Sugar and Spice and All Those Lies

by Evy Journey

I smile wickedly. “If Brent is as intense about what you call ‘a roll in the hay’ as he is about his job, you’re in for a real treat.”

  “I expect him to be. And it’ll be a big blast. But he hasn’t answered my message yet. Well, he did, but only to say he was busy on a new case and would text me again later.”

  “Why don’t you just ask him out?”

  “Actually, I did. Invited him to dinner at my place. Just the two of us. No desserts, I assured him. I have recipes from my mother, too, that men I dated before Brent have raved over.”

  15

  Will stops in front of the modest-looking restaurant Leon has chosen on this Tuesday, the fourth week of our lunches. Leon waits outside the door, holding the doorknob. I’m partway in, surveying the noisy crowd, most of whom are students at the nearby university.

  Will says, “If you don’t mind, I’ll go for a burrito. There’s a Mexican place down the street. I don’t like fish. Never had raw fish, and never will.”

  Leon grins, amused. “You sure? You don’t know what you’re missing. You can order tempura or teriyaki. There’s soy sauce in the teriyaki.”

  Will shakes his head. “I think I’ll pass.”

  Leon and I join a small line ordering at the counter. He says, “This place is usually packed at noon. The crowd is thinning out so we’ll have a quieter lunch.”

  “You’ve been here before.”

  “A few times. For a small mom-and-pop place, the sushi here is quite good. People know it and they come. I hope you like sushi.”

  “I’ve only had it twice. I never ate at restaurants when I was growing up. Unless you think McDonald’s and Wendy’s count as restaurants. That’s all my family could afford, and not often. I had sushi at a popular Japanese restaurant with an old boyfriend.”

  “Was he a sushi eater?”

  “No. He ordered chicken teriyaki. I had sushi.”

  “Then, I suggest you try their rolls. You’ll like them. You can graduate to nigiri later. That’s a slice of raw fish on top of rice.”

  “I’m not squeamish about raw fish. We use a lot of it at Du Cœur, as you know. And I’ll take sashimi over beef carpaccio or steak tartare anytime. What would you suggest in nigiri?”

  “Would you trust me to order for us?”

  I nod since Leon obviously knows more about sushi than I do.

  Fifteen minutes later, a young Asian waiter places a large platter with an assortment of sushi on the table. With his chopsticks, Leon picks up a piece from a row of rolled sushi topped with tiny orange fish eggs. He reaches across the table to offer it to me.

  Surprised by his gesture—which seems so intimate to me—I hesitate at first. He’s watching me; smiling, waiting, expectant. The expression on his face is one I’ve seen on my youngest brother when he offered Mom a frog in a jar he caught from our garden.

  I open my mouth for the piece of sushi. It’s a mouthful. I bite into briny eggs which burst in my mouth, sinking into the tangy, salty-sweet blend of soft rice, seaweed, cucumber, raw fish, wasabi, and mayonnaise. Leon is watching my reaction.

  “Great stuff, wonderful combination,” I say.

  He smiles, gives me a thumbs up, and picks up a piece for himself.

  Halfway through our plate of sushi, I say, “Next time, let’s go to a place that serves dim sum.”

  “Yeah let’s. I’ve never been to one. I do have a pretty good idea what it is. It’s like a Chinese version of small plates.”

  “Better than that. You get so many more choices.”

  “Do you know a good place?”

  “There’s a good one by the bay in Emeryville. I went there once with my ex-boyfriend.”

  Leon nods before he picks up another piece of sushi. He’s silent as he devours three more pieces. Then, he glances at me and says, “What happened to him?”

  “Who?”

  “Your boyfriend.”

  “Oh, him. He proposed and I turned him down. I’ve never seen him since.”

  “Why? Fell out of love with him?”

  I shrug. “No. I was nineteen when he told me he loved me. A year later, he asked me to marry him. I always thought I’d say yes. But at the very moment he popped the question, I had a vision of myself shriveling into an old hag before I was forty. Shriveling while my family grew fatter and older.”

  Leon laughed. “Funny imagery. Anyway, I think twenty is too young to be tied down to a family.”

