Food Whore (24 page)

“What's in the back there? You have a floral shop on the side?” I nodded over to his bedroom.

“No, of course not. I saw that flower and thought of you.” He combed his fingers through my new hair and I briefly closed my eyes in involuntary euphoria. “I like your new hairstyle,” he said.

He
was a guy who noticed these things. I laughed. “You're pretty observant . . . for a boy.”

“Haha, I'm not just any boy,” he said. He fingers moved deeper and I thought that the dye may have given me new nerve endings because every hair prickled up to his touch. “We're sensualists, aren't we?”

“Sensualists?” He lowered his hand to my neck and pulled me so close our foreheads touched. “What do you mean?” I asked, the tips of my lips—­just slightly—­against his.

“Sensualism . . .” he repeated in his bizarre accent. He didn't press his lips against mine and I didn't dare press back. We let our mouths push and graze as we spoke. “We are passionate, you and I. We know how to give in to our senses.”

Then I felt the full heat of his mouth on mine and I lapped him up greedily, my hands grabbing his face and hair and shoulders.

I had never thought of myself as much of a sensualist. I was a writer, a rationalist in a sensualist world. I was always worrying about what other ­people thought of me and more often than not I liked the company of babies and dogs instead of humans my own age.

But what's rational about a man's lips on you, when he's touching you in a way that makes you feel the exquisite pleasure of belonging? Everything else is a distraction.

We tussled around with our shirts off, until he pulled me on top of him and slid his hands from under my hair, to my shoulders, down my arms, and finally to the place where the top of my pants met my skin.

“Leather pants, you little minx. Shall we have an encore?” he asked.

By now my hair was a wild mess. I was red from the wine. The lights were sort of dark, but not dark enough. I was wearing some Kiki de Montparnasse lingerie, black lace with tiny bows that were at once sweet and not so sweet. You could even describe them as naughty.

He let the tip of one finger move around the edge of my pants. When he got to the button, he made a flicking motion that stressed its hold. The critical button.

I was ready to undo it for him when I spotted a plate of leftovers on Pascal's kitchen counter: the snail dumplings that Elliott had pushed aside that first night at Bakushan.

Pascal seemed to sense my hesitation and sat up. “Tia? Are you okay?”

As my eyes slid to his, I suddenly felt dizzy, like I couldn't get enough air. I jumped off Pascal. His heat, his motion, his heartbeat, it all nauseated me. If he touched me, my heart would have exploded.

“Tia?” he repeated, and that's when the panic attack took over. I leaped off the couch, opened the window, and stood there on my tippy-­toes because even the floor's molecules were too much.

Pascal came to help, but I stopped him before he could touch me.

“Hold on!” I said, trying not to show how one look at those snail dumplings had sent me headfirst into a pit of anxiety. “I'm okay!”

And I just stood by the window, heaving the cold November air, wondering how long I'd have to fake it to make it.

I
WOKE UP
in the middle of the night on the couch, my head an inch away from Pascal's. For a second, I didn't recognize him and almost went into another panic attack. But then reality set in. It was Pascal. My Pascal. The guy I wanted. I hated my heart for being so slow on the uptake and took a ­couple of deep breaths.

The panic had completely subsided, and I was relieved to see that Pascal had already removed the snail dumplings. It was a hiccup, I thought. Nothing serious, just some transitional turbulence. I had to get it together for Pascal, especially before the review came out. That would be a turning point for us. Turning where, I didn't know, but I wasn't going to let some residual feelings for Elliott ruin our chances.

I watched Pascal sleep. He had long, curved eyelashes and lips that swelled with every little breath. I nestled into him, and his body responded in turn. He pushed his leg in between mine, nuzzling the top of his head against my cheek. His hair smelled like smoked wood chips.

He looked old, in a good way. Even in his sleep, he had a reassuring quality. Restaurants were about hospitality, but the chef wasn't usually the one with open arms. Pascal was, though. He was everything at Bakushan: the genius behind the stove, the draw through the door, the face on the magazine covers. He embodied so many things, and I was floored that he was the one cuddling into me. He was the one who gave
me
little kisses as he slept. I stayed up for an hour, just staring at him.

