Add Spice to Taste (4 page)

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

A sixty-ish w
oman 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 little 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 t
he 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.”

“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.”