Add Spice to Taste

by R. G. Emanuelle

  “Yoga. That’s great. I’ve been meaning to do that myself.” And that probably explained why Julianna looked so toned.

  “Well, then, you should come to my place. I’d be happy to sponsor you for a guest class.” Her skin was shiny from a thin layer of sweat. I dropped my gaze because I was finding it really sexy and I didn’t want to do or say anything inappropriate.

  “Um, okay. Sure.” Me, hang out with an adorably cute woman like Julianna? I’d screw it up for sure. But the thought was enticing.

  At that moment, Brit popped in and put herself right next to Julianna. “Hi,” she said cheerily to me. “How did you like the waffles?”

  I pulled my gaze away from Julianna reluctantly.

  “They were good.”

  “Oh, I’m glad. You know, when I left you this morning, I forgot to mention that I have a business proposition for you.” The classroom was filling up and chatter began. “But we’ll talk about it later, okay? Can I call you later?”

  “Sure.” I nodded. I reached into my jacket pocket, where I always kept a stash of business cards, and pulled one out. Brit took it and slipped into her own pocket. She bounded away and I turned back to Julianna. Her bright, open expression had turned dark and somber. What had happened? “What’s up?” I asked.

  She seemed to struggle to speak. Finally, she said, “I’m fine. I just . . .”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Um, I can’t wait to eat our food later.” She turned and walked back to her table. The bouncy lightness I’d seen the day before—or just five minutes before, for that matter—was nowhere to be seen now. Her shoulders were a little hunched and she walked as if her legs were heavy. I kept my eyes on her until she was in her spot and sat down, but she didn’t look back at me.

  With the exception of a couple, the rest of the students were seated. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that Julianna was upset about something, but I had no idea what it was or why. Did it have something to do with Brit? She seemed to withdraw after Brit spoke to me. It bothered me that Julianna was upset. Geez, I would manage to screw things up. I met a cute, intelligent, sexy woman and, somehow, I’d managed to upset her. Now I was just confused. I realized then that I really wanted to get to know her. Beyond the classroom.

  Generally speaking, it’s not considered kosher for an instructor to cavort with a student. But did that count in culinary school? With consenting adults? Who are not full-time students?

  I was also presuming that Julianna was interested in something outside of class.

  Who was I kidding? She just wanted to talk to me about being a chef—the allure of a chef for a cooking enthusiast. After all, weren’t chefs the new rock stars?

  Oh, so now I was a rock star. Although, I could look cute in a pair of leather pants and leather vest, and a guitar slung over my shoulder. I often mimicked Joan Jett at karaoke pretty well . . . I looked around the classroom and saw that all the students were present, watching me, waiting for me to start.

  “Okay, guys,” I said with a mild slap on the counter. “Today we’re going to cook up some great food. I’m going to pass around the recipes. Take a look at them and we’ll divvy up the tasks.” I gave a stack of recipes to each side of the room and they circulated. I went to the other side of the room, opposite the kitchen. At the blackboard, I began writing the recipe names and the various components of each dish. The mmms rose above the rustling of papers and mingled with the chatter. I turned my head and glanced at Julianna. She was staring blankly at the first page of the recipes, while everyone else was flipping through the entire packet.

  What was going on with her? And why the hell did I care? Worse yet, why did I want to put my arms around her? I turned my attention back to the board. I had just met this woman. What business was it of mine if she had a problem? Yet, I wanted to go to her, lead her by the hand out of the classroom, and take her home, where I would smooth the worried creases in her forehead and take away whatever was bothering her.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  When I finished writing the menu components, I turned back to face the class. Julianna was looking at me pensively. When she caught my eye, the corners of her mouth went up slightly. Good. Maybe she was over whatever was bugging her. Besides, she had a really cute smile and I wanted to see more of it.

  I mentally kicked myself. Focus.

  “Okay, so as you can see, we’ve got some great stuff on the menu today,” I said. “We’re going to be making lemon chicken, chickpea and vegetable tagine, kebabs with mint sauce, saffron couscous, and we’ll end it with meskouta, an incredible traditional Moroccan orange cake made with yogurt.” I looked over at Mr. Coleman, who’d asked me about it. “So, yes, Mr. Coleman. We’ll be doing that today.”

