Erotic Recipes for Two

Recettes L'érotisme Pour Deux

(Erotic Recipes for Two)

I don't care what anyone says Romance is always about seduction. The satisfactions gathered from a romantic experience can be equivalent to the satisfaction often found in great meals. Food assists setting a stage for seductions by placing people in or out of their comfort zones yet leaves them open to wider experiences.

Enclosed within this binding is a collection of stories which carries you beyond ordinary carnality about an American living in Paris aspiring to be a culinary great and his adventures with some of the most unique women in Europe. Explore Hatch's "Café America".

Café America

Café America was founded by my father over twenty years ago. We had moved lock stock and barrel from Texas to Paris where one of my grandfathers already lived to make a new start. In the early days this start was rather tenuous as the French did not know what to think about a family from Texas entering an industry that they were famous for. I still remember those days as it was a lot of hard work but exciting. I was learning a new language and culture from the ground up. This made long days. I worked in the restaurant then as a bus boy and this is where I knew my life's work would be food.

Our initial customers were expats. Americans who lived in Paris, due to business, or travel interests and were seeking a taste of home. Technology and economies have since made it easy to travel yet there are still those dishes which are more authentic when prepared by someone that grew up with the cuisine.

Initially we found our niche in the restaurant world as an ethnic oddity in a city famous for its cooking and though my father struggled for trade he survived and eventually thrived.

As years passes and he learned to blend with the culture and adopted more dishes in demand by the local clientele we became more of a fusion experience combining favorites of America and France.

My Father's motto: no one goes away hungry.

Anaïs

Every swing of the black door, on my forays into the kitchen to pick up new servings brought forth new and more fantastic smells. Glimpses of men in white smocks could be seen deftly rushing to finish preparing the meal.

My plan to bribe the caterer into sneaking me in as a waiter still seemed a great idea when I had heard the famed Chef Andre Geostoph was cooking for this private party in the home of a local businessman.

The chance to observe a chef of his fame and stature was an expensive bribe however it was too good of an opportunity to miss, watching one of the renowned celebrity chefs of Paris in action.

As a line cook in my parent's small restaurant "Café America" in Paris, I am still learning the craft. The more you know the less you really know. Knowledge is sometimes very frustrating. I hold myself to very high aspirations and standards.

Not to complain about my parents' quaint restaurant on Quai de la Megisserie. It does satisfy all of their needs. They feed hungry people; providing a service while making a living has been their success, only being young I am the victim of larger ambitions. After all, how well do you expect two Americans that moved to Paris from Texas not even able to speak the language in their first years to compete with the best in a city famous for the quality of its restaurants? Strangely their fusion of Western Cowboy chow and the frillier high cuisine of Paris has attracted its own blend of unique patronage. We have fun with the food and the blending of the cultures.

I was only 10 when we crossed the pond and moved to France. I've inherited both worlds for good and the bad. This creates a fun and sometimes eccentric blend of language and taste.

Aspiration, desire, inspiration are required to become a good chef. Hard work is required to become a great one. Contrary to a lot of ideas, great Chefs are not born; they work even harder for their art then the people around them.

I worked, in my parent's restaurant, first as a bus boy, later as scullery help, then as a waiter before cooking on the line. I was learning the trade from the bottom up. I also do not have it as easy as you would think being the son of the owner would. My father's, day manager, Paul, cuts little slack and for unknown reasons I usually seem to be on his bad side.

No expensive culinary cooking degree has padded my path's only passion. My experiences came from the hard tutorage of a real kitchen's lunch and dinner services.

Once again, I find an excuse to revisit the kitchen and linger a few extra moments watching Chef Geostoph in action. His is a perfectly timed waltz as he balances his professional culinary demands, with the domestic layout of the residential kitchen. Pausing from time to time, his green eyes seem like a laser inspecting the work of his staff. Occasionally he is correcting them but more often complimenting them, while pushing the pace.

The kitchen is not too bad as it is large with modern appliances. He should be thankful it is not a rural farm kitchen! He has set up specialty stations where two of his staff also labor. I would like to pause and watch however my responsibilities in the dining room force me back to the service. We have twenty hungry guests and we are only beginning to lay out the food.

I catch myself yawning as I reentered the dining room. My morning had started early as usual. My favorite part of the day is the predawn hours visiting the local markets. I usually awake to the washing of the streets, muted colors, and smells of the morning markets while purchasing fresh produce and meat for "Café America". Eventually the sun rises and the colors brighten. This gets my day going better than caffeine; however, since I start before the sun rises, I tend to fade fast in the evenings.

"May I refill your glass, sir"? I inquired trying to be pleasant. This particular quest had been a pain from the beginning. Dressed in an expensive fashionable black tuxedo he was aware of the class difference between a waiter and a gentleman.

"If you have something besides this swill?" he slurred as he inspected the glass. Do you know how much longer until dinner?"

"Bringing it out now." I attempted a smile. "Dinner will be special."

"Then it's still a mystery? We've been waiting long enough!"

"It's going to be worth the wait." Biting back my desired response, I moved on to the next guest.