  By the time we finish the whole plate, it’s two o’clock and only four other customers are left, all sitting at the bar.

  “Don’t you have to hurry back to your office? I wonder what’s happened to Will.”

  “He went home. I’ll take you back to your apartment.”

  I look at Leon suspiciously. “Did you arrange all this?

  “I wanted to be alone with you. Is that okay?”

  I smile. “Yes. It’s been nice—these past four weeks.”

  “Will you have dinner with me, then?”

  I giggle and cover my mouth with my hand.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I knew we were going in that direction. I wondered how long it was gonna take before you ask.”

  “Would you have come after the first week?”

  “No. Not the second week either. You’ve been patient and I appreciate that.”

  “I didn’t want to rush things. I wanted you to see I’m not the ass people say I am. Those people don’t know me.”

  “But you don’t deny you’re a playboy?”

  “I’ve played around. I think everyone should. And no one should marry until after thirty. Or until they outgrow playing around.”

  I say wryly, “So, you’re living true to your convictions.”

  “I won’t deny it. Did you love your boyfriend?”

  Caught off-guard, I frown. Leon has had a habit of bringing up new or tired topics when I least expected it. Maybe it was his way of shifting conversation away from himself.

  Annoyed, I say, “That’s none of your business, is it?”

  “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. So, will you go out with me?”

  I don’t answer right away. Leon waits, peering at my face. “God, you’re beautiful. I’ve never seen anyone quite like you before.”

  I’m used to Leon’s little seduction tricks by now. He’s trying to mollify my annoyance but I can’t help smiling. “Okay. But let’s go somewhere not too fancy. Something like this, but a little more formal.”

  He gives me a glowing smile. He actually looks pleased. “I’ll be violating my dining ethics, but for you, I’ll do it.”

  *****

  Late that night, my phone rings. I pick it up as I lie in bed reading, waiting for sleep to come. Another little surprise. This time, from someone who I believe to be so thoughtful and considerate that he won’t bother anyone past ten in the evening. If it had been Leon calling, I wouldn’t have answered. But it’s Brent.

  He says, “I’m sorry to be calling this time of night, but I know you keep late hours. How are you doing?”

  “You didn’t call at midnight just to ask me that.”

  “I did, in fact. It seems to be the only time I have for myself lately. I’ve been thinking a lot about you since that dinner at Marcia’s.”

  He pauses, but not long enough for me to answer. I can’t speak, and the hand holding my phone has begun to shake.

  “I feel bad, guilty that I didn’t call you or at least send a thank you card soon after the dinner.”

  I sigh. Is that the only reason he’s been thinking about me? “Don’t worry about it, Brent. You did send me roses. That makes up for anything you think you failed to do.”

  “You liked them, I hope.” He has an unfamiliar tremor in his voice; a shakiness I’ve seen in someone losing control.

  “I loved them. Is anything wrong? You sound different.”

  “I’m tired, that’s all. Things are becoming so complicated.”
>
  “Your new case?”

  “It’s not that new anymore. But that’s not all of it.”

  “You care to talk about it?”

  “I can’t. Besides, I don’t want to bother you any more than I already have. You’ve got work tomorrow. I hope someday I can tell you more. It’s good to hear your voice, though. I’m feeling better already.”

  “My voice doesn’t have that much power, does it?” I say, teasing. “But I’m glad I can make you feel better. I like hearing your voice, too. It makes me feel good.”

  Brent takes a moment to speak and he ignores what I said. “Well, I should say goodnight. Long day again tomorrow. Yours and mine. Goodnight, my child.”

  I protest. “My child? You can’t be that much older than me.” Actually, what I want to say is Don’t go. Not yet. I want to hear your voice a little while longer.

  “No, seven years isn’t that far apart. Good night, Regine.” He pauses and sings a short phrase from an old song. “I’ll see you in my dreams.” He has a good singing voice and he can keep a tune. I want to tell him so but he hangs up.

  I get up from bed. I’m too restless. Brent’s call is a jolt I didn’t expect.

