Add Spice to Taste

by R. G. Emanuelle

Enthusiasm for cooking always got me excited, and I nodded. “That’s great. That’s why you’re here, right?”

  “Yeah. The thing is, I’m planning this dinner party and I want to make a Moroccan meal, but I want it to totally rock. I want my dinner guests to swoon. I want them to taste my food and be transported to another world. In short—” She paused and looked at me with an I’m-totally-fucking-serious look, her eyebrows pitched and her mouth in a “fuck yeah” purse. “I want to rock their worlds Moroccan style.”

  I laughed. “Well,” I said with a dramatic flair, “I guess I’d better deliver.” I started to slice garlic.

  “Yeah, you’d better,” she said with mock sternness.

  “Or what?” Sure, I’d play along.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure I’ll think of something,” she replied. Her voice had dropped an octave. Although I was enjoying the banter, I was focused on my chopping and it took me a moment to register her comment. The moment I looked up, she turned and walked away. Back at her spot at the table, her face flushed, she didn’t look at me again until class began.

  For a few seconds, I was flustered and, again, I had to force myself to focus.

  “Today we’re going to start with an ingredients lesson,” I said when everyone was present. I held up various vegetables and other items typically used in Morocco.

  After I’d given my little oration about the importance of spices in Moroccan cuisine and the role that they played in history, I introduced each spice individually, explained their flavors and aromas, how they were used, and the difference between toasted and untoasted.

  “You’ll find that toasting brings out the flavor and aroma and makes the final product much more complex. Now, I need a few volunteers from the audience to do some toasting. And I don’t mean the kind that involves a beverage,” I added wryly. “Although, maybe later.”

  Five people stepped up. I handed them each a bowl of spice, instructed them to grab a small sauté pan off the rack on the wall, and positioned them at the stoves. Each of them turned on the flame and set a pan on their respective burners. Soon, the fragrance of cumin, cardamom, coriander, anise, and cinnamon enriched the air around me, making this particular class an aromatic experience for everyone.

  I moved around behind them and peered down into their pans, reminding them to stir, which would ensure that they didn’t burn their spices. Then I addressed the rest of the class.

  “While they’re doing that, I’m going to make up a batch of ras el hanout, which is an essential spice blend commonly used in Morocco. Meanwhile, why don’t you all flip through your handouts and familiarize yourself with some of the other ingredients you’ll be using?”

  When the students in the kitchen were done toasting the spices, I asked them to place the spices in clean bowls. When they had taken their seats, I passed the spices around, along with the untoasted versions.

  “Smell and taste the spices—the toasted and untoasted—and tell me if you notice a difference.”

  “Wow,” said a few.

  “That’s intense,” Julianna offered. “But in a good way.”

  I nodded. Students were always stunned at how the flavor and aroma of the spices bloomed after toasting. They passed the bowls back, and Julianna brought up the last one. She placed it on the counter and stole a peek at me before returning to her seat. A delicious chill bubbled up my spine.

  “All right, let’s start our first recipe. This,” I said, gesturing at the couscoussier I’d purchased in Marrakech, “will help us make authentic couscous.” I moved it to the stove. “This is how they do it in Morocco. You all are going to cook couscous the Western way, but I just want to demonstrate the Moroccan method, just so you can see how it’s done traditionally. Then you’ll compare my couscous with your couscous. Why don’t you all come up here so you can see?”

  The students stepped up and crowded around the demo station. “This is called a couscoussier. French for ‘couscous maker.’” I tilted the wide stainless steel pan so that they could see the perforations. “This piece goes over a large pot and it’s essentially a large steamer basket. Real, authentic couscous is steamed, not boiled.”

  I slid the school’s standard-issue ceramic tagine front and center on the counter. “How many of you know what this is?”

  A sixty-ish woman whose makeup was expertly applied and hair perfectly coiffed, raised her French-tip manicured hand and called out, “A tagine.”

  “Very good. It’s a tagine. This is a traditional Moroccan cooking vessel, and various dishes that are cooked in a tagine are also called tagines.”

