Taste

by Kris Bryant

  “Fried chicken, meatloaf, and cornbread.” I know it sounds simple, but we have perfected the recipes at the diner and have received nothing but praise.

  “Nice and rustic,” Taryn says.

  I can almost feel the daggers Scott is throwing my way because of the attention she is giving me. I know he’s chomping at the bit to brag. By the time she gets to him, nobody cares. She nods as he goes on and on. He gives her a bright, lopsided grin and winks. Holy shit, he’s flirting with her. Sure, he is somewhat attractive, but how can she not see he’s an ass? Plus, she is way out of his league. She looks at him for a few extra seconds and turns her attention back to the whole class.

  “Soufflés are delicate, as most of you know. There is an art to it. Almost magic,” she says. Her voice is fun and I find myself smiling at her playfulness. She is making a smoked mushroom soufflé and we watch her work, talk, teach. She’s amazing. Since she is preparing food, she is wearing her chef’s jacket and tall chef’s hat. Her long, light brown hair is French braided out of her face and hits the middle of her back. Her hands are quick as she whips and explains her shortcuts, and her techniques.

  “How long have you been cooking, Chef?” I ask.

  “Since I was four,” she says. I smile and picture a small girl standing on a kitchen chair scrambling eggs with Mom close by.

  “What’s your favorite thing to cook?” Scott asks.

  “That’s a hard question. I enjoy so many different things. I love the simplicity of omelets and the complexity of coq au vin. As long as I’m in the kitchen, I’m happy.” Coq au vin is difficult because it requires braising a rooster, not a chicken, with a ton of other animal parts I’m not overly fond of, in a red wine sauce. Not my favorite thing to eat or cook. “A kitchen has endless possibilities and every day is a new adventure.” She says the word adventure with an ‘ah’ at the end, and I struggle to stay focused on her cooking instead of her mouth. I wonder what she is like with a lover. Does her raspy voice drive him or her crazy? Does she talk during sex, whisper words of encouragement, or is she quiet and her mouth busy? I sternly remind myself to focus on her efficient technique, but my mind wanders over her slender body. She is taller than I am by a few inches, and has a body of a runner. She does her best to hide her slender waist and long legs under her clothes and her jacket, but it’s hard to cover up perfection.

  “Ki?” she asks. “Ki?” I look at her. I’m sure my face looks guilty, and I feel the heat of embarrassment color on my cheeks. I have no idea what she just asked or said to me.

  “Chef, can you please repeat?” I ask.

  “Is class not challenging enough today to keep your interest, Miss Blake?” she asks. I hear an edge to her voice and I know I’ve offended her. Shit.

  “My apologies, Chef.” She ignores me and asks another student the same question. I feel like an ass. I’ve single-handedly managed to bring down the mood of my instructor. Again. How is this possible? I’ve always been teacher’s pet. I’ve even taught a class a time or two. So far, I haven’t made a very good impression on Taryn. I know she approves of my cooking, but she’s not impressed with the rest of me. I make it a point to stay focused on her lesson. I promise myself that I will make the best soufflé today.

  When she dismisses us to our workstations, I plan a spinach, mushroom, and Gouda soufflé, adding just a little bit to her original recipe. She has given us free reign on what to add to our dishes, but since we have an abundance of mushrooms in the refrigerator, most of us are using them. I see Scott pull out a lobster tail and I can’t help but roll my eyes. Both Mary and Taryn see me and for a brief moment I’m embarrassed again, but they both smile and the private moment shared between us gives me strength. I sauté shallots and mushrooms until the sizzling subsides, then add spinach, and try to recall Taryn’s steps. I close my eyes for a moment and watch her fold the separated ingredients together. From memory, I follow the best I can. It’s impossible for me to take notes in a kitchen. Cooking utensils only, not pens. I start the process and find I actually have enough ingredients to complete three attempts. I give a quick and silent prayer that one of them turns out and that nobody fucks with my oven. I stand guard over it and grab a cookbook Taryn has available for us to flip through. I about fall over when I see that the cookbook is actually her own. I’m trying not to put Taryn on a pedestal, but it’s hard when she is obviously perfect. According to the book’s forward, she was a finalist for a James Beard Foundation Award for the northeast two years ago. What the hell is she doing here in the midwest? Completely engrossed in the book, I almost miss my timer when it goes off. I’m not overly excited about my soufflés. One is overflowing, another is too dark because of the mushrooms roasting at the surface. The third has potential. I can’t cover up the top with a glaze because obviously it’s not a sweet dish. Instead, I decide to flash fry a few mushrooms and add them to the top. Not only will it add texture to the dish, but it will cover up the dark spots.