  He gave me a thumbs-up as the mmms rose and accompanied happy expressions.

  “We have a lot of work to do, so let’s see who’s doing what.”

  As I called out each component, people raised their hands to volunteer for the particular tasks they were interested in. When all the tasks were assigned, I walked back to the kitchen area. A work table had been set up on the side of the room to hold the ingredients for that day’s menu. As the students picked up what they needed from the table and refrigerator, I began prepping for the tagine. I was in the process of pressure cooking chickpeas that had been soaked when Julianna stepped up beside me. My stomach tightened. “Hey. How’s your cooking adventure going today?” I asked.

  “Fine. Listen,” she leaned over conspiratorially. “Are you busy tonight?”

  My hand froze in mid-chop. “Um.” Was she asking me out? I suddenly felt like I was on the set of a TV show with a live studio audience. All the other students were probably watching, listening closely, waiting for my response. But when I looked around, they were all busy chopping, dicing, and measuring.

  My pause must have lasted longer than I realized because Julianna backed off. “Uh, but if you’re busy, I understand.” Then I thought I saw the specter of humiliation in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be pushy. I didn’t mean to break any kind of teacher-student rule or anything.”

  I barely knew her, yet I had already hurt her. Was I that big an asshole?

  “What? Oh, no, no.” I put down my knife and wiped my hands on a towel. “I’m sorry. I just zoned out for a second. No, I’m not busy.”

  She turned back to me.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  Lightness and humor returned to her face. “I’m really interested in learning more about cooking, so I thought we could have a personal, one-on-one conversation. Would you mind maybe having dinner?”

  At that moment, I woke up. I hadn’t realized that I’d been dormant but I had. I knew this because every inch of me rose with goose bumps, my toes tingled, my face burned, and my knees were rubbery. It was as if she’d injected me with some kind of formula after I’d been in a coma. It felt good. Very good.

  “Sure, I’d love to,” I responded, maybe a little too eagerly. “Where would you like to go?”

  “You’re the chef, you tell me.”

  “You invited me, so I defer to your wisdom.”

  “Okay, how about Okinase in the East Village? Seven-thirty?”

  “Perfect. I’ve been meaning to try that place for the longest time—it’s near my place—but I’ve never gotten around to it.”

  “Great.” With a cute little wiggle with her shoulders, she went back to her table and continued dicing eggplant with a satisfied expression. I think she was even humming.

  Okay, did she just ask me out? I stopped myself. What did that even mean? She probably just wanted to talk. People went out to dinner all the time, after all, and it didn’t necessarily mean anything. I looked back at my chickpeas, forcing myself not to be too excited about this.

  When the chickpeas finished cooking, I drained them and began the tagine. I stole glances at Julianna, as I continued to add ingredients, completely unnerved to see that she was stealing glances back a
t me.

  When all the food was ready, we pushed the tables together for our communal meal. The students had plated their dishes and placed them in the center of the table.

  “If everyone’s ready, let’s all sit and eat,” I announced.

  Everyone took seats while I stirred fresh parsley into my chicken and transferred it to a red-clay colored serving dish that I had also brought in from my personal collection. I sprinkled chopped toasted almonds over the top and brought it to the table. The sharp sweet bouquet of lemons and mint were enough to transport anyone to a world of deserts and Berber palaces.

  I was just about to set the dish down when I noticed that Julianna had saved a seat next to her. She looked at me and blinked softly, patting the table in front of the empty seat.

  A warmth spread through me that I knew was not from cooking in the kitchen. I placed the dish down on the table and was about to make my way over to Julianna when Brit came in from the kitchen next door, a platter in her hands. “Sorry, I went into the other room to see if there was another platter.”

  “You really shouldn’t go in there without checking with me first,” I said, annoyed that she’d taken it upon herself to go into a different classroom. But she seemed unruffled.