  I swipe my book off the bed and take a few paces to my refrigerator for the only bottle of wine in my apartment. It stands among shorter plastic bottles of sparkling water.

  With half a glass of white wine in my hand, I sit on my armchair and open the book on my lap. I start to read but I can’t concentrate. Brent’s face seems to be staring at me from every page of the book I turn to. Looming behind his face is Marcia’s.

  That night, I dream I’m running after them. They look back, laughing at me. The face on Marcia’s body changes to that of Cristi as she runs. Then, she stops, looking like Marcia again. She stretches her arms to block my way. Laughing louder, she strikes me with a chef’s knife and I stare at Cristi’s face once more. I struggle to wake up gasping for breath.

  16

  On Sunday, after the last customers leave the restaurant, Laure approaches as close as she can get, and whispers that I can take the next Sunday off. I didn’t ask for it, so I stare at her, puzzled. She’s not letting go of me, is she?

  Maybe, she senses the panic rising from my gut because she chuckles and shakes her head, assures me it has nothing to do with my work. That, in fact, I’ve become a very valuable part of her team; that I’m doing even better than she expected.

  But I must still look bewildered. She pats my arm and lowers her voice again. “I’m doing it as a favor to Leon.”

  I should have guessed.

  The next day, at lunch with Leon, I try not to slurp the brothy rice noodles out of the soup spoon hovering on top of my big bowl of beef pho. Slurping seems to be the only way to really enjoy this Vietnamese noodle soup, but no one is doing so among the largely Asian crowd in the small restaurant.

  Will is not with us today so Leon and I are sharing a small corner table. I look up as he says, “What about this Sunday for that dinner you agreed to have with me?”

  The very question I’ve been waiting for. By asking Laure for the favor of giving me a day off, Leon has made sure my answer would be yes. But, at that instant, I get it in my head to tease him, do the measly bit I could so things aren’t a little too easy for him. Just as it bugged me once that he had me followed to find out where I lived, it annoys me that he can ask—maybe, expect—Laure to give me a Sunday off. Except when there’s a good reason, like the overused crisis or death-in-the-family sob story, few of us cooks and chefs would think of asking Laure for time off on weekends, the busiest nights at Du Cœur. Especially when it’s only for a date, and on such short notice.

  I scowl and put on what I hope is a disappointed pout. “I can’t. How can you ask me to go out on a Sunday? You know I’m working, and that happens to be a very busy night.”

  Leon’s jaw drops for an instant. “What? I don’t understand. Didn’t Laure tell you?”

  I deepen my scowl. “Tell me what?”

  He shakes his head. “She couldn’t have forgotten. That’s so unlike her.”

  “You still haven’t said what she’s supposed to have told me.”

  Leon stares at me for some moments without saying anything. He frowns, turns his head sideways, and regards me from the sides of his eyes. “She did tell you, I’m sure of it. She’s giving you Sunday off, isn’t she?”

  “Why would she do that?” I am actually getting tired of this silly, spur-of-the-moment game I started, because I haven’t a clue how to end it.

  “Because I asked her. Damn it. She’s always gone along with what I’ve asked of her.”

  Leon is losing his cool—I didn’t foresee this. I’m not quite sure how else to react beyond my startled reaction to his outburst.

  He apologizes immediately after, so I say nothing.

  There’s still a fierceness in his eyes and I avert mine to concentrate on the fragrant bowl of soup in front of me. I inhale its vapors, trying to guess what spices and herbs may be in it. I can always find any recipe on the internet, but I get a kick out of guessing the ingredients in a dish and learning later that my guesses are right. I inhale once again. Star anise, for sure. My mother likes to use it. When I was a child, she laid a piece of the chocolate brown star-shaped spice in the palm of my hand. I thought it quite pretty. But when she held it next to my nose to smell, I was hooked. It has a fragrance I’ve never forgotten.

  I sneak a glance at Leon. He’s turned his attention back to his bigger bowl of pho. He also seems absorbed, his gaze fixed on his soup as he picks up a piece of beef. But his mind is elsewhere.