  “Very nice, Chef.” Taryn breaks open the soufflé. Thankfully, it is fully cooked. A few other students hang around to see my dish and congratulate me as well. “Nice use of the mushrooms on top.” She takes another bite and savors the taste before she swallows. I can’t keep my eyes off of her mouth. Her tongue darts out to quickly gather a few crumbs left by the last bite. Her mouth is generous and I wonder what it’s like to devour it. I have an urge to reach out and run my thumb against her bottom lip, feel its softness under my touch. I know she has to be a fantastic kisser with lips as red and full as hers. “Thank you, Chef.” Her words bring me back to reality. I find that I have moved somewhat close to her and I’m in danger of invading her personal space. I quickly nod at her and head back to my station. A few students congratulate me on my dish again. I can’t even remember what I just made. The image of Taryn’s mouth and what I want to do with it overtakes my thoughts.

  Chapter Four

  Saturdays at the farmer’s market down in the River Plaza are a chef’s dream. Cheap, organic, local food. I push myself through the week just to make it to the weekends so I can bargain with local farmers and growers for the best deals. I know several of the vendors. Some of them know me and save some of their better items, knowing I will buy from them.

  I stand for a moment and enjoy the sounds and smells around me. Spices from around the world, flowers from local gardens, fruits and vegetables from farmers. I hear several different languages, mothers scolding children, and vendors singing to buyers. I can spend hours here. Today is my first Saturday off in a long time. I’ve been working at the diner on the weekends since Morgan had her baby, so today is my day of freedom. I immediately head for the spices. I’m most excited about them and they are the easiest to carry.

  “Where have you been, pretty lady?” Akim asks. He smiles as I practically skip over to his vast array of spices. He has a permanent shop in the River Plaza and I stop in every time I’m here. I walk up and down the aisle, trying to figure out which ones I want.

  “Stop flirting, or I’ll tell your wife,” I say.

  “She knows I only speak the truth,” he says. “What are you cooking this week?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. I know I will need cumin and cinnamon. Do you have fresh rosemary this week?”

  “Of course. I also have whole saffron.” He whispers it to me as if we’re sharing a secret.

  “Shut up,” I say. He nods. “Hook me up.” After spending too much on spices, I reluctantly leave his stall and head for vegetables.

  “Look what I have for you.” I hear George yell from the second aisle, waving his arms to get me to his booth. I swear he has ESP and knows when I’m near. He holds up the largest eggplant I’ve ever seen. I head over to him, my brain already concocting recipes for eggplant a dozen different ways. My heart stops and I gasp when I notice Taryn picking through some zucchini and squash near George’s stand. I’m completely surprised at the little girl who is holding onto the pinky finger on her right hand. The girl is adorable. S
he has curly, dark blonde hair and big brown eyes just like Taryn. Of course Taryn has a family. She’s beautiful, smart, and can cook better than any chef I’ve ever known. I’m in a bad spot right now. This is her private life. It’s always unnerving when you meet an instructor outside of the classroom.

  “Hi,” I say. Taryn turns to me with a surprised look on her face.

  “Hi,” she says. We stand there smiling at one another. I’m completely tongue-tied around her.

  “You haven’t been around in weeks, Ki,” George says. I turn to him.

  “I’ve been working weekends for the last month. Today is my first day off in forever,” I say.

  “You are too young to work this hard,” he says. He bags three eggplants and hands them to me without even asking how many I want. “You should try slicing the eggplant thin, bake it, and halfway through, add some of your fresh herbs and spices.” He points at my bag. Sounds simple and delicious.

