It started innocently – it really did. George ran a very nice, very hip restaurant on Main. I thought he was handsome, of course, but we were only polite for the longest time. I’ll admit I liked how he called me “honey” – it seemed so old-fashioned and down-home, from a slick, cigarette smoking man. He was quick witted and organized, he moved easily for his height. He came in about once a week, we did orders and passed easy pleasantries (weather, sports) and moved on. He was never as chatty, needy or strange as other clients, and while I enjoyed him, I don’t think we thought much of each other outside of those brief interactions. Or I hadn’t thought so, anyway.
I’m not sure why I even brought it up, I hadn’t even patroned his restaurant, yet. One day I just asked, “what do you stuff your mushrooms with?” His eyes lit up, and he was off. Obviously I should have guessed that he was passionate about cooking. I considered myself a very competent to good home cook, and adventurous to boot, so I was always willing and interested in talking about it. It started that every time we saw each other we exchanged “what are you making?” conversations, and interactions became less brief. One day I showed him a picture of a
boule I had made the previous evening, asking for a troubleshoot on crumb. We started talking bread and then he said, pulling out a business card (heavy cardstock, twee logo), “text me, huh? I’m writing down my cell,” he said scribbling in his bad handwriting, “don’t leave me waiting, I want to see how much better your next try is… if you follow my advice.” He glanced up, from his semi bent position, up towards me, almost through his lashes, and I had a near-instant flash of what he would look like, looking up at me like that, from his knees or between my legs.
“I will… I mean, I won’t… I mean leave you waiting.”
“Good. Hell, you can just send me what you’re cooking tonight.” Read more »