He smiles at me. ‘Want to watch it in the next room while we eat?’
My first reaction is to refuse food.
‘I have Chak-Chak,’ he says with a wickedly impish grin.
Oh, deep fried little logs of unleavened dough topped with hot honey syrup. It’s been a long time since I had some. Come to think of it, I was wound up at the dinner and hardly ate any of it. ‘In that case, okay,’ I agree with a happy grin.
‘I’m going to have a bowl of zharkoye too. Want one?’ he offers.
‘Who made it?’
‘Irina brought it in this morning. She makes it at her home.’
Homemade beef stew. The ultimate in comfort food and a definite must when watching a storm outside. ‘All right,’ I concur, ‘but only a little for me.’
He uncurls himself and pulls me up with him.
‘Are you cold? Do you want something to wear?’ he asks.
‘I’ll wear your shirt,’ I say, going to his discarded shirt and slipping my arms through the oversized sleeves. It smells of him and I hug it close to my body.
Noah rolls up the shag rug and slings it over one shoulder. We go through to the next reception room where the glass doors open out to the garden. Noah unrolls the carpet in front of the doors. Taking the cushions from the couches, he throws them on the carpet.
‘Do you want some blankets?’
‘No, I’m not cold,’ I reply.
‘Fine. Wait here for me,’ he says, and goes out of the door.
Twenty
Tasha Evanoff
I lie back propped up against cushions on the shag carpet and look at the black sky as it streaks with flashes of white lightning. The power of it leaves me strangely excited. I count the seconds before the thunderclaps. One, two, three. Hmm … using the counting system of Baba, where one second is equivalent to one mile, the storm is only three miles away. It could get to where we are. The storm could break over us … if we are lucky.
In minutes Noah is back carrying a tray. Two steaming bowls of stew and a plate piled high with Chak-Chak. I dip my spoon into the rich brown liquid and put a bit of potato and beef into my mouth. The meat is so tender it disintegrates on my tongue.
‘Mmmm … Irina is really good,’ I say. I close my eyes. ‘I can taste the cloves and the dill, but she’s also used another ingredient.’ I pause and frown. ‘I think it’s rosemary. No, wait. It’s not. It’s actually oregano,’ I decide finally.
He looks at me with an odd smile.
‘What?’
‘You remind me of a joke my restaurant manager once told me.’
‘Go on then, share it. I can see you’re dying to tell me.’ I put a mouthful of food into my mouth and look at him expectantly.
He grins. ‘There was this gourmet who had an amazing sense of smell. He was very proud of it because it was so damn accurate and strong. All he had to do was smell a fork or a knife and he could tell exactly what food had been eaten using that utensil. He could do this even after it had been washed. Every time he went to the restaurant he wouldn’t let the waiter or waitress show him the menu, or tell him the special. He would simply smell the fork and know every single dish that the restaurant specialized in.
‘One day he goes into this Italian restaurant and, as usual, before the waiter can tell him the specials for the night, he holds up his hand. “Let me see if I can guess,” he says.
‘The waiter looks at him strangely, thinking, Oh God, I’m getting too old for this job. Silently he gestures for the man to proceed. The man smells the fork. “Ah,” he says. “You have sea bass baked with anchovies and olives, but the Chef has put a touch too much lemon juice in that dish so I won’t have that. Instead I’ll have the chicken with Parma ham, and the baked potato which also smells good.”
‘Shocked, the waiter asks, “You got all that from smelling the fork?”
‘The man explains about his amazing sense of smell but, of course, the old waiter suspects it must be a trick. He must know someone who has been in that restaurant before. However, he wants his tip so he quietly serves the man’s meal to him. For dessert the waiter opens his mouth to tell him the specials. Again the man puts out his hand and smells the spoon. “Ah, it seems as if the Tiramisu is very fresh.”
‘Now the waiter is convinced someone is playing a trick on him. “Yes, Sir, the tiramisu was made this morning,” he says politely. “Yes, I will have that then,” says the man.
‘The waiter resolves to play a little trick of his own on the man. “No, no, before you make your decision there is a very special dish that the Chef has prepared that has not yet been served to anyone else. I will let you smell it and guess for yourself. And if you correctly guess it you can have your entire meal on the house.”