  “That sounds good, George. Thanks for the idea.” I turn back to Taryn. “He has the freshest eggplants and squash around here. Do you come to the market a lot?”

  “Olivia and I just moved to the area. This is our second trip down here. Olivia, meet Ki. She is one of my students.” Olivia shyly sticks her forefinger in the corner of her mouth.

  I squat down so that we are eye level. “Hello, Olivia. I’m Ki. Like pie.”

  Olivia giggles. “Pie? Your name is pie?” Oh, my God. She has a slight accent, too.

  “No. Ki, with a ‘K.’” I wink at Taryn. “C’mon. How cool is my name?”

  “Almost as cool as mine,” Olivia says. I laugh. She’s a spitfire.

  “Olivia is a very pretty name. You’re the first Olivia I’ve met,” I say. She smiles.

  “What are you doing here?” Olivia asks.

  “Probably the same thing you girls are doing here. Buying fruits and veggies.” I stand up and am face-to-face with Taryn. She looks completely relaxed. Her hair is loosely pulled back in a ponytail. She’s wearing a thin white oxford with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and faded jeans. I wish I would have taken more time getting ready this morning. I’m wearing yoga pants, thin sweatshirt, and athletic shoes. My hair is also pulled back, but I’m a mess, and she looks great. Suddenly self-conscious, I quickly smooth down my hair and stop when I see her smile at me. She knows what I’m doing.

  “You seem to know the area pretty well. Are there vendors we need to stay away from?” she asks. I’m surprised she’s asking me for advice.

  “Most of the vendors on the ends of each aisle are the best. They have the prime spots and have been here the longest. They also know their customers pretty well.”

  “You seem to be popular.”

  I smile at that. “I shop here all the time. Well, I used to before I got added shifts.”

  “So, why do you work at a diner? Your cooking is fantastic. You could really work anywhere.” Her voice is so soothing and calming. It takes my mind a few seconds to process her compliment.

  “Thank you, but I want to learn all types of cooking, and I really like it there. You should come by. Both of you. We are just down at the corner of fourteenth and Grand.” I’m embarrassed. I just invited my teacher to my work. Now, we will awkwardly stand around until she says something non-committal. “No big deal. Just if you ever want to know why, come on down to the diner.” I can’t shut up. I will her to say something, anything.

  “That sounds great. We just might do that.”

  “Can we go see the animals now?” Olivia asks. Taryn turns her attention back to her daughter.

  “Can we pick up some fruit first?” she asks. Olivia thinks about it and nods.

  “But we have to hurry, okay?” she says. “Come with us, Ki.” It’s more of a command and Taryn shyly nods her head in their direction, her invitation cute and playful. I am not used to this side of her.

  “Hey, Olivia.” She looks up at me. “Last time I was here, there were baby chicks. I even held them. They are so fluffy.” She smiles at me and quickens her pace.

  “Hurry, Mum.” She tugs at Taryn’s hand and zigzags us through hordes of people bartering with vendors in the aisles.

  “Hang on, love. Let me pick up some apples and mangoes. Ki, any fruit vendors you like in this aisle since this is the only one I will get to?” Taryn asks. I just can’t believe she’s so relaxed. And beautiful. I notice other people glancing at her and I’m torn between being smitten and jealous. She mentioned she and her daughter just recently moved to this area. She didn’t mention a husband, or a significant other. “Ki?”

  “Sorry. Just trying to figure out where the good vendors are.” Hopefully, I sound believable and she didn’t catch me staring. She has to know I’m gay. Hell, Scott outed me on the first day of class when he accused me of flirting with her. I point to a farmer on the left and we head that way. Olivia drags her heels anxious to get to the animals instead of studying fruit with the adults. “How fresh do you want the mangoes? I mean, are you cooking or eating them right away?”

  “Don’t tell anybody, but we are going to work on mango glazes and chutneys in class so I need a few ripe ones now to practice with and several for Monday,” she says. “Mangoes are fun and chutneys are easy. It will be a simple class.”

