I had known of her for a while. We crossed each others path. It was a rocky start. I asked her out. She turned me down. Twice. We saw each other at the coffee stand later that summer. I was teaching biochemistry for high school students. She invited me to stop by her office. I stopped by, later, my cart full of molecular models and biochemistry stuff. We talked. She, sitting down at her desk. Me, leaning against the filing cabinets by the window. Trying to be cool. As if. She asked me my age, 30? No older, 33? No older. Older than 35? Yes. So, she said, do you want to go have a drink sometime? Sure I said. How about this Wednesday?
I make sure I wear my signature straw fedora, a nice dress shirt, and one of my sport coats that evening. I dressed to impress. Too cool for school.
We went to a bar downtown. Made fun of people. Had some appetizers. Had some drinks. Talked food. Made more fun of people. Talked a lot about food. This girl got my attention. I dug her. She is leaving the following week on vacation. She and two girlfriends. Two weeks on a hot rock. In the middle of the Mediterranean. She promises me dinner when she came back. We walk to her place. One of those perfect summer nights in the city. Almost there, we stop for a quick nightcap. We talked some more. Drinks, a mojito, dirty dirty martinis, proseco. The summer night moves so quickly. I walked her the rest of the way home. She left me by the sidewalk, quickly closing the gate and dashing inside. Over the bridge I went. Back to lab. Intrigued by the evening. By her. I send her an e-mail in Spanish – the geek romantic that I am.
I don’t hear from her till Friday. How about that dinner before I leave, she said. Does Tuesday sound good? Yes, I said. Tuesday is good. What should I bring? Nothing, she said.
Tuesday comes. I am nervous. What is her food going to taste like? What about the flavors? I am latino. Cebolla, ajo, comino. I need flavor, some adobo. Does she remember discussing likes? Dislikes? We walk over the bridge, stop at the market for some limes. Walking on, casual but nervous chatter. We get there. I give her the bottle of dessert wine I brought. She pulls out a bottle of Havana Club given to a family friend by Castro himself and makes me a mojito. It tasted good. Damn good. She knows how to make a mean mojito.
She starts dinner. Another mojito. I feel warm inside. The aroma wafting from the kitchen starts me drooling. Pavlov’s dog I am. She won’t let me nibble. She sets the table. The plating gorgeous. Colors blending with the scent invading my olfactory ducts. A frontal assault to the senses. I fight impulses, controlling the desire to devour. I take a first bite. Flavors burst in my mouth. Chicken, moist, falling apart under the tug of my fork and knife. Just the right amount of salt. The herbs convey a cool summer evening feel. Pears caramelized to perfection. The arugula crisp and fresh. A nice red helping to wash it all down. Then the coup d`etat. Home made truffles. 70% dark chocolate. Smooth ganash filling the crunchy outer shell.
Dinner over, we talk late into the evening. Another bottle of red, and another. Strong coffee. Steamed milk. She cast a spell over me. Enchanting me with her insightful observations, her long curly hair, her sensual body, but most of all her, snaring me in her gastronomic web.
It was love at first bite.