Pulling into the parking lot of the Ridgeline Restaurant, I was so struck by the view that I nearly hopped the curb with my rented Neon. Snow-highlighted peaks towered over a serene lake to such heights as to trick my sense of perspective. It seemed as though I could simply stretch out my fingers and trace the deeply shadowed folds of each acclivity, but that so doing might send me toppling over the brink, into the glassy water below.
I made a mental note to send flowers to my editor, thanking him for this assignment. Six months of interviewing urban chefs (in Manhattan, L.A., Chicago, and other concrete-clad environs) made this trip, deep into the Colorado Rockies, all the more refreshing.
Before abandoning the Neon, I quickly reviewed my subject's bio sheet. His name was Adam Blake. Unlike the culinary school disciples I had grown weary of interviewing, Adam was a field-trained chef. From his résumé, I ascertained that his early twenties had been spent cooking with many of the offbeat greats of the culinary world. Now, thirty-two, he was chef de cuisine in his own dinner house. I gathered my gear and went in search of the service entrance.
Through the steel door, I could hear the steady pulse of a bass line accompanied by distorted high notes that could only belong to a Jimi Hendricks solo. The buzzer was far too obnoxious against the sweet blues, but left no doubt that I had someone's attention. The door swung open with a quiet squeak, freeing the music from within. Exercising my keen journalistic observation skill, I read the embroidery on his jacket and said, "You must be Adam!" extending my hand.
"So my mother would lead me to believe," he quipped. "And you must be Amanda." He took both of my hands in his, drawing me into the receiving area of the kitchen.
A man's hands tell volumes about his relationship to his work. Regarding Adam's hands, I found them to be strong, yet endowed with a delicacy of dexterity. His nails were trimmed and clean. Aside from the universal "cook's callous" at the base of his right index finger, his hands were free of blemishes. No cuts or burns marred the graceful surfaces. I have learned that actual working chefs, who are not prone to these small injuries, are at greater ease in their surroundings, and there is a translation of this ease in their product.
"How was the drive from Denver?" he asked, as he gestured in the direction of the heart of the kitchen.
"Oh, it was stunning, once I got off of I-25."
"Yeah, mud season is the reward due all of us who survived the winter, up here. Everything is greening up, but the tourists are still a month off." He grinned, flashing a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. I was reminded of the sunlight on the lake, allowing myself to acquiesce, just a bit, to the gravity of his blue eyes.
"I came in early to tackle the prep, so I'm all yours, for the afternoon," he announced, spreading his arms wide. I couldn't help hoping that there was at least some innuendo intended, on his part. My burgeoning career had left me no time for a romantic life, and a flirtatious interaction was more than welcome.
"Great!" I replied, wishing I had the guts to up the ante with some suggestive witticism. "Tell me about your space, here." I had been too taken with his alpine cultivated good looks to take any real notice of my surroundings. Glancing around, I found his kitchen to be uncommonly warm and homey.
"Well, I believe that a commercial kitchen needn't feel industrial. Rather than have an endless sea of stainless steel, I tiled the walls, and made this maple prep table for the centerpiece of this kitchen. The health inspector gives me grief about it every time he rears his brill creamed, rat-like head, but microbial science is on my side."
The table was massive. Lining its center were bouquets of fresh herbs. Basil, mint, cilantro, dill, and thyme all waited patiently for a turn to shine. As he described the layout, and his thinking behind each detail, I noticed a change in the ambient light of the room. Looking up I discovered that four skylights illuminated the kitchen.
"That's a nice touch," I noted, indicating the natural light source.
"Thanks. I spend about seventy-five hours a week in here. The sunlight keeps me sane," he explained. "Hey, have you had lunch?"
"Not yet. I'm famished!" I replied, rubbing my tummy, and biting my lower lip.
Adam flashed that grin, again, and proclaimed, "Well, we can't have that. Why don't you look around the front of the house, and I'll whip something up."
