Bait & Hook

7. Dinner

After the amuse-bouche plates and Champagne glasses had been cleared, the waiter and sommelier arrived with the first course, the crab ravioli and the 2012 Liquidity Viognier. When they had left, I wished Roxy bon appétit, and we began.

A few bites and sips later, I watched with fascination as she examined the plate. "You deconstruct that like a food writer, Roxy."

She looked up at me, her face the angelic blush I've come to enjoy. "I've replicated this so many times, but I never managed to make it sing like this. Watched that episode over and over, looking for his secrets."

"What episode? Whose secrets?"

"The Iron Chef. This is the plate Rob Feeny created to beat Morimoto."

"Oh, it is, isn't it. I hadn't made the connection. Hadn't realised why it's familiar."

"Familiar?"

"I was at the Lumière party when that episode first aired."

"Oh, my! When was that?"

"Ten or twelve years ago, around 2005. It had been shot weeks before, but because of his non-disclosure contract, Rob couldn't announce his win before the broadcast. We watched the competition unfold on the flatscreens that had been set up around the restaurant."

"Wow! You were there? Really?"

I nodded. "Yes, really. And while the judges dissected, tasted and deliberated on the screens, we were served identical plates. What a magical evening."

"I'd sell my soul for an opportunity like that. How did you manage to get invited?"

"Gillian had been a food writer and restaurant reviewer, so we –"

"Gillian?"

"My wife." I sighed and dabbed my eyes with my napkin. "So difficult to say late wife, but I need to learn how."

Roxy reached across the table and placed her hand on mine. "Grieving can't be turned off like a light switch, Xander."

"True." Shivers coursed through my body. Not from memories of Gillian, though. No, these were from Roxy's gentle touch.

She quickly withdrew her hand, blushing as she said, "Sorry."

"No need to be. It's more than three years now. I should be over it."

"For that, as well. But for caressing your hand. Too bold of me."

"Not too bold. Not at all. It shows your understanding, your empathy, your compassion."

Silence ensued while I pondered my feelings. Where do I take this? Do I want to take it anywhere? I flexed my hand, trying to refresh, to re-live her touch. Her caress, she called it. She now seems not the phoney I had thought. On what had I based that? Her restaurant experience. Popping Champagne corks. But that she even attempts to replicate this dish – and her tasting skills – too fast to judge.

Then watching the delicate way she savoured a bite, I asked, "Do you often cook in this style?"

She put a finger to her mouth, nodding until she had swallowed. "French-Italian fusion is among of my favourites." She shrugged. "Actually, the fusion of any or all cuisines – European, Japanese, Chinese, Thai, Indian, African, Peruano, you name it – gives the exciting complexity to West Coast cuisine."

Oh, my! How sorely I had misjudged.