  It’s time to make amends. I say, “This is good, isn’t it? Maybe Will would have liked it, too.”

  “He does, but I sent him on an errand. Anyway, he won’t be coming with us any longer.”

  It may have been odd that Will came with us in the first place; as his employer, Leon can always tell him what to do. But it seems unfair that, once again, Leon can so easily get his way. Maybe it’s unreasonable for me to expect it but I would have liked to have been asked, since the three of us were having fun together. Still, all I say is “I like Will. I liked having him around.”

  “You’ll still see him. If you want and if it makes you feel safer, I can ask him to drive us to dinner on Sunday.” Leon is watching me, his lips twitching into an amused smile. “I’d rather not, of course.”

  He does have an irresistible smile and my silly game has exhausted its appeal to me. So I return his smile. “I’m sorry Leon. Laure did give me the night off. Do you still want to go out with me?”

  “What do you think?”

  *****

  The restaurant we go to is three times the size of Du Cœur, a big institutional-style dining hall with a high ceiling, concrete flooring, and long communal tables and benches, at the end of which is a big open kitchen. In the middle of the kitchen, an open brick-walled grill is ablaze, small vaporous orange flames shooting up from its wide expanse. Several cooks are tending the grill and it’s clear this is where much of the cooking is taking place.

  The layout of the restaurant seems guaranteed to amplify sounds—surely not a place for intimate conversations. People are flanked by strangers and everyone seems to be talking all at once. I feel like I’m in a bustling market where customers haggle over every purchase they make.

  But I get into the spirit of the place. It’s hard not to when it’s buzzing with laughter and excited voices. And I understand that excitement when I taste the dishes I order. I do believe in the power of tasty well-prepared food to put people in a pleasant, sociable mood. It doesn’t take fancy dishes like those we offer at Du Cœur. Those dishes are delicious, beautiful, and innovative all at the same time. They demand your attention. At this restaurant, the food is like a backdrop. It’s not what you focus on. It’s there to enjoy but also to put you in the mood for a good time with friends.

  Ingredients are fresh and—you could say�
�upscale, but they’re familiar to most diners. My main course has wild mushrooms cooked by the fire, topped by a perfectly cooked egg. It’s a type of restaurant I wouldn’t mind owning in the future.

  I smile happily at Leon, who’s sitting to my right and at the end of the dark rough-hewn trestle table. He gives me back a bright smile, and I wonder for a moment why he would choose to dine here since this evening is supposed to be our first time to be alone together.

  Apart from comments about food and bits of gossip about goings-on at the restaurant, Leon and I don’t talk much. This would have been the time for us to get to know each other better, but in choosing this admittedly delightful but noisy place, Leon has made it impossible to do so.

  We leave the restaurant less than two hours later, with bellies full, and smiles still on our faces. At Du Cœur, most clients stay over three hours.

  Leon drives me straight home to my apartment. He stops his car in front of it and says, “I hope you had a good time. I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch?”

  “Yes, I had a good time. Thank you so much.” I’m a little bewildered as I’m saying this. I guess I imagined a different kind of evening.

  Leon gets out of the car and goes around it to open my door for me. As I step out onto the curb, I say, “Would you like to come up for a minute? Maybe you’d like to see how the lower ten percent of us live?”

  He laughs. I was teasing and I’m glad he takes it graciously.

  17

  My apartment is not a home I’d be proud of and, surely, not one I’d show off. Except for my family on their rare visits, and Brent when he picked me up for dinner at Marcia’s, no one else has been in it. Anyway, I would not invite anyone into it, by choice, unless I can’t help it. But this evening, I wanted Leon to see it.

  Maybe, I do want to open his eyes to how we live, those of us who aren’t born with silver spoons in our mouths. Those who have to struggle for things that Leon can get, by merely opening his mouth or flicking his finger. Or, maybe, I’m testing him. I want him to see how different our worlds are; how far apart we are from each other. When he sees my world, will he still love me? Really love me? The Me inside the pretty shell he sees. That Me who lives within the narrow confines of bare, ugly walls when she’s not working as a kitchen grunt.