The next guest was beyond beautiful. She was breath taking beautiful! Women like this are too far apart and you can starve in the desert of mediocrity waiting for one to show.

The type of beauty that makes you pause to check whether your heart has stopped. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then hers were green fathomless, and without shallows. You could fall into infinity and drown in eyes like that.

Earlier I may have noticed her entrance but was involved in the job. Now I stood transfixed and trying not to stutter. I do sometimes have problems talking to beautiful women.

Rarely do you see this glow of presence, this pride and posture. In a world of the common she was unique. Its why men go crazy, want to drop one wing and run-in circles.

Unfortunately, she had arrived on the arm of the customer that was also giving me the problems.

Maybe it wasn't him that was the problem but my resenting him. No one deserved a woman like that, except maybe me.

She was untouchable. Earlier in the evening, as I had served appetizers my opinion had redefined itself. In a moment of gaiety there was a light in the corner of those green eyes that broke the reserve and attested to a personality.

Everything about her was served as a stylish package. She was grace, beauty and personality. Anyway, not for a poor cook, she was definitely society.

"Miss, would you care for more wine?" Her long ivory polished nails caressed the glass which she presented to be filled.

Now don't misunderstand me. I've had my own success with women but this was a princess. Just as I am rather common most of these had been bakers and shop girls; however, for now let's not look at my reflection. She out classed a simple cook but it never hurts to admire. I added to myself "just be sure to smile so they don't think you are a stalker".

Finally, entrees were served and we had some respite. The dinners were deep into enjoying the meal with the normal murmured conversations. I stepped back into the dark paneled corner with Claude, another waiter, where we quietly talked while keeping our eyes open for any requirements at the table.

"Je vais mourir pour une cheminée." He whispered.

"I could use a smoke too. Maybe we can sneak out after the deserts? Who do you think these people are?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Maybe the illuminati, at least they glitter? He shrugged. "They certainly dress well." He gestured towards the guests gathered around the immaculate linen covered tables.

"I think..." my comment was halted in mid stride by a loud disturbance which redirected our attention back to the dinners.

"Vous mordu aux puces putain!" It was the same surly guy I had been dealing with all evening. He was in a fit of rage. "Dirty filthy whore!" Picking up his wine glass he slung it onto his companion. The same lady I had been telling you about. The red wine hovered momentarily as if frozen in time by a Matrix movie, before covering her like a sheet of cascading blood. Time started again and drenched her gown in red.

All conversation at the table stopped as shocked diners tried to comprehend this violent act.

I had not been prepared yet to introduce you to what I see in my mirror. I am pretty good at avoiding attention and looking disarming. I have a useful face, tanned however I still look like an American. I have bright eyes with white teeth shining amid a broad brown visage. The proper folk-hero crinkle at the corners of the eyes, and the bashful appealing smile. I have been told that when I have been aroused in violent directions, I can look like something from an unused corner of hell, but I wouldn't know about that. So, I look harmless until aroused. I'm afraid I've always had a temper which I have always struggled to control.

Three rapid steps placed me almost instantly in back of the gentlemen's chair.

"Sir, is there a problem?"

"Only with this filthy whore!"

I grasped him by the collar and startled him by lifting him out of his chair to face me. "Perhaps you would like to step outside and calm down, so the other dinners do not ruin their appetites?" I quietly instructed him. Something most people do not know is that the madder I get the quieter and more dangerous I become.

His mad eyes rose to meet mine however the threat I projected shut him down. Taking one arm I forcibly walked him to the door. "For now, I think its best you leave."

"Mon manteau?" He pointed. "I want my coat!"

I grabbed the indicated garment, holding it between two hands I started to give it to him then the rage bit deep and I ripped it in half, and his eyes bugged in disbelief however he also became very cooperative. I thrust it into his arms while gently shutting the door on his disturbance.

Back inside the room had gone quiet again. Burrell, the caterer, approached with a stern look. "What did you just do?"

If I had depended on his job for a wage I might have been worried however since you know the circumstances of my being here, I was still reacting from anger. I had done what needed to be done. If he didn't like it, I didn't really care.

There was a quelled calm following us as we passed the tables while he led me back to the kitchen. The lady that had taken a wine bath had retreated to the guest bath.

Burrell led me back into the kitchen, where we occupied a corner, while the staff was preparing deserts pretending their best to ignore us.

"Who gave you permission to bounce M. Waters? You overstep yourself!" His face was puffed out and red. His finger shaking in my face.

At this point the host joined us. "That was a valuable client of mine. He deserved respect and you poussé him out the door!"

"The man was a major disturbance", I exploded! "What did you want? A se battre at the table? What of your other guests?"

"When you are that wealthy, you can make a disturbance! I depend on him for my business!" He pointed, "Get out. This is my home. That was one of my important clients! "

"You are finished here. I return your money." Burrell addressed me forcefully taking his cues from the hosts rage.

"Keep the money if It's more important to you than civilized manners!"

Burrell's face was red and I had visions of him literally exploding. Time to exit.

Our disturbance had attracted the attentions of Chef Geostoph who had joined us in the corner. "What's going on?

"Nothing, I'm out of here." I slurred turning for the rear entrance.