And as much as I was inspired by him, he must have been inspired by me, too.

He'd pursued me. He'd sat across from me at Tellicherry, asked me for advice at Whole Foods, and invited me to Bakushan. He'd made things better after Elliott spotted us late that night and now we were in his apartment, an apartment so barebones that surely he didn't invite ­people over all the time. Just ones he liked. And he'd taken care of me during whatever had just happened. He made me feel safe. It was only after I finally managed to tell my stupid, slow heart to shut up and come to terms with all that, that I was able to fall back asleep.

I
WOKE UP
the next morning at nine and found a note on his kitchen counter.

SORRY. HAD TO GO BACK TO BAK FOR PREP. REST UP. ILL BE THINKING OF U

I put the note in my purse as an anchor of sorts. This was where I wanted to be.

 

Chapter 26

T
WO DAYS LATER,
M
ICHAEL
S
ALTZ AND
I
MET FOR OUR
follow-­up dinner at Bakushan.

We decided I would be his “companion,” as he said gently. There was no other way around it—­when an older man and a young woman went out to a nice restaurant, sometimes they were father and daughter, sometimes uncle and niece, sometimes colleagues. But in this town, on popular nights at popular restaurants, more often than not these scenes meant we were dating.

I wore bright red lipstick, black Rick Owens leggings, a Givenchy blazer, and a knit cap from The Row that slid over my eyebrows, hopefully masking my identity.

“You look like you're homeless,” Michael Saltz said. “Did Giada give that to you?”

“Yes, of course!” I said, though I had requested it specifically. No more pant suits for me.

“For the record, I would never have
you
as my companion.” He wore blue jeans, an olive green button-­down, black plastic-­rim glasses, and shoes that looked like they were snakeskin. This was Michael Saltz's idea of a “downtown” outfit. He groaned wearily and snapped open the menu. “Pascal Fox . . . tell us, are you ready for four stars?”

I scanned the room for him, making sure to tuck any stray hairs under my hat. I couldn't see him in the open kitchen, so I pretended to go to the bathroom to get a better look. Nope, not there. He wasn't in the dining room, either. Where was he? Was he taking some time off? Or maybe he was with another girl? He wouldn't do that after spending a night with me . . . would he?

At first I thought I was upset because this was the last meal before the review—­it didn't seem fair to evaluate the restaurant not under his guidance—­but really, I wanted to see Pascal because of the urging in my skin. I
needed
to see him again, to touch him. I wanted him to want me and it killed me that I could only do so much to have him close.

We ordered around the menu, but it was all perfunctory. I didn't love everything, but it didn't matter.

“You didn't eat that much. What's with you?” Michael Saltz huddled in close to me, his fake glasses sliding down his nose. “You had me convinced this is four-­star. You still feel that way, right?”

I could have said yes, I could have said no. He would have listened.

He had been surprisingly quiet during the dinner. He knew he had nothing to say anymore. Michael Saltz smelled the food, evaluated the ser­vice, but beyond that, he was just a credit card.

As it turned out, he wasn't even necessary for that. The fake name on the
Times
card, Alex Dresden, could have been either of us. And since I was the one who had ordered and asked questions and ate, the somewhat flaky waiter with the nose ring gave the bill to me and I signed for the meal that would seal Bakushan's fate.

“Absolutely four stars,” I decided. World-­class. Pascal Fox, superstar. Saying that in the
New York Times
would transform his restaurant and his career, for sure.

But I hoped that it would transform us.

“What does a four-­star rating mean to you?” Michael Saltz asked, not challengingly, but more like an existential question between friends after dinner.

“It means you'll remember your meal forever. That the chef has advanced the world of cooking so it will never be the same. A meal you tell your grandchildren about. A meal that changes you. A meal that—­”

“Okay, just checking.” He smiled. “You've jumped into this opportunity. I'm proud of you.”

