He’s my best teacher, I’m acing his class because it doesn’t require using recipes. Instead, you come in and he has a variety of ingredients set up and you have to make the best dish you can from what’s available.
I’ve won best dish twelve out of sixteen weeks.
Inside Sweet Tarte, a tuxedoed man sits playing a black grand piano, and immediately my nose and senses are alive with the intricate combinations of smells coming from the kitchen. This is my church. Food is my muse and it’s the one place I’ve always felt I belong. In the kitchen.
I swallow hard, looking around. The hostess station is empty, which in a restaurant like this should be a no-no. Seconds move by agonizingly slow as customers and wait staff move past me, looking me up and down with disapproval.
I brush a curl back from my forehead and hold the thin shoulder strap of my purse as I bite into my bottom lip, wondering if this is all a big joke after all.
Finally, a blonde that looks like she just jumped from the pages of a Victoria Secret catalog steps out from the hallway and presses a forced smile to her lips.
“May I help you?”
“Yes. I’m meeting someone…” I lean over to scan the dining room, which is open to the lobby but I don’t see Dr. Stumps.
“The reservation name?” She looks annoyed, tapping a pen on the dark wood counter.
“Stumps, I think.”
“You think?” She narrows her eyes at me like I’m trying to crash some sorority party.
As I open my mouth to reply, I hear the voice from over my shoulder a second later the unmistakable stench, overwhelming the same olfactory pleasure centers which just a moment ago were firing full speed with magical delight.
“Yes, Stumps.”
I look to my left and see Dr. Stumps already wetting his lips as he gives me an entitled sort of smile, then looks at the hostess who is now standing at attention giving Dr. Stumps her most professional nod. He doesn’t even seem to notice, let alone be annoyed I’ve kept him waiting.
“Certainly, Dr. Stumps. Pleasure to, um, have you again.” She reaches under the counter and pulls two menus to her inflated chest, her voice quivering. “Follow me please.”
The good doctor runs a hand down my back, making me wince and shiver as he bumps his body repeatedly into mine as we walk through the dining room to a center table. The hostess places our menus on the tabletop, smiles at the doctor, then sniffs and walks away without giving me a glance.
When he sits, the room seems to close in around me as I fumble to pull out my own chair and settle myself. Luckily he doesn’t seem to notice, too busy staring at the menu, scratching his forehead, then running his fingers across the ten hairs that sweep over the shining skin on the top of his head. Money buys a lot of things, but clearly class and good manners are not among them.
“The tasting menu here is amazing.” He starts, still not looking my way as I hold the menu in front of me and try to make sense of the letters as they seem to shift and move in front of my eyes.
“Yes.” I agree, struggling to make sense of the words as a trickle of sweat meanders down my spine. “Do you eat here often?” I manage, trying to buy some time and hopefully managing to get him to order and spare my humiliation.
“Yep.” He answers, not looking up. “I’m a regular.” He finally raises his eyes from the menu, but instead of looking my way, he looks over toward the bar area, then finally at me. “I’ll be right back. Order us the risotto appetizer. They know what wine I like, I’ll tell the hostess to have it sent over, they might not serve it to you…it’s expensive.” He tosses the menu down, shoving his chair back, and without another glance my way, leaves me sitting as he disappears into the bar.
“What an ass.” I mumble. “At least act like you invited me.”
Twenty minutes later, there is cold risotto sitting in front of me and a bottle of some big deal wine opened on the table as I push back my chair and head for the bar. I may not be able to read, but I can read the writing on the wall. The good doctor needs a lesson in basic decency and I’m going to deliver chapter one before I make a dramatic exit to the nearest bus stop.
There are two couples seated at the bar, sipping wine, but no Dr. Stumps. I work my way over there, thinking I’ll ask whoever is tending, but no one is in sight.
“Fuck this.” I hiss, spinning before turning my head. At the last second, I see the back of Dr. Stumps head as he walks backwards from the hall above, where a sign reads: ‘restrooms’.