I watch her, smiling a little as she chops a few cloves of garlic as fine as powder in a matter of seconds, only half-hearing. She stops a second to look at me sternly.
“If you’re not helping, you’re getting in my way.”
There she goes again with that mouth. You don’t spend your entire life fighting your way to the top, then fighting everybody who tries to knock you off, to be spoken to like that. But I somehow find myself grinning, wondering if this girl knows how hot she sounds, how badly I’d like to rip that apron off her and give her my own set of orders, orders that have nothing to do with food.
“Yes ma’am,” I drawl agreeably, pulling off my suit jacket and rolling up my shirt sleeves to get to work.
For the next fifteen minutes she works the kitchen up into a storm of aromas. Grilling Mexican chorizo with the beef patties, baking rolls that smell as sweet as cake, flash-frying herbed potatoes. My mouth waters as plumes of spicy smoke rise and unfurl around us—so admittedly, she may have had a point about the tiny portion sizes. I tune into her working rhythm, watching her move from task to task amid a cacophony of sizzles, slammed oven doors, the rhythmic beat of knife on wood to the low rumbling of boiling water.
“Where is this chorizo from?” she asks, as she chops it carefully.
I stop mixing the minced meat with my hands—as per her instructions—to smile at her.
“A little place down in the Argentinian pampas. Beautiful place,” I say, then lean in to her and lower my voice. “You’d love it.”
She stops cutting for a second, looking up at me and noticing how close I am. For a second that professional demeanor breaks, a little smile, a slight blush, a little flick of the hair before she’s back to business again.
“I’m sure I would, if I ever get the chance to go.”
I think about telling her I’d take her, half consider my schedule and wonder if I can drop everything right now to charter a plane there for both of us. But before my mind wanders too far off-course, Willow pulls me back into the cooking with another command.
She’s laser-focused on the food, switching between disciplines almost frantically, but always poised, always in control, oblivious to the way I’m eating her up with my eyes. An embodiment of my two favorite things: beautiful women and great food. The sight of her toned legs as she squats to check the oven, the red kick of grilled peppers in my sinuses, the arch of her back as she leans over to check the pot, the crackle of hot oil touching coriander seeds. A synesthesia of sensual gratification, stirring a heart-pounding hunger inside of me now, my blood hot as oil, muscles tensing in anticipation, this woman glorious enough to devour.
I’m so distracted by thoughts of what I’d do to her body on an impromptu vacation that I barely notice when she finishes, plating the food as I study the taut curve of her thighs.
We stand side-by-side at the counter, and she looks at me directly for the first time since we started, pulling off her apron and tossing it aside.
“It’s a rush job,” she says, suddenly looking a little nervous. “I would take a little longer with the buns—I know this great Eastern European way of making them super light. And if I really had time I might consider alubia beans—but I doubt it.”
I tear my gaze away from those soft eyes to look at the plate, gathering some sense of civility about my senses as I see what it is in its final form, coming back down to earth with a bump. I might be worked up enough to feel the electricity on my skin, but I didn’t get to where I am without putting rationality first, without putting food above even the kind of crazy thoughts she’s pulling from me.
“It’s…a burger,” I say, blank, firm, and disappointed.
“No!” Willow says, a note of panic in her voice. She points at it as if to direct my critical look back toward it. “I mean…yes. Sort of. But it’s a chorizo Kobe burger with garlic aioli, lime-zested mustard. It’s Basque-influenced, only a short walk from the snobby French-oriented stuff you serve.”
After a pause I take a deep breath and say, “Still, it’s a burger. You think that’s going to sit well on a menu next to beef bourguignon and bourride rapheloise?”
“You need something like this on the menu,” Willow says, temper flaring a little now. “Every main we have is so rich and full, but the textures are all similar. It’s all sauce-based. This has just as much richness of flavor with a somewhat drier texture. I can guarantee people would appreciate this.” I glare at her, unconvinced. “I’ve made a variation of this with Roquefort cheese, too—if you really think it’s not ‘Michelin star’ enough.”
I let out a long sigh.
“Do I have to say it again?”
“What’s wrong with it being a burger?” Willow snaps. “Everybody in this country eats burgers—from the poorest families to the overpaid actors you call your clientele. Even vegans make them.”
“Precisely,” I say calmly. “Everybody makes burgers. So why would we?”
“Oh I see,” Willow says, folding arms, fully offended now. “It’s not ‘pretentious’ enough for you, is it? Not ‘extravagant’ or ‘upmarket’ enough for your exalted customers?”
I glance at the burger again. It looks good, there’s no doubt about it. Ingredients prepared so well my mouth is watering even with everything else going on, even though I’ve already eaten. I look back at her.
“It’s upmarket,” I say, “for sure. Looks great, smells great. But it’s still a burger. Still just an elaborate version of something you can get for a dollar.” I push myself off the counter and start to turn, shrugging a little apologetically as I turn to leave. “It’s not for Knife. Sorry.”
I haven’t even taken a single step before Willow grabs my arm and yanks me back toward her, face twisted with outrage now.
“You’re not even going to taste it?!”
“I just told you. It’s not right—”
She picks the burger up and holds it in front of me, aiming it high like she’s about to smear my face with it.
“Just taste it. One bite.”
I laugh gently.
“Willow, we should—”
“Taste it,” she says, moving herself to squeeze me between the counter and her slim body, giving me no room to escape. So close I can see the glistening in her eyes, the way they’re flickering between mine, the burger poised to push into my mouth.
For a few seconds I don’t say anything, lost in the feel of her body lightly pressing against mine, lost in the hypnotizingly slight rise and fall of her cleavage. She’s so close now I can almost see the trembling passion that lies just beneath that golden skin.
I release a little of the tension in my expression, put a hand over her wrist to hold it steady, and lean forward to take a bite of the burger, eyes never leaving hers. I release my grip and she heaves a breath before sighing a gentle, slightly victorious smile, taking a bite herself before laying it on the plate behind me.
It’s good. Really good. The meat juicy enough to roll and push the flavors in my mouth like waves. The dull thud of the garlic mayonnaise setting up the spiky kicks of zest and chili. Arugula and onion relish fighting to set a bed of peppery, warm sensuality on the tongue. Even the buns—obviously rushed and a little less risen than they should be, but cooked with spelt, absorbing the juices of the meat and sausage, the run of the relish, are worthy of a pastry chef’s respect. The balance and refinement of the textures, the revelation of broad, natural combinations, everything build up to something…exceptional. So good it ignites the passion within me, attunes me once again to raw sensuality, to the perfect form standing in front of me and the intense urges she’s teasing from some primal depth.
“This is…better than I expected,” I say, withholding further comment. Willow’s face is hungry, awaiting more. I like this expression, and I take a few moments to savor it.
Food can do a lot of things. It can ease the pain of a hungry stomach, or it can slam you into the past, a memory you’ve long forgotten. It can be filler for the empty space in your body, your heart, or your mind. Maybe I’ve spent too long eating food that was better appreciated in photographs, food so meticulous and contrived in its conception that it made you feel the presence of the chef. Some food makes a critic of you, and other food reminds you that you’re flesh and blood, beating heart and lusting tongue.