I blushed. I had jumped in, all right.

T
HE REVIEW WAS
basically written, but I put some finishing touches on it that night. Right before I sent it off, I received a text from Pascal.

BEEN THINKING ABOUT YOUR HOT KISSES ;) TELL ME I'LL SEE YOU SOON?

I wrote back:

Sure, but only if you're good ;)

He replied:

WHEN AM I NOT GOOD?

I hugged the phone. The heat moved across my collarbone, through my chest, and deep into my heart.
FOUR STARS,
I typed.

And though I'd like to say I did it because I believed Bakushan was one of the best restaurants in the world, deep down, I knew that wasn't true. All those complaints I'd heard had seeds of truth.

But I wasn't looking for truth.

I sent the review to Michael Saltz.

 

Chapter 27

I
WENT TO
SEMINAR LIKE NORMAL.
I
WALKED AMONG MY
classmates like normal. But the whole day, I knew everything between Pascal and me would change forever that night.

Pascal called me in the afternoon.

“Guess what? On Monday a photographer came to the restaurant—­from the
New York Times.
Just shooting around. And then yesterday a fact-­checker called about some of my ingredients and methods.”

“Oh?” I said, acting confused but smiling at the end of the line. “Why is that special?”

“Tia, Tia,” he kept repeating, and every time he said my name, my heart clenched tighter for him. “This is it! What I've been waiting for . . .”

For some reason, he wouldn't say it. Maybe he assumed I knew what those two things meant or was afraid to jinx it.

“So that means . . . Bakushan is being reviewed?” I asked sweetly, innocently.

I could sense him cracking a smile. “Tia, Tia, Tia,” he said. And that rapid-­fire name-­calling made my knees wobbly. “I don't want to work today, what's done is done. Let's hang out after I take care of a few quick things?”

I immediately went home and changed into the green-­and-­gold Hervé Léger dress from Giada's very first shipment of clothes. Before, it had kinda felt like too much, too tight, too slutty—­and not like me. But tonight was the night, and I'd decided that I'd go all-­out. The fabric took my breath away—­as in, I could hardly breathe in it. It was all stretch, but a stretch that made you work for it, like my breathing and walking was some sort of physical therapy exercise.

I needed to be ready for his call. Instead of eating dinner, I snacked on chips. I tried to do some reading, but the review was nigh. Everything came down to that. Yet hours passed, and Pascal still didn't get in touch.

Later that night, he finally texted me.

U READY TO GO OUT? MEET ME AT MY PLACE IN 20?

I replied:

I thought u said u were taking today off. What happened to getting together early?

It seemed like the kind of complaint a girlfriend would send to her boyfriend, but I sent it anyway. Immediately I worried he'd be turned off by my tone and wouldn't respond. But to my relief, it hadn't seemed to register at all.

ONLY 8:30 NOW! THATS VRY EARLY 2 ME.

By the time I got to his place, it was a matter of minutes until the review went live. Like always, I hadn't gotten to approve the final article before Michael Saltz sent it in, so even I was eager to read it. I had always gotten so excited about my reviews, but this time the review wasn't for me. It was for him, for us. I was about to make him extremely happy, more than any other woman in the world could.

I knocked on Pascal's door, but when no one answered, I let myself in. Pascal sat on a stool pulled up to his kitchen counter, a glass of Scotch close at hand. His face and tattooed forearm moved in and out of his laptop's light. I had already taken off my coat so the dress and I—­all legs and curves and cleavage—­could dazzle him. But he just nodded to acknowledge me, then looked back at his computer. I fell into a soft chair in the living room, watching him tap on the laptop's keys while crossing my legs so the dress's hem rode up higher.

Finally his click brought him to a different screen and Pascal pulled his face close. Every now and again, he tapped again, paging down. After about six long minutes—­I noticed he read slowly, probably because English wasn't his first language—­he looked up. He swooped toward me and lifted me in the air.

“Four stars!
Quatre
! FOUR FOUR FOUR!”

