Add Spice to Taste (6 page)

Julianna was s
uddenly next to me. “Hi.”

I jumped slightly. “Hi,” I replied with my hand on my chest. “I didn’t see you.”

“Sorry.”

The hostess came over and quickly showed us to a table.

At our little, shellacked wood table, we perused our menus in silence, which was broken only once when Julianna said, “I’ve tried almost everything here. It’s all really good.”

When the server came over and asked if we wanted a drink, we both nodded. “I’m ready to order my food, too.” I said. “How about you?”

“Yep, I’m ready,” Julianna said. She motioned for me to go first.

“I’ll have number twelve. And a sake.”

“Cold or hot?” the server asked.

“Cold.”

Julianna looked at me, approval in her expression. “Oh, that sounds good. I’ll have number twenty-four, and I’ll have sake, too. Hot.” The waitress jotted down the order. “Oh, and can we have some spinach
gyoza
and the burdock-carrot salad?”

The server nodded, wrote it down, and picked up the menus. When she was gone
, I cringed inwardly, knowing that I was now alone with Julianna without the benefit of a menu to study and talk about.

“I hope that’s okay,” Julianna said.

“What?”

“The burdock-carrot salad.”

“Oh, yeah. That sounds great. Thanks.”

“What did you order?”

“
Ganmodoki
. It’s a kind of tofu-vegetable patty in a spicy broth.”

“
Sounds delicious.” she said. “It must be new on the menu. I don’t recall seeing that. You’ll have to let me know how it is.”

I smiled.
There’s something really alluring about a woman who loves food and cooking, and not just the kind that comes from a fancy kitchen in a five-star restaurant.

The server appeared with t
wo bowls of miso soup and our sake. I was partly grateful for not having to start the real conversation, and partly annoyed at the interruption.

Since Julianna had invited me, I figured she should start the conversation. Then I wondered about the protocol. As the guest, was I expected to start the conversation? It had been so long since I’d been on a date.
But was this even a date?

My soup was steaming hot and I slurped it with the ceramic Asian-style spoon. Delicate little tofu cubes floated around the salty-sweet, almost-clear broth as I stirred it. It was a good distraction. The sake an even better one.

Finally, Julianna spoke. “So, you’re probably wondering why I asked you to dinner.”

“Um, yeah.” I
chuckled, a little uncertain. My palms began to sweat.

She regarded me a moment. “I
think you’re interesting. I mean, most chefs are men, right? I mean, except for Julia Child and a few people on the Food Network.” The liquid in her bowl moved in gentle waves as she bobbed the spoon up and down. I didn’t know if she was waiting for me to respond or what next to say, so I just stuck to the topic.

“There are a lot more of us in the field now. There was a time when it was male
-dominated, but not so much anymore.”

“I love that.”

“What?”

“Women who break down male barriers.”

I grinned. “I didn’t break down anything.”

“
Sure you did. And it’s sexy.”

I almost choked on my soup.

“Others obviously think so,” she muttered loud enough for me to hear.

I was sure that the confusion on my face was enough so that I didn’t need to ask. And I didn’t.

“You know. Arielle,” she said sarcastically.

It took
me a few seconds, to get the reference. The red-haired Little Mermaid. I realized that she meant Brit. “Um. I’m sorry?”

She paused a moment and I wasn’t sure she was going to explain. “Well,” she said cautiously. “You
. . . uh . . . and her . . . ?” She paused, giving it a chance to sink in.

Soup dribbled down my chin and I quickly brought my napkin up to wipe my mouth. “What makes you think that?”

“I just assumed when she said, ‘When I left you this morning’ and she asked if you like the waffles—”

“Oh, no, no, no.” T
he idea that she thought I was interested in Brit made me nervous in a way that I hadn’t experienced since my early twenties. “I saw her at a diner this morning. She stopped to say hi. That’s what she meant. And I had waffles. At the diner. She didn’t make them.” My entire head got hot as I heard myself ramble. At best, I sounded idiotic. At worst, I probably sounded like I was lying. Part of me wished I could just burst into flames and end my perdition.

Her
brow furrowed, as if she was deciding whether or not to believe me. She tipped her bowl and scooped the last bit of liquid out of it. “This was so good.” She slurped it, placed the spoon in the bowl, and pushed it aside. Her features relaxed. Hopefully, she believed me.

As soon as we were finished with our soup, the bus boy came and whisked the bowls away. Just as quickly, an elongated plate of
gyoza
and a black ceramic bowl of burdock-carrot salad arrived. Sesame seeds studded the long, julienned slivers of vegetables of the salad, while a dark, rich green hue came through the slightly translucent dumpling skins.

I picked up the standard-issue wooden chopsticks and split them apart. As I rubbed the chopsticks together to remove loose splinters, I
remarked, “You know, in Japan, it’s considered rude to do this.” I hoped that my roguish “I know lots of useless things” look would appeal to her.

She was
reaching for a dumpling but stopped, her own chopsticks frozen in midair in a crisscross pattern. “Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. And you know those little plastic tips at the end of shoelaces? Those are called aglets.”

Julianna burst out laughing. “Now that’s . . . fascinating.”

It was my turn to laugh. A big fiery
whoosh
sounded behind her from the open kitchen as the cooks no doubt were making something amazing. Aromas of grilled meats, vegetables sautéing in sesame oil, and rich brown sauces permeated the air, and I was suddenly ravenous, despite the soup.