Though I wanted to stay and watch him in action, I knew there would be time for that later that evening, during service. Strolling around his restaurant, I was impressed by the tasteful quaintness of the décor. The furnishings were crafted from local woods. Cedar trimmed pine tables with willow chairs spread out under the aspen ceiling. Semi-private dining rooms banked the rear of the main room, with smaller tables lining the floor-length window along the view side. A vast deck hung into the air off the lounge area. I let myself out onto this, and gasped as I leaned over the rail. It felt like a Saturday morning dream. The warm spring breeze, fecund with reawakened flora, and the last trace of melting snow, washed the plaque of smog, sirens, and cell phone chatter from my soul. I lost myself in the view, delighting in the humming birds jockeying for position at the feeders strung along the roof's eve. Eventually, the deck door clicked open, and Adam stepped into the sun bearing two plates, two glasses, and a bottle of wine.
I suspected I'd find you on the deck. The nights are still too cool to serve out here, but I love taking my lunch in the sun."
"I'm getting the impression that you are something of a hedonist, Adam Blake," I teased.
"Guilty as charged, but name one true chef who isn't."
"Point taken, chef, but I suspect you may be better at it than most." A slight blush came over his cheeks, as he chuckled at my assessment. I took the glasses, and the bottle from him, allowing him a free hand to set the plates on the nearest table. Producing a waiter's corkscrew from his back pocket, he held out a hand for the wine.
"Allow me," I countered, reaching for his tool.
"By all means, my dear!" he relented. He sat casually in the chair, appraising me from tip to tail, as I went to work on the bottle. I was thankful that I had chosen to dress on the sexy side of professional.
"A journalism degree isn't free, ya know. At least the four years of waiting tables endowed me with one useful skill." I pulled the cork and poured a taste for his approval. He sipped the Riesling, and declared it to be "not exceedingly offensive" and gestured for me to pour. Laughing, I did as instructed, and took my seat.
Lunch was inspired perfection. Warm, oak-smoked salmon, atop fanned slices of mango in basil vinaigrette, reclined like a damsel in repose against Parmesan garlic cous cous, surrounded by roasted green chili and red bell pepper triangles. The flavor rose from the earthy foundation of smoke and fire through the fish and chili to the bright melody of the basil and tropical fruit. Each sip of the crisp wine tied a perfect bow on every mouthful. I was in heaven.
While we ate, I grilled Adam with the standard inquisition. To free my hands for eating, I switched on my digital recorder. We talked for an hour about his inspirations, his struggles, his heroes, and his vision for the future. As he spoke, the depth and originality of his mind continually entranced me. I could feel the wine working the same magic within me that the mountain sun was affecting on the surface of my skin. Lost in the rhythm of his words, I found my fingertips sliding thoughtlessly down my throat and under the fabric of my blouse. I just caught myself before brushing my nipple. Pretending that he was oblivious to the spell he had cast upon me, Adam suggested that we adjourn to the shade of the kitchen, lest my "pale skin blister in the high-altitude sun". Glad for the chance to compose myself, I followed him to the door, carrying the empty plates.
In the kitchen, Adam tended to the CD player, as I bussed our dishes to the dish room. Middle Eastern instruments began to sing with soft urgency from the speakers. The notes danced with the perfume of the herbs and the smoke from the wood-fired grill. The quality of light shifted as clouds slid before the sun.
"Looks like we came in just in time," remarked Adam, pointing to the first drops of a quick moving spring shower on the skylights.
"Timing is everything," I agreed, with a wink. "So, you've answered all of my stock questions; what can you tell me about your relationship with food that I don't already know?"
"Rather than attempting to explain that to you verbally, Amanda, let me demonstrate to you how I experience food." He reached around my waist, and guided me to the prep table.
"I see..." I purred, intrigued by what spell he might cast upon me, next.
"Actually, seeing can be a crutch for your other senses," he cautioned. "Appreciation of the culinary art requires all five senses. Our eyes overwhelm our other means of experiencing the world around us. Sit here," he commanded, dusting the already spotless edge of the butcher-block table, with a white towel.