He vaulted me again and again, and I thought he must have acquired some temporary superpowers the way he raised me up so effortlessly. I squealed the whole way, propping myself up on his shoulders, feeding off his energy.

I ran up to the computer to see it with my own eyes. We'd pulled it off. The review connected us forever.

“
Out spills a green liquid, as slow and mesmerizing as lava,
” he read. “
Go on, take a forkful. Drag the finest, smoothest foie into the absolute essence of pea.
”

I closed my eyes as he continued.

“Pick up a few pieces from the pool of accents. And taste. And put your fork down.”

I heard him pick up his Scotch and flicked my eyes open. I took the glass out of his hands as he was about to sip and said, “Keep reading.”

He smiled devilishly and continued while I drank. I swam in the rhythms of my words.

“And wonder: how could this dish seem so pure and elemental, and yet have a flavor so electric, so challenging?”

“Do you like it?” I asked. Pascal was momentarily speechless, so I asked him again. “Do you like it?”

“Of course I like,” he said.

“What do you like about it?” I asked.

“I like . . . the grade, of course. And the words. The way the review captures the restaurant.”

“It's beautifully written,” I said, edging closer to him along the counter. “Don't you think?”

“Beautiful,” he repeated. “I love it. ­People will love it.”

I wanted him to say it again and, magically, he did.

“I love it. ­People will love it.”

He stroked me on the head, and I nuzzled into him like a cat. I saw his chest heave, his lungs filling with his accomplishment,
our
accomplishment. I had never been so attracted to him, or any man, before.

Then he took me by the face and kissed me harder than I've ever been kissed. He kissed me over and over, his lips only loosely aiming for mine. He pulled my lips with the strong pucker of his mouth, then let them snap back. All I could do was give in. That's all I wanted to do.

We made our way to the couch, lips locked. He laid me back so my feet were off the ground and my head hung over the armrest. He massaged my neck hard, digging his fingers alongside my spine. His breathing took on a husky bite, an animal roughness that gave me goose bumps. His hands followed my curves, focusing on my hips and butt. I kicked my leg around and sat on his lap. It wasn't very comfortable, but it'd have to do.

“You are irresistible,” he purred, and toyed with the straps of my dress. I took his hands in mine. I had the control. I controlled whether or not we had sex, whether or not he got his four-­star. He was begging for me. But I wanted to milk this even more. There's so much in life that is outside your control, that you accept because that's the way of the world.

But in this moment I felt influential and sexy and important and desired—­the very recipe for invincible.

I held New York City and its restaurants in the palm of my hand. I could make them or break them. I'd done this for Pascal, but—­I finally let myself admit it—­I'd also done it for me. I liked it and I was good at it.

I started moving my hips on top of him.

He leaned back and started to groan. “Oh, Tia, you know how to move. You—­”

But I put my hand over his mouth. “Shh,” I said. And then I stood up and swallowed every fear and insecurity.

Never in a million years had I thought I would do anything like this—­a striptease? An erotic dance? It all sounded so cliché, so tawdry on one hand . . . but on the other, bold, empowered, free. I had all the elements—­the hair, the makeup, the dress, the shoes, the hot man. And the most important thing, the confidence. I couldn't control a lot of things—­Elliott, Emerald, Dean Chang, Michael Saltz. But I controlled his attention, his hunger for me and me alone. For the moment, that made everything else melt away.

I shifted one strap over my shoulder, then the other. I circled my head around and swiveled my hips, creating a sort of hula hoop helix, a study in the curves of a woman's body. He reached for me, but I stepped back, just beyond his reach.

“Not yet . . .”

“
Argh,
” he said, but he said it with a smile. “Yes, mademoiselle.”

I turned around and grazed the tops of his knees with my butt, then spread my legs and bent over, because I knew the dress would ride up. I'd known this Hervé Léger was good for dancing, but I hadn't known until then that it was made for holding men entranced.

