Dating Foodies
Culinary Courtship, My Adventures Dating Foodies
Even though I know that scrumptious, euphorically spicy foods carry the inherent danger of heartburn, I still can’t resist them. Or interesting, articulate men who cook.
My daughter gave me some suggestions on how to find the latter. She was in town scouting job opportunities after college and I’d just gone through a heartrending breakup. Much to my trepidation, in less than a week, she had a date with a charming stranger. After she returned from her date in one piece, she assured me that practically everyone was checking out the personals, and insisted if I asked at the next dinner party, at least one couple would have a story about meeting online.
One of my inspirational heroines, Auntie Mame did say, “Live! Life's a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death!”
Well, I didn’t want to be a poor sucker…so I went online. I know. I know. But it did work for my daughter and I’m nothing if not adventurous, besides I have a motto of my own, “Life is a research project.” So the (re)search began.
I didn’t pay that much attention to the pictures, just enough so in case things worked out--he wouldn’t scare me in the morning. Believe me, there were a few scary ones. What I actually looked for was three magic words: “loves to cook”.
After a few winks, smiles and email exchanges, a gentleman surfaced. Sailin’Sam lived aboard his boat and was quite proud of his Scottish heritage—and his cooking skills. At the next full moon, he lured me aboard his boat for dinner and a midnight sail along the Oakland/Alameda estuary. He offered his specialty, filet mignon cooked aboard his 30 foot sailboat. He also promised a taste of a rare scotch from an obscure little distillery he’d visited while in search of his ancestors in the Scottish highlands. The estuary is only a quarter mile wide, I figured I could swim to shore if the situation edged toward the dubious.
Sam was an adept sailor. All by himself, he maneuvered the boat out of the dock, insisting that I just sit out of the way and sip the smoky golden Scotch that lived up to his raves. We motored out of the marina chatting about my upcoming move to a new apartment and he offered help with his pickup truck. Within a few minutes we located a quiet abandoned dock where we snugged up next to a barnacled pier. Once the steak was cooked to perfection, we had dinner below deck in a cozy booth beside the tiny galley. After dinner we went back topside and he raised the sails while, once again, I did nothing but watch and munch on Scottish shortbread cookies.
Wind popped the sails and rattled the lines and we moved gracefully along the estuary. He gave me a few pointers and I took the wheel while he went below and soon the sounds of the newest Santana CD filled the air. It was all there, the mood, the food, a huge orange moon reflected in the water and just enough wind to require a light wrap. The breeze even blew my hair and he moved it aside for that obligatory first kiss. It was the scene from a perfect personals ad. Only one problem, we were missing the key element: chemistry. Thankfully we both recognized it. There was a bonus: he was such a nice guy that even though he got back together with his girlfriend during the interim, he still showed up the day I moved with his pickup truck.
The experience was so encouraging I continued to play.
“I’ll swim the bay to meet you,” he’d vowed.
I suggested he take the Bay Bridge. Even at rush hour it would be faster. He said he’d bring coffee that he’d roasted himself. I volunteered figs from my backyard tree.
“Let’s meet tomorrow at 5:02, where Grand Street ends and the beach begins,” he suggested after googling the time the sun would drop behind the San Francisco skyline.
We’d be situated for prime sunset viewing, if the fog held off.
I was up at dawn to beat the neighborhood birds to the figs. Carefully, I stuffed the fruit with cream cheese and walnuts, wrapped them in tissue-thin prosciutto, and tucked the plump treats into the picnic basket, along with aged Parmesan and honey.
Of course, I got to the beach first.
I knew to look for a middle-aged man with a thermos of coffee and a bottle of contraband Cuban rum under one arm. I knew he’d been married before. In the photo taken at a friend’s wedding that he’d emailed earlier in the day, I could just make out the arm and elbow of his ex-wife.
In fact, I knew so much from the stories we’d exchanged via email that I wondered what we’d talk about at this first meeting. A childhood in Cuba? Life as a photojournalist in Houston? His international cigar club buddies? I ticked off the possible subjects for conversation in my mind and prepared to be charming.
Before long, I saw him striding over the sand toward me with a smile that lit up the beach.
We talked for hours while we enjoyed the bite and mellow glow of spiked coffee, the surprise and confusion of salty cheese with honey. We fed each other the sumptuous figs, their tiny seeds like fruit caviar popping on our tongues. We sat through the gray dusk into the navy night, until we could no longer see each other.
At last we headed for the cars, trailing sandy shoes in one hand, sharing the handle of the picnic basket between us. He leaned forward for a quick touch of lips and I almost left it at that. But I was curious to see if that oh-so-elusive “chemistry” was there. So I let the shoes slip to the sand, laid my palms against his chest and leaned just that little bit into a second kiss. When it was over, I could feel his heart, accelerated, beneath my hands. I smiled just a little. Chemistry? Oh yeah.
“Let me cook you a Cuban feast,” he offered. “Come to my home in the Wine Country on Saturday.”
The next weekend, I drove down a country lane through sun-washed vineyards, over a wooden bridge to his door, where he stood waiting with misted glasses of chilled Viognier.
The wine was from the winery at the end of his lane and tasted of green spring mornings, peaches, and dew. Of anticipation.
He led me to the kitchen where the feast simmered and warmed. A bubbling pot of black beans snuffled and growled like a sleeping puppy. Garlic and spices distracted me into a nose game of identity, but not before I wondered if I would allow myself to be seduced.
“Here, try this.”
He piled rosy Madeira-soaked caramelized onions on a toast sliver and ran the edge along the seam of my lips. The scented sweet heat of onions allowed to go languid in butter teased my nostrils and lured my tongue.