  “I have a mango chutney recipe that’s fantastic. I serve it on the side with pork chops at the diner.” She looks completely surprised. “This is why you need to visit the diner. Diners are completely misunderstood.” Bud’s Diner was created from love and it shows in his cooking. He’s had several famous people dine at his place, and photos on the wall to prove it.

  “We will. Let me know the next time you have a Saturday special that’s spectacular, and we’ll visit you there.” I’m so happy I feel like I’m floating. My heart is racing like I’m on a first date, but I keep reminding myself that this is a chance meeting. Not only is she my instructor, but she’s way out of my league.

  “Finally.” Olivia rolls her eyes. Taryn and I smile at one another. Taryn gives Olivia a few quarters for hay pellets to feed the goats and kids. Olivia has no fear.

  “How old is she?” I ask.

  “Six going on sixteen.”

  I nod my head in sympathy. “She’s very cute. Very smart.”

  Taryn smiles at me. “She’s quite the handful. But she’s my entire life and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I nod, not understanding if that’s her way of telling me she’s not interested, or if she’s just opening up to me like a new friend. Taryn gets out her phone and takes a few pictures of Olivia feeding the baby goats. Olivia’s delightful giggle is infectious and soon several bystanders are laughing with her.

  “She’s a ham, but completely adorable. She looks like you.” I almost face palm myself at my stupidity. Rule number one: never, ever hit on your teachers. Not even subconsciously. Taryn’s smile turns tight, and I know I’ve said something stupid. I’m not sure how to get out of this uncomfortable silence that seems to be going on forever. “So tell me where you’re from. Both of you have accents.” That seems innocent enough.

  “I’m originally from South Africa, but moved to Florida when I was a teenager. I went back to Cape Town after college and was there for ten years. Olivia and I moved back to the United States about four years ago.” She nods at her timeline.

  “Wow. I’ve never met anyone from South Africa before. I was trying to figure out if you’re from England or Australia. Well, you have a great accent.” I cringe again because I still sound like I’m hitting on her. “I can tell Olivia has a slight accent, too.”

  “Hers will probably disappear over time. Mine won’t,” she says. I’m okay with that. “Honey, move your shoes away from the mama goat. She’s trying to eat your laces.” Her attention is back on Olivia. Olivia responds by dancing and moving around, squealing with a mixture of delight and alarm. “She’s going to need another bath.” We both watch in pure disgust as several baby goats nibble at her hands, their slobber webbing her fingers. Olivia doesn’t see
m to mind, but I’m already trying to find the hand sanitizer. As a chef, I am constantly washing my hands. I hate for them to be dirty. I know the mentality of a six-year-old is different than mine.

  “They have hydrants here somewhere. We can just hose her off,” I say. Taryn briefly touches my forearm and laughs. She quickly pulls away as if my arm has burned her.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. And now things are awkward again. We turn our attention to Olivia, the silence heavy between us. I make a conscious effort not to look at Taryn, even though I’m very much aware of her nearness, her smell, her loveliness. I see her gradually relax again as she watches her daughter. “Olivia, it’s time to go. Say good-bye to your new friends.” Olivia starts pouting and I can’t help but smile. It’s amazing how much they look alike. She gradually makes her way over to the gate, slowly, making sure to pet each goat along the way.

  “We need to come back here every week,” she says matter-of-factly. She fusses a bit as Taryn douses her tiny hands with hand sanitizer. “And can we bring cookies for them to eat?”

  “Sweetie, I don’t think the mama goats want their babies to eat cookies. I think we’ll just stick with the tiny pellets.”

  “Okay. But can we see them every weekend?” Olivia wrings her tiny hands hopefully. I’m nodding with Olivia, completely inserting myself into this family moment. I agree they should come back every weekend, not only for the great produce, but for the opportunity for me to bump into them again.

  “We’ll see,” Taryn says. Both Olivia and I sigh. Everybody knows what that means. I try to lighten Olivia’s mood.

  “You know what, Olivia? Even if you skip a weekend or two, the babies will still be really happy to see you the next time you are here.” She doesn’t quite smile at me, but her frown is gone. “And if I’m here and you aren’t, I promise to give them some food and tell them it’s from you.” Okay, score. That does it. She’s happy again.