Taste

The wall at the top of the stairwell flashed between orange and white as his shadow danced in the flames coming off the sauté pan. With one smooth turn of the wrist he sent the pan into a fit of spitting hisses splashing the white wine across the hot butter. The pungent odor of garlic hit her nose and called her to creep down the hall. She stood at the top of the small stairwell peering down into the kitchen. He stood with his back to her holding the sauté pan a few inches off the gas burner. Flames burst and dance from the pan as he swirled the burning alcohol towards the edges. She watched in awe as the fire jumped dangerously close to his face but never touched him. He seemed to always know just where the flame was going, moving with it but never into it. “Good Night” called a voice from behind her. The last diner of the evening was pulling his on coat as he walked out the door. “Good Night” she called back, leaving the stairwell to lock the door behind the customer. As she turned the sign on the door to “CLOSED” she knew that this meant only one thing; the dish he was preparing was just for her. Her hours of envying others would soon come to an end. Tiptoeing back to the stairs she heard the whoosh of the pan as he poured in the heavy cream. A plume of white steam rose above the bubbling white liquid. Leaving the pan to simmer he turned around to gather ingredients from the prep line behind him. She stepped back into the hallway, pressing herself against the wall. She wasn’t ready for him to know just how memorizing she found his cooking to be. A white plate with a damp linen cloth draped across the appeared from the prep cooler. Curiosity got the better of her as she leaned in closer to the kitchen. Fresh fettuccini just for her; not even the VIP diners were treated to this.

She scurried back down the hall to the pantry to busy herself with her closing chores. One last wipe of the salad station with the bleach rag and she could call it a night. Her stomach fluttered as she threw the bleach rag into the bucket, she would casually take the laundry down to the kitchen. It would only be her 11^th trip of the evening, she always made sure to have something in her hands assuring herself that each trip through his kitchen was work related. The morning shift was often pleased with how well she left the pantry stocked for them, if only they knew. Keeping her eyes at her feet she carried the bucket with both hands down the stairs. The industrial dishwasher lugged into action spraying jets of water as he shoved the last load of pots and pans in. Juan the dishwasher had been sent home an hour before, they were now here alone.

The plate of pasta sat at the end of the prep line, steam rising off the hot cream sauce.  Next to it a neatly folded blue linen napkin from the dining room, a dinner fork and soup spoon had been placed on top of the napkin. An old bar stool from the kitchen staff smoking area sat empty in front of the prep line. She kept one eye on the plate as she turned the corner, heading out the back door towards the washing machine. She intentionally slowed down her actions while loading the bleach rags into the wash. The pasta dish was too hot; she had made that mistake before. It needed just a few more minutes to settle to allow all the flavors to hit just the right temperature. After folding the linens from the dryer she made her way back through the kitchen door. He was bent over the 8 burner gas range scrubbing away the spills from the busy dinner rush. “Um, is this for me?” she sheepishly asked while standing next to the bar stool. “Only if you want it to be?” he answered without looking up from his work.

Hopping onto the barstool she paused for a moment, taking in the plate. The meal before her was a piece of art. The white linguine and cream sauce were accented by yellow, orange and bell peppers. Small bite sized pieces of rosemary chicken were buried within the pasta like treasure waiting to be found, an accent of chopped parsley had been sprinkled along the perimeter of the oval plate adding just the right amount of color.  She delicately twisted the fork into the pasta, being sure to intertwine a a few morsels of pepper and chicken into the first bite.   She could not help but to close her eyes as the pasta hit her tongue. The silky cream sauce coated her mouth bringing with it an explosion of flavors from the ingredients throughout the dish. The pasta was perfectly aldente. Rosemary from the chicken complemented the cream sauce, followed by a hint of heat; another spice she couldn’t quite put her finger on. That first bite seemed to last an eternity, she took a deep breath opening her eyes. He was staring right at her. She felt the rush of warmth run up her neck into her face as she turned bright red. She could have kicked herself for losing herself in front of him like that. “You don’t like it?” he asked with a playful grin. “No, actually, I love it! Thank you” the words seemed to stumble over each other on the way out of her mouth. The smile remained as he turned from her to go back to his work, always keeping himself busy when she was around.  She continued to watch him as she dove deeper into each bite. Would she ever be able to act normal around him? Did he have any idea how stupid he made her? One thing she was sure of, she could not live the rest of her live without his cooking. Somehow she would pull through her insecurity and make him hers.

The prompt for this story was "Taste". In class we read Marcel Proust's "The Cookie" where he describes his experience with a petite Madeleine. Our assignment was to write something with taste. I immediately thought of the time in my life where everything I knew that was related to taste was blown out of the water. I met my husband while working in a fine dining restaurant the summer after high school. He won me over with his charm, his long grunge rock hair and his amazing pasta with cream sauce. In our home food is love.