Perhaps a bit too willingly, I hopped up on the maple. The heat from the oak grill crept up my short skirt, and conspired with my anticipation. I could feel the slick sweat of desire building inside me. The mystical melody from a distant land quickened in time with the sound of the rain. The darkening sky allowed the fire light control of the room.
"Close your eyes," he said.
I obeyed, intoxicated by his authority. Wordlessly, he began explaining his passion to me. First came the olfactory explosion of fresh basil. The tips of the tender leaves brushed my cheek, and tickled my nose. Next, I heard a sizzle on the grill, and the scent of autumn in New Mexico filled the air. A warm strip of green chili, adorned with only kosher salt, slipped between my parted lips. The flavor was much spicier, isolated as it was, than the chili had been at lunch, I panted, fanning my tongue with my hand. I felt glass against my lips, and reached to tilt the wine into my mouth.
"Uh-uh...no hands. Feel with you mouth," he scolded.
I sat on my hands, growing warmer and wetter, in the glow of the oak fire. Again, the glass was at my lips. The wine was cold in my mouth. A droplet escaped the corner of my lips. With a touch almost too soft to be felt, one fingertip chased the drop back to my waiting tongue. A low moan rose from me, and was met by his deep approving chuckle. He knew he was making his point.
A new scent filled my experience. It was sweet and bright. Ah yes, the other half of the mango. I was struck by the fact that it smelled yellow. He slid the fruit gently across my lips, withdrawing it when I tried to take a bite. Finally, he let it pass my teeth. When I sank them into the flesh, he let go, leaving the mango in my mouth. Instinctively, I reached up to grab it. Adam snatched it away.
"Apparently you need a tutorial aide for the 'no hands' rule."
Pulling a length of plastic wrap from a nearby dispenser, he stretched it into a rope, and bound my hands behind my back. This posture caused my erect nipples to press against my blouse, sending a shiver rippling through me. The mango returned to my lips. I bit deeply into it, my teeth raking across the hard pit. Now, I was committed. The tough fibers at the center would not yield, and Adam had released his grip.
"Hmm...what a delicious predicament you are enjoying," he smirked.
I sucked at the juice from the mango, and thick nectar began drooling down my chin. This time, there was no deft finger to appease the mess. I could feel the drips traveling down my neck. Just as they reached my blouse, he began unbuttoning it, one button at a time, staying just ahead of the sticky, sweet tide. With the last button undone, he whipped my blouse off my shoulders, and dove to catch the juice that had reached my navel. I groaned, muffled by mango, as he lapped the sticky fruit goo from my belly and chest. His warm hands cradled my breasts as he suckled me passionately. When his lips reached my neck, I nearly lost it. I wrapped my legs around him. He removed the mango from my mouth, and pulled my hips against his with his free hand. He held my ass with one hand, and the back of my neck with the other, as he kissed me so deeply that my panties could no longer contain my own nectar. He reached under my skirt, with both hands, and stripped my soaked lace to the floor.
In one elating thrust, he was in me. We locked into the rhythm of the music, gyrating in a pattern that had no edges, only one perfectly pulsating center. Rain bashed the skylights, and flames leapt from the grill. Pleasure pressure mounted within us until madness seemed inevitable. As he exploded inside me, a flash of lightning emblazoned the kitchen, and a cacophonous peal of thunder shook the building. Ecstatic waves rocked my body, rolling my eyes into my skull. Just as I began drifting back to Earth, Adam thrust himself back into me, hurling me into a second climax.
All of the sensations of that afternoon reverberated through my mind, during my flight home. A new warmth smoldered in me, along with a deeper appreciation of the culinary art. Wanting to hear Adam's voice, I pulled the recorder from my carry-on. Oddly, the display indicated two hours of recorded time. With a laugh, I realized that I had failed to press stop when we left the deck. I sure hope the long occupied lavatory didn't inconvenience too many of the other passengers!
Originally published May 2006 - "Hot Tamales"