“Well, let’s dig in,” I said.

We each took an appetizer and put some in our dishes, then switched. I watched Julianna pluck a
gyoza
gracefully with her chopsticks, dip it into the sauce, and bite into it with gusto.

“Oo
o,” she said, pulling the dumpling from her mouth. “Hot!”

“Yes, you are.” Oh,
shit. Did I just say that aloud? From her expression, I had.
Oh, God.
“Oh. Um, shit, I’m sorry.” The tips of my ears were burning.

It could have been the sake, but I thought I saw a shift in her eyes.

I tried to save myself.

“Be careful. You don’t want to burn your mouth.” Her lips had turned a darker shade of pink, and I wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked but instead focused
on the burdock still on my plate. The sesame seeds gave it a nutty flavor that was enhanced even more by the sake.

The alcohol was flowing through my bloodstream and I was
becoming giddy. I had the feeling that she wanted to ask me something. At this point, I probably would have given her my Social Security number.

I forced myself to think clearly—as clearly as I could. “So… Julianna. You said you wanted a one-on-one. What would you like to know?”

“Oh, I just thought I’d pump information out of you.” She said it teasingly, with a little sparkle in her eyes.

The low, sensual timbre of her voice and the playful
quirk of her lips sent a ripple up my spine and a crazy shot of electricity to my stomach. I took another sip of sake. “Okay. Like what? Being a woman chef? My favorite recipes?”

I asked too soon after sipping because the liquid veered over to my windpipe and I started coughing.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concern on her face.

“
Fine . . . fine,” I sputtered. My eyes watered and my nose started to run as I looked up at her. She had a bemused expression on her face. “I’m so glad this amuses you,” I said jokingly.

“
You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

I
f my face wasn’t already purple from the choking, then it had to be beet red now.

“You think I’m cute?” I managed to
ask.

Before she could answer, the server came over again, placed our entrees on the table, and walked off with our empties.

My question suddenly seemed ridiculous and juvenile, and Julianna’s lack of response didn’t make me feel any better.

The sake seemed to be having an effect on her, too, because her cheeks had a ruddy glow. It
only increased the hotness factor.

For the next few minutes, we ate in silence. The
whooshing and crackling of food being cooked, the sizzle sound of the cook sautéing up chicken and beef, the chatter in the dining room, and the buzz of Japanese pop music became vivid and pulsating.

“So, tell me how you started out doing this
,” she said after a while.

Every time someone asked me this question, I usually gave a sanitized, nutshell, all-is-well version of my journey to teaching. With Julianna, I felt like telling more.

“I had a café at one point. But I didn’t really know what I was doing. I thought I did, but I was young and I had big dreams. Some big dreams need to sit and marinate a while before they’re executed. You know, until the dreamer has more information and experience under her belt. And in the end …”

I took another bite of my
ganmodoki
while I debated how much I should tell her. After all, she was a total stranger. Yet, I had an urge to just blab everything, unload my burden. But I didn’t want to scare her off with all the sordid details of my not-so-illustrious track record with women, particularly the last one.

“Was it your girlfriend?”

The question startled me. Did she know that the back story was about Brenda, without me even saying a word about her?
I guess I had been working under the assumption that she knew I was gay and that she was, too, but her question made me realize that I’d been taking it all for granted. I mean, she did say I was cute, but maybe she meant it in a different way. Like, you’re so cute when you pretend to be cool. God, I could be such a dumbass sometimes.

“Um, yeah.” I
laughed ruefully.

Sympathy softened her features. “She left you?”

“Yeah. Found someone else.”

She looked at me, almost startled. “
Oh, I’m sorry. That sucks.” And in a softer voice, “She doesn’t know what she gave up.”

I dropped my gaze to my food. “
Yeah, it did suck. But that was then. This is now.”

We continued eating for a while in silence. My stomach roiled but I dared not stop eating. I didn’t want to have to say any more, because if I did, I wasn’t sure where it would end.

“Yes,” she said.

I looked up from my plate. Julianna was holding her chopsticks aloft, wakame hanging between their tips. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, I think you’re cute.”

My throat constricted and suddenly the
ganmodoki
was stuck on the back of my tongue.

Julianna was smiling coyly. “Look, I’m not usually so shy about stuff like this, but for some reason I seem to be a blubbering idiot around you.”

My food finally pushed past the constriction and went down. I swallowed hard. “A blubbering idiot? You? No way. On the contrary, you seem quite confident.”

She popped the wakame into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Then, poking at her
California roll, she said, “Only when I know what I want.”

The last mouthful of
ganmodoki
went down my throat just in time before that, too, got wedged behind my tonsils. I was just about to speak when the music switched from indistinctive pop tones to Japanese techno music. The noise level was suddenly intolerable. I wasn’t sure if I was glad or sad that we were both finished with our food.

While the bus boy dutifully cleared the plates, the server came over again and asked us if we wanted dessert or another drink. Julianna and I looked at each other and both shook our heads. I turned to the server and sa
id, “No, thank you. Just the check, please.” The server nodded and went away. A moment later, she returned and placed a money tray with the check on the table.

When I pulled money out of my wallet, Julianna put her hand on mine. “No, my treat.”

“No, no.”

“I invited you out to dinner and it’s on me.”

I gave her an “are you sure?” look, and she nodded emphatically. “Absolutely. My treat.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied with obvious pleasure.