  I ran my fingers lightly down the tagine, its deep, earthy red dull compared to the one I had at home. “I’m going to prepare the chicken tagine, so when those of you prepping the vegetables for that dish are done, just bring it up. Okay, let’s get started.”

  After I’d gotten the couscous going, I sent the students back to their tables with assigned tasks so I could cut up chicken. I melted butter with olive oil in the tagine until it became foamy and turned an amber color, then browned the chicken and placed it on a half-sheet pan. When the students had brought me onions and garlic, I browned those, too. I then returned the chicken to the tagine and nestled the pieces in the onions.

  “That looks awesome.”

  I looked up at Julianna, who had left her table and was standing nearby.

  “Let’s hope it tastes as good as it looks.”

  “I have no doubt.” She gave me a little wink and returned to her table. I blinked a few times and tried to remember what I’d been doing. Oh, yes. Chicken.

  The afternoon meal on the second day still always managed to awe the students in a “I can’t believe I made this” kind of way, but it was also when a bit of confidence began to creep into their faces. They took photos of everything but most especially of the dessert. The dish was indeed shutter-worthy. Sliced blood and Valencia oranges layered in a circular pattern, speckled with cardamom. Honey was delicately drizzled over them and a light sprinkling of pistachios finished the dish off.

  At the end of the day, a few students lingered to ask questions. As tired as I was, I appreciated their interest, and tried not to think about a hot shower and putting my feet up.

  Finally, just three students remained, one of them Julianna, who had gone back to her prep table and was slowly collecting her papers.

  “Chef, I believe I saw in the class description that we’re going to make meskouta. Am I remembering that correctly?” Mr. Coleman, a distinguished-looking man in a blue, crisp shirt, asked me.

  I looked at him, surprised at how meskouta rolled off his tongue so easily, like he knew all about it. Maybe he’d done some traveling. He clearly had money, judging from his Rolex and Italian leather shoes. “Yes, you are. We’ll be making that tomorrow. I’ll talk about it then.”

  When he walked away, Julianna caught my eye and sunshine spread across her face. And that sunshine came and found me, like early morning rays on a tropical beach. I didn’t know why, but being around her, seeing her face, rejuvenated me.

  She started to make her way toward me, then stopped when the other remaining student beat her to the demo station.

  The young woman smiled brightly at me. “I really loved today’s food.”

  “Thanks, um…” Damn, what was her name? “I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

  “Brit.” She pressed her pelvis against the counter, making her torso bend forward slightly. I thought her shirt seemed to be unbuttoned a bit lower than it had been earlier in the class. Or was it that I just hadn’t noticed? After all, she had not been bent forward like that in front of me earlier.

  “I see you have a tattoo.” She pointed at my arm. “Can I see?”

  I extended my left hand and rotated it to show the underside of my forearm. The black chef knife, flanked by scrollwork, was brightened by yellow, red, orange, and pink Gerber daisies. Brit took my arm gently and ran her forefinger along the squiggles of the scrolls. It sent weird littl
e sensations up my arm and made me a little uncomfortable, but maybe a little turned on, too. What the hell? She held my arm longer than I thought was necessary and I when I looked up at her, she blinked softly. Slowly. She released my arm and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” My pulse was inexplicably beating double time as I watched Brit walk out.

  I looked over at Julianna. With a dreary expression, she gathered her things and was about to walk out the door.

  “Hey, Julianna.” She stopped and turned to toward me. “Everything okay?”

  Smiling wanly, she said, “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned and walked out, and I had the feeling that something had just happened. But I had no idea what.

  Day 3

  THE NEXT MORNING, I was still feeling a little drained. Drama exhausted me.

  I hadn’t slept well in two days. The night before last because of Brenda. But last night, it was because of Julianna and this uneasy feeling I had that something was brewing. Not in a bad way, either. The prospect of being with someone again terrified me, but thrilled me as well.