  “Oops, sorry. I won’t do it again.” She set the platter down on the table with a flourish. “Here’s dessert!” Flashes went off as people took photos. A golden brown cake, fragrant with oranges, overshadowed everything else on the table. Per instructions, Brit had baked it in a Bundt pan that gave it a sensuous, curvaceous appearance. Sliced almonds and candied orange peel garnished the top all the way around.

  “That looks beautiful, Brit. All these dishes look fantastic,” I said, genuinely delighted at the results my students had produced.

  Just as I was turning again, Brit grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward two empty seats. She sat in one and pulled me down into the other. I looked over at Julianna, who suddenly looked like a forlorn child who had been banished to the corner. There was nothing I could do without seeming rude.

  “You guys did a fantastic job today. This meal is going to be scrumptious, I can tell.” I lifted my glass of iced mint tea, in deference to Morocco’s national beverage, and held it up. “Cheers.”

  Everyone lifted their glasses and exclaimed, “Cheers.”

  Then we ate, amidst many declarations of “delicious” and “wow.” This was the best part of any class—watching the students truly enjoy the fruits of their labor.

  At the end of class, the students filed out, some of them waving at me or calling out a “good night.” I responded in kind as I answered questions and chatted with a few.

  Julianna was about to walk out. “Hey,” I called out, still feeling bad about the seating situation. “See you at seven-thirty?”

  She turned to me, seemingly surprised. “Uh, yep, see you then.” She flashed a look at Brit, then walked out.

  I still had no idea what was going on.

  AT THE ENTRANCE of the dimly lit Japanese restaurant, I waited, nervous. To distract myself, I watched the activity in the open kitchen, visible from any vantage point in the restaurant. With a delicate but firm hand, the sushi chef worked quietly and efficiently as he sliced fish into ethereally thin pieces, so thin that I could see light through them from where I was standing a yard away. With the help of the bright track lighting above him, I could see his chef de cuisine roll sushi so perfectly that I wondered how many years he’d been practicing. By the grill, a cook pushed what looked like shrimp and vegetables around on the flat top, while another cook was pulling up a fryer basket filled with crunchy-looking things from the depths of hot, bubbling oil.

  Julianna was suddenly next to me. “Hi.”

  I jumped slightly. “Hi,” I replied with my hand on my chest. “I didn’t see you.”

  “Sorry.”

  The hostess came over and quickly showed us to a table.

  At our little, shellacked wood table, we perused our menus in silence, which was broken only once when Julianna said, “I’ve tried almost everything here. It’s all really good.”

  When the server came over and asked if we wanted a drink, we both nodded. “I’m ready to order my food, too.” I said. “How about you?”

  “Yep, I’m ready,” Julianna said. She motioned for me to go first.

  “I’ll have number twelve. And a sake.”

  “Cold or hot?” the server asked.

  “Cold.”

  Julianna looked at me, approval in her expression. “Oh, that sounds good. I’ll have number twenty-four, and I’ll have sake, too. Hot.” The waitress jotted down the order. “Oh, and can we have some spinach gyoza and the burdock-carrot salad?”

  The server nodded, wrote it down, and picked up the menus. When she was gone, I cringed inwardly, knowing that I was now alone with Julianna without the benefit of a menu to study and talk about.

  “I hope that’s okay,” Julianna said.

  “What?”

  “The burdock-carrot salad.”

  “Oh, yeah. That sounds great. Thanks.”

  “What did you order?”

  “Ganmodoki. It’s a kind of tofu-vegetable patty in a spicy broth.”

  “Sounds delicious.” she said. “It must be new on the menu. I don’t recall seeing that. You’ll have to let me know how it is.”

  I smiled. There’s something really alluring about a woman who loves food and cooking, and not just the kind that comes from a fancy kitchen in a five-star restaurant.

  The server appeared with two bowls of miso soup and our sake. I was partly grateful for not having to start the real conversation, and partly annoyed at the interruption.

  Since Julianna had invited me, I figured she should start the conversation. Then I wondered about the protocol. As the guest, was I expected to start the conversation? It had been so long since I’d been on a date. But was this even a date?

