Add Spice to Taste (5 page)

“Really?
What’s she doing taking a cooking class? I can’t imagine that she cooks for herself.”

“Well, you know that cooking is the ‘in’ thing now. Even the wealthy like to say that they spend time in the kitchen. Of course, it’s probably just to pull the Dom Perignon from the Sub-Zero wine refrigerator,” she scoffed. “But that’s beside the point.”

“Ha!” I loved Sasha. I could always count on her for a laugh. “Hey, how do you know all that about Brit?”

“Met her at a club. I told her about the school. That’s how she ended up taking your class. I recommended you.”

“Good job.” I gave her a thumbs-up.

“
Okay, I gotta go set up. I’ll see you later.”

“’Kay. Have a good class.”

On my way toward my office, I stopped halfway and turned back to her. “Um, by the way, you know they don’t actually serve breakfast at Tiffany’s, right?”

She shot me a “no shit
, Sherlock” look, which just called for a wink as I walked away.

I was prepping
chicken at my demo station when Julianna came rushing into class and settled into what seemed to be her favorite spot. Her face had an adorable pink hue to it and she was breathing a little heavily. When she saw me, I straightened my back to acknowledge her. She smiled and approached. She seemed in a better mood than the day before.

“What have you been
doing?” I asked.

“
Yoga class. I was talking to my instructor and lost track of time. I thought I was going to be late.” She looked around. “I guess not.”

“
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
mmm
s 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
mmm
s 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 back
ed 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 at 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 desert
s 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 glass
es 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.