Tuesday, March 1, 2011 |
I was in lust. Joseph was a chef in my local restaurant. He made me drool whenever he stuffed a zucchini. I could imagine his pristine hands rolling a lemon to make it juicier. His sabayon sent me into paroxysms of praise, and I could feel my heart racing, and my arteries hardening with each spoonful.
I never imagined that Joseph knew that I existed, but one evening, as I dined alone with my Dictionary of Gastronomy on my lap, he came to my table.
Would you dine with me tomorrow night? he said.
Oh, God yes, I said.
He took me to the newly opened Blessings Bistro. He ordered for us. Then he castigated the servers, declared that the wine was Chateau-old du Pape and he displayed the table manners of a starving Tatar.
I'm going to the washroom to throw up now, he declared. I'm anorexic. But first, I'm going into the kitchen to see whose misguided hands and mind created that food. Be right back.
I put on my sunglasses and crept to the front door. Taxi? I said to the host.
Certainly, he said. And if you don't have the fare, I'll pay.