t remember what anything’s called, but it’s all gorgeous.
There’s cooked fish on a bed of black squid ink pasta, garnished with vegetables cut to resemble leaves, a fresh roasted potato-like tuber bursting with herbal flavor and sharp lemon, and delicate steak medallions pre-sliced and ringed with a moat of sauced risotto topped with crisp rice.
Every bite is life-changing.
I ask questions about the food, and Morgan actually answers them. She tells me this chef studied in Paris, used to work for Nobu, and she’s been following him for a while.
“I hope this comes out right, but I’m kind of surprised that you know who the chef is.”