I bit. Flavors swept through my mouth like a gastronomic thunderstorm, dark with a sweet-savory fusion, followed by a lightning flash of heat. I felt my eyes widen involuntarily, and I could only stare at his full Cuban lips, opened slightly as if he tasted what I tasted.
“More?” he asked, holding the other half about a hands width away.
I pressed the tips of my fingers against my mouth catching the bits of toast, then licking my lips and fingers.
“All of it,” I whispered.
He smiled.
He moved comfortably about the kitchen, clearly his domain with all the essential tools, none of the gourmet frou frous. A great knife, a wooden board, a fat crunchy loaf of peasant bread, still warm from the oven. He curled his fingertips and cut, the knife braced against his knuckles like the chefs on television. The likelihood of an affair increased.
We regaled each other with details of our histories, love affairs, and family as we toured his home, his art collection, to a soundtrack of Cuban jazz.
When we moved into the dining room for dinner, he carried our plates in and set one before me with a bit of Latin drama. The rice was molded into a circle and surrounded by moist chicken, glistening ebony beans and crisp plantains. Perched perfectly on top of the white mound was a hot, spicy, ruby pepper, tantalizing and a bit dangerous.
I sat for a moment looking at the beautiful plate of food and knew I would sleep with him. I met his eyes.
He knew it too.
We talked over the knowing, but it lay there beneath each morsel of spice infused chicken, each nibble of pepper that brought a sheen of moisture to the skin. There, always present, like the aftertaste of capsaicin from the peppers, making the eyes a bit damp, the mouth open for more air…
We didn’t make it all the way out of the dining room.
A few months later, I sat before my fireplace with my battered leather journal and a fresh pot of tea. I spread homemade fig jam from the summer before on my comfort toast, took a bite, and began to write the story of our affair.
What had begun as a passionate banquet of the senses had tapered away to unsatisfying piquant moments, not nearly enough sustenance for body and soul. What I really needed now was a hearty nourishing soup.
An hour later, I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand, paused, wrote: Note to self: continue to date self-taught cooks, chefs, and foodies.
Then I added: Avoid Caribbean cuisine, at least until the burn subsides.
Eventually it did.
The first time my new friend dropped by my apartment for a drink before our movie date, I gave him a quick tour of the place. I was pulling the vodka out of the freezer, when I turned to find him surveying my kitchen with his hands on his hips. He slowly took in the small but adequate espresso machine, the wall of books with a high percentage of cookbooks, my pride and joy the stand mixer, and the new set of cookware that included a pot large enough to boil half a dozen crabs. He nodded his head and said, “Now, I could cook in here.”
I could so see him in an apron.
“How about next weekend?” I suggested.
He arrived with a grocery bag in each hand and headed toward the stove. I stopped him and gave him an encouraging kiss that unexpectedly began to steam up the room. So much so that he dropped the bags onto the black and white checkered floor. Stepping over vegetables and kicking aside cans, he backed me toward the bedroom without breaking the kiss.
I guess we were going to dispense with the appetizers. Quite a while later, we had worked up a bit of an appetite, so returned to the kitchen. I sat on a stool and watched him prep the salmon, rinse the spinach (especially important, since we had recovered the bag from beside the refrigerator) and wield my Wustof knife. I wasn’t worried about his fingertips, I already knew something about his dexterity.
He was hot, and moving around the kitchen with the confidence of a good cook. As we talked and laughed and he cooked, I teased him that he could be a Food Network star.
He looked over from stirring a pot and watched me fish a cherry tomato from the vinaigrette he’d just made, and pop it in my mouth.
“Promise me one thing, “ he said.
I nodded, trying to speak with my mouth full, “sure.”
“Tell me exactly what you think about my cooking. I learn from the reactions I get. Be honest.”
“And what about the sex?” I asked.
“Lie your ass off. Make me a legend.”
I think I just did.
When he handed me a plate, the lustrous peach flesh of the salmon rested on a bed of glossy sautéed spinach and I didn’t have to lie. The meal was incredibly tasty. And dessert was fabulous.
Unfortunately the relationship was a bit like one of those brilliant restaurant meals, unforgettable, but not really for daily consumption.
With Auntie Mame’s exhortations, words like research project, banquet, and adventurous circling through my mind, I did venture back into the fray.
The risk was worth it. There is nothing like coming home to the smells and sounds of an Italian in the kitchen.
The roiling boil of water awaiting the pasta, garlic tomatoes oregano, sizzling Italian sausages, and an aria from Don Giovanni wafted from my kitchen behind him. He met me at the door with a hand towel slung over one shoulder and a morsel of perfectly seasoned pork in his fingers, which he slipped into my mouth watching my eyes intently as I chewed. I was a goner.
A few weeks later I was house bound after surgery and he showed up at my house with a culinary solution for my convalescence. He cooked all afternoon and left my refrigerator jam-packed with enough food to see me through the next few days. The highlight was the ultimate comfort food: homemade macaroni and cheese. Really homemade, with a creamy white sauce, three varieties of cheeses and Italian (of course) bread crumbs all crunchy on the top. That concoction was so good, that after he left I took an extra vicadin so I could get up in the middle of the night, hobble into the kitchen and reheat it in the oven. No microwave here, this had to be done right, because the textures were as important as the taste. I even sat on the kitchen floor and scooped the melty cheesy manna out of a big bowl with a tablespoon. Of course, I made a miraculous recovery.
Unlike trying to kick other vices like smoking and drinking, one does need to keep—eating. Ah, so many memorable meals, so many food groups. And unfortunately occasional bouts of heart burn.
Regardless, I recently painted a new motto over the arch in my kitchen—the doorway that leads to the bedroom. The calligraphy is a quote I’d like you to take away with you, kind of like a doggie bag for the soul. In the divinely, deliciously, evocative words of the Dalai Lama, “Approach cooking and love with reckless abandon.”