I stood up while his hand moved up and down my inner thigh, and then his other hand joined in. He unzipped the back of the dress and it fell to the ground with an unsexy sandbag-­like thud. I had never stood in front of a man in just a bra, panties, and heels. My first instinct was to be embarrassed, to want to cover up or turn down the lights, to jump on him so he wouldn't have such a complete view of every inch of me.

Yet his gaze only grew in intensity.

But then Pascal pulled me at the knees so I buckled and tripped on the way to his lap. He flicked my bra open and off so my arms flew wildly in front of me. Then, in a rather impressive move, he slid my panties off and circled around me so I was the one sitting and he stood over me. All of sudden, he had the control.

“Hey,” I said. A quiver came into my voice now that he was on top and I didn't know what he would do.

Pascal unbuttoned his shirt and unbuckled his belt. I got the picture and began to kick off my shoes, but he stopped me.

“Leave them on,” he said. “You look so fucking sexy in those heels.”

I blushed, but now wasn't the time to be sheepish. He leaned over me. I squeezed his waist with my legs and held his neck in the crook of my elbows so I could keep his face to mine.

We rocked together forcefully but in sync. He swiftly slid off his boxer briefs and put my hand on him. He was even harder than before, harder than I had ever felt Elliott. Pascal was roaring in triumph as he sat over me, himself in hand.

We stayed there for a ­couple of seconds. And then thirty. Then what felt like millennia. His breathing had slowed and he looked distracted, in another world. Why was he hesitating? I was so scared of losing him.

“I love you!” I blurted. It seemed ridiculous to say so much, so fast, but I needed to make sure he was mine.

It took a full second for him to wake up to my words, then he pressed his lips to mine and suddenly we were breathing inside each other's mouths, sucking on each other's lips, moving our hands all over each other's naked bodies. He was lying directly on top of me when he stopped and looked me in the eye.

“I love you, too,” he said.

He loved me. He loved me! I melted into the couch and let his body take me over. This man—­this smoking hot, super-­accomplished, nice, and considerate man—­loved me.

I felt that this could be my Thing, the thing that validated me.

He held me as if he were made of mercury, strong but slippery, a touch that seemed to skim the edges of my body leaving just the pressure of desire. When he came, he looked me straight in the eye. He whispered in my ear, “You're amazing.”

I didn't come that time, but I didn't show my disappointment. No good would ever come from that.

Pascal got off me and spooned me from behind, holding me with both his cow-­and-­pig-­tattooed arm and his vegetable arm. He smelled my hair and ran his fingers up and down the front and back of my naked body. Our breathing rode the same wave, our heartbeats kept the same rhythm. First rushed, exhausted, then calm, content.

Finally, he released me and lay on his back. Or at least, tried to. There wasn't much room on the couch.

“Four stars,” he said. “Wow.”

“Me or the restaurant?” I asked in a voice that was surprisingly sexy.

He laughed long and hard and turned his full gaze to me. “I think you know what it means . . .” He trailed off sleepily.

I closed my eyes and ended up falling asleep, too. When I woke up, maybe a few hours later, Pascal was standing, looking out the window. I stared at his sharp shoulder blades and his beauty marks. He had a double-­jointed elbow and as he leaned into the night, he looked like a fashion model doing some awkward and mysterious pose.

“Come on, let's go celebrate,” he said.

It was already two
A.M.
and all I wanted to do was lie on the couch, or even better, see what his bedroom looked like. I wanted to know what other surprises he held for me in his four-­star glow and the declarations of our love.

“Have you been to Room 113?”

“No,” I said, though I'd heard of it from Carey.

I stalled putting my clothes back on, and was glad I couldn't locate my La Perla underwear because it bought us more time. “Pascal, we can't go. We need to find my underwear.”

By now he already had his winter coat and shoes on. He held my head with one hand and my butt with the other.

“Hm.” He smiled. “I prefer it that way.”

I sighed. He could have asked anything of me and I would have done it. I wanted to have him to myself, though. So many girls wanted to gallivant around the city with him. For once I didn't care about seeing and being seen, or eating this and hating that. I wanted to hold on to this private moment, with him.