  I didn’t feel like making breakfast, so I got dressed, headed a couple of blocks over to my favorite diner, and slipped into a booth by a window.

  As I perused the syrup-stained menu, trying to decide between an omelet and waffles, someone came up next to me and said, “Hello.”

  I hadn’t seen Brit approaching and nearly jumped. “Oh, hi,” I managed, though my heart was beating a little faster than usual. “How’s it going?” I tried to sound nonchalant, but I kept wondering if she was going to lean over again, and really hoped that she wouldn’t. I didn’t think I could take it.

  “What are you doing here? I mean, don’t you cook your own breakfasts, being a chef and all?” Her light-hearted tone was tinged with something more meaningful, but I didn’t know what. I didn’t want to know. I just wanted some waffles.

  “Sometimes you have to let someone else do the cooking.”

  “I see.”

  In the morning light coming in from the window, I noticed that her hair was an interesting shade of red. Somewhere between fresh red turmeric and burgundy wine, and it made her green eyes stand out, as if she were in a contact lens commercial. She flashed such a perfect smile that I had to shift my gaze, but I felt her eyes stay on me.

  “What are you having?” she asked.

  “Waffles, probably. Nothing like a plate of waffles to get you going.”

  “I can think of other things that get me going.” There was her pelvis again, this time leaning against my table. Her skin-tight orange skirt—if it could be called that—made it all too obvious exactly what body part the edge of the table was in contact with. The pressure on the table made my water glass jiggle, sending a dribble of water down the glass and onto the table.

  “Oh, uh…” What was I supposed to say? “So early in the morning?” I raised my eyebrows in innocence.

  I expected her to laugh. Instead, she raised one eyebrow devilishly and pursed her lips. She leaned in and said in a low voice, “I like to rise and shine.” Emphasis on the “shine.” All I could do was stare.

  “See you in class,” she said, straightening up.

  “Yep.” I coughed. “See you there.”

  She turned and walked out with a swagger that drew the attention of several men as she passed.

  I could feel my face flush and was really glad when the waitress came over. “I’ll have the waffles. And coffee.” I handed her the menu. “Thanks.”

  “You want cream with your coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She nodded and moved away.

  Outside my window, I saw Brit cross the street in the direction of the school. Her swagger had turned into a casual wiggle. When I told myself that this was going to be an interesting class, I didn’t realize just how much. I stared after her for a while, then watched other people walking past. The waitress arrived with my coffee and cream and a few minutes later, my waffles. I ate with gusto and when I finished, I was ready for the day’s class.

  Good recipes today, and I was going to get to show off the tagine that I’d gotten in Casablanca, one of my favorite pieces in my cooking collection.

  I thought about the tagine, and what it represented. I knew exactly what every inch of it looked like, even when I didn’t use it for months. The conical clay vessel was painted cerulean and decorated in circular patterns, starting at the bottom with red diamonds on a black background, and a swath of yellow, red, and orange flowers in the middle with blue and yellow diamonds. The top third was trimmed with dark blue lines in decreasing widths, going all the way around. At the very top, the handle was painted dark blue.

  I had purchased the traditional Moroccan cookpot during a trip that Brenda and I had taken. We’d been happy then and that trip had been a sort of honeymoon for us, and an adventure.

  The hotel we’d stayed at in Marrakesh had a veranda that was surrounded by drapes and palm trees. Soft sofas waited quietly in the center for hotel guests who wanted to relax in style. Every morning, we would have our coffee on this veranda and I imagined what it must have been like centuries ago and marveled at the splendor of Muslim aristocracy. Although the Middle Eastern tents and gardens at our hotels in Marrakech and Casablanca were enchanting, the markets had called to me like a Siren’s song.