  My soup was steaming hot and I slurped it with the ceramic Asian-style spoon. Delicate little tofu cubes floated around the salty-sweet, almost-clear broth as I stirred it. It was a good distraction. The sake an even better one.

  Finally, Julianna spoke. “So, you’re probably wondering why I asked you to dinner.”

  “Um, yeah.” I chuckled, a little uncertain. My palms began to sweat.

  She regarded me a moment. “I think you’re interesting. I mean, most chefs are men, right? I mean, except for Julia Child and a few people on the Food Network.” The liquid in her bowl moved in gentle waves as she bobbed the spoon up and down. I didn’t know if she was waiting for me to respond or what next to say, so I just stuck to the topic.

  “There are a lot more of us in the field now. There was a time when it was male-dominated, but not so much anymore.”

  “I love that.”

  “What?”

  “Women who break down male barriers.”

  I grinned. “I didn’t break down anything.”

  “Sure you did. And it’s sexy.”

  I almost choked on my soup.

  “Others obviously think so,” she muttered loud enough for me to hear.

  I was sure that the confusion on my face was enough so that I didn’t need to ask. And I didn’t.

  “You know. Arielle,” she said sarcastically.

  It took me a few seconds, to get the reference. The red-haired Little Mermaid. I realized that she meant Brit. “Um. I’m sorry?”

  She paused a moment and I wasn’t sure she was going to explain. “Well,” she said cautiously. “You . . . uh . . . and her . . . ?” She paused, giving it a chance to sink in.

  Soup dribbled down my chin and I quickly brought my napkin up to wipe my mouth. “What makes you think that?”

  “I just assumed when she said, ‘When I left you this morning’ and she asked if you like the waffles—”

  “Oh, no, no, no.” The idea that she thought I was interested in Brit made me nervous in a way that I hadn’t experienced since my early twenties. “I saw her at a diner this
morning. She stopped to say hi. That’s what she meant. And I had waffles. At the diner. She didn’t make them.” My entire head got hot as I heard myself ramble. At best, I sounded idiotic. At worst, I probably sounded like I was lying. Part of me wished I could just burst into flames and end my perdition.

  Her brow furrowed, as if she was deciding whether or not to believe me. She tipped her bowl and scooped the last bit of liquid out of it. “This was so good.” She slurped it, placed the spoon in the bowl, and pushed it aside. Her features relaxed. Hopefully, she believed me.

  As soon as we were finished with our soup, the bus boy came and whisked the bowls away. Just as quickly, an elongated plate of gyoza and a black ceramic bowl of burdock-carrot salad arrived. Sesame seeds studded the long, julienned slivers of vegetables of the salad, while a dark, rich green hue came through the slightly translucent dumpling skins.

  I picked up the standard-issue wooden chopsticks and split them apart. As I rubbed the chopsticks together to remove loose splinters, I remarked, “You know, in Japan, it’s considered rude to do this.” I hoped that my roguish “I know lots of useless things” look would appeal to her.

  She was reaching for a dumpling but stopped, her own chopsticks frozen in midair in a crisscross pattern. “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah. And you know those little plastic tips at the end of shoelaces? Those are called aglets.”

  Julianna burst out laughing. “Now that’s . . . fascinating.”

  It was my turn to laugh. A big fiery whoosh sounded behind her from the open kitchen as the cooks no doubt were making something amazing. Aromas of grilled meats, vegetables sautéing in sesame oil, and rich brown sauces permeated the air, and I was suddenly ravenous, despite the soup.

  “Well, let’s dig in,” I said.

  We each took an appetizer and put some in our dishes, then switched. I watched Julianna pluck a gyoza gracefully with her chopsticks, dip it into the sauce, and bite into it with gusto.

  “Ooo,” she said, pulling the dumpling from her mouth. “Hot!”

  “Yes, you are.” Oh, shit. Did I just say that aloud? From her expression, I had. Oh, God. “Oh. Um, shit, I’m sorry.” The tips of my ears were burning.