  The day I bought the tagine, Brenda was getting herself a massage in a Turkish bath. I’d heard funky things about those baths, so I opted out and instead set off on my own. I knew that while in Morocco, I’d want to buy a tagine and had left room in my suitcase to accommodate it. When I got to the market in Casablanca, I was nearly overwhelmed. There were so many things I wanted to peruse. The fruits and vegetables were arranged in glorious rainbows and I was heartbroken that I wouldn’t be able to take any home with me. Vivid explosions of spices—fiery red paprika, goldenrod turmeric, powdered mint, and silvery green-gray cardamom—were molded into conical mounds—most like ice cream cones, some like pyramids. Almost every spice market had these mysterious mounds, perfectly round at their base and rising to a fine point, like the tips of a gigantic box of crayons, and I couldn’t figure out how the vendors got them that way or how, after they stuck a scoop into their sides and pulled out a quantity of spice, the mounds stayed intact without caving in on themselves. Landscapes of olives, glistening in the sunlight, had made my tapenade fantasies go wild, and I’d never known how many different varieties of dates existed.

  I sighed. But that was a long time ago. A lifetime. Now I was teaching. And I was alone. And I couldn’t afford to go farther than anywhere the Long Island Railroad could take me.

  I got up, paid my bill, and headed to school.

  At the mailboxes, I picked up my mail. “Hey, Sasha,” I called as I riffled through the flyers and notes that had been left in my slot.

  “Hey, Jo. How’s it going?”

  “Pretty good. I think I may switch back to a Latin theme for next time.” I stuck the stack of mail under my arm and went over to Sasha’s desk. “I’ve done Moroccan three times in a row now.”

  “Okay, but let me know for sure by the end of the week because I have to get it into the catalog before it goes to print.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. I will.”

  “Moroccan’s pretty popular, though. We have a waiting list for the next one.”

  I looked at her, surprised. “Really? Who are all these people who can take four weekdays for a leisure cooking class?” Sasha opened her mouth but I cut her off. “That’s a rhetorical question. I know the answer.” I idly picked up notes from my stack of mail and put them back in the pile. “I guess I’m just jealous of the ones who don’t have to work.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. I’d love to be independently wealthy. Why, oh, why couldn’t I have been born a Kardashian?” With her hands splayed out upward, she looked as if asking God the question.

  I laughed. “Be glad you weren’t. The paparazzi would be all up in your business every hour of every day.�
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  “Well, the least the Universe could do is let me win the lottery.”

  I sighed. “I say the same thing pretty much on a daily basis.” I started toward the stairs to my office.

  “Sort of like the one you’ve got in your class now. Brit Leighton?” Sasha said.

  I stopped. “Funny you should mention her. I just saw her this morning at a diner.”

  “She eats at diners? She strikes me as the Breakfast at Tiffany’s type.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s a trust fund baby. Spends her life going to parties, sunbathing on yachts, that sort of thing.”

  “Really? What’s she doing taking a cooking class? I can’t imagine that she cooks for herself.”

  “Well, you know that cooking is the ‘in’ thing now. Even the wealthy like to say that they spend time in the kitchen. Of course, it’s probably just to pull the Dom Perignon from the Sub-Zero wine refrigerator,” she scoffed. “But that’s beside the point.”

  “Ha!” I loved Sasha. I could always count on her for a laugh. “Hey, how do you know all that about Brit?”

  “Met her at a club. I told her about the school. That’s how she ended up taking your class. I recommended you.”

  “Good job.” I gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Okay, I gotta go set up. I’ll see you later.”

  “’Kay. Have a good class.”

  On my way toward my office, I stopped halfway and turned back to her. “Um, by the way, you know they don’t actually serve breakfast at Tiffany’s, right?”

  She shot me a “no shit, Sherlock” look, which just called for a wink as I walked away.

  I WAS PREPPING chicken at my demo station when Julianna came rushing into class and settled into what seemed to be her favorite spot. Her face had an adorable pink hue to it and she was breathing a little heavily. When she saw me, I straightened my back to acknowledge her. She smiled and approached. She seemed in a better mood than the day before.

  “What have you been doing?” I asked.

  “Yoga class. I was talking to my instructor and lost track of time. I thought I was going to be late.” She looked around. “I guess not.”