"Who are you?" the chef asked.

"Nobody. A waiter, Hatch Beauchamp."

"Don't expect any recommendations from me! Burrell shouted. I should have known better than to have accepted your money, "Burrell wailed!"

"What does he mean," Geostoph asked?"

"Nothing."

"He bribed me, to work tonight" Burrell confessed.

"Isn't it customary to pay help instead of taking money from them?

I stepped in. "I paid only for the pleasure of watching such a famous chef as yourself at work. For the chance of observing your skills in action."

The chef interrupted. "And you kicked a guest of the host out?"

"Because he deserved it!" I was removing the red waiter's jacket and preparing to slip back into mine.

"Let me get this straight. The man was making a mess of my dinner and assaulting other guests and you kicked him out?"

"Also, I didn't like him, I admitted."

"He was disrupting the meal?" Geostoph smiled for the first time. "I would have done the same. Next time, just come to the restaurant. It might save everyone's nerves."

"Thank you however; I have been the source of enough embarrassment and I apologize."

Burrell stopped me. "You could at least give Mlle. Stavens a ride? She came with the gentleman you removed. She's not in a fit state for Transports publics."

"Burrell, not as a favor for you, after the way you've acted, however I will see if she needs a ride."

I left using the hallway from the back of the kitchen and stopped at the bath door and knocked.

"Qui est-ce, she asked?"

"Excuse me Miss. I'm about to depart, are you in... need of a way home?"

Who is it?"

"A waiter. I seem to have outstayed my usefulness."

"Vous êtes en m'offrant un tour? You are offering a ride?"

"That's the idea."

"Are you going through the ninth district?"

"No, but the offer still stands."

"Donnez-moi une minute."

It was more than a minute, but she eventually came out and we sneaked out the rear entry quiet as possible.

Once on the street she immediately headed towards an old beat-up Volkswagen.

"No over here." I clicked open the door locks to my new Porsche Cayenne.

"I thought you were a waiter?" She asked as she slid into the passenger side while I held the door open.

"It's just one of my hobbies."

"The car is a hobby?"

"No, my pretending to be a waiter."

She smiled, opening up the night.

"Well, if you are that excentrique you should have better taste in cars. This thing is ugly and expensive."

"I need the space. I do a lot of early morning shopping."

She smiled. "Oh, so you are riche?"

"No, I pick up morning produce for several restaurants as an extra job."

"Well, what's your real job, if you are not a waiter or a delivery man?"

"A cook."

She looked up, suddenly curious, "What's your name?"

"Hatch"

"What a e'trange name."

"It's American."

"You don't sound American."

"I've lived in Paris most of life. My parents moved to Paris some time ago."

"Mine is Anaïs."

I smiled "Hello Anaïs."

She smiled and again my heart stopped for a moment.

"I guess since we are introduced you can give me a ride home."

We drove in silence past the street lights of Paris. Every light we passed flickered a momentary glow highlighting her profile. I caught myself staring. Even in this light she mesmerized me.

Close to the 9^th district, she started giving me directions to her apartment.

I insisted on walking her up to her flat. Through this is a good part of the city, at this hour you never know what mischief lurks on the corners.

At the apartment door she dug into her purse frowning more the deeper she dug. "I know my key is here!" Several minutes later she gave up in frustration. "It's not here, and my roommate is out for the soir!"

"Well, I can't leave you standing at your door. I've got an extra room if you want; however, we have to wake early. You know the produce job I told you about."

She looked questionably dubious. "Can you be trusted?"

I gave her one of my patented disarming innocent grins. "Only on Tuesday's and today is Tuesday," I joked. "I'm hard working, unimaginative and dead tired. You will have your own room, and if you want you can prop a chair against the door. The real question is whether I can trust you?"

She frowned. "Of course! What do you think I am?"

"You could be someone that lures poor hard-working waiters into dark streets. Maybe for, who knows what nefarious purpose?" I countered.

"You said you were not a waiter?"

"Not a waiter." I agreed.

Then I guess we have to trust each other." She decided. "Then you can bring me back early. Michelle will be back by then."

At my place, I showed her where the clean towels were, dropped her off at the bath to clean up and went up to the kitchen to make some coffee.

I threw some croissants into the oven to warm and was sitting down to a cup of coffee when I heard Anaïs calling from downstairs.

I went half way up the stairs to inquire, "What did you say?"

"Is that coffee I smell? Any chance I can get a cup?"

"How do you drink it? If you don't mind it keeping you up? It's kind of strong."

"Black and in gulping size."

I poured another cup and placed a couple of the croissants on a serving tray. At the bath door I knocked, "Are you decent?"

I heard the sound of swirling water. "That might be a matter for conjecture, but come on in."

She was sitting in the huge claw foot club piled up in bubbles with only a head peeking out. "I like your bath. All we have at the flat is a small shower."

"Priorities. I paid a lot for the renovation."

"Do you own the place?"

"Inherited from my grandfather."

I handed a cup over to her and as she reached to take it a small pink aurora broke free of the suds sending me into momentary contemplations on the existence of God.

"Come on upstairs to the kitchen when you are done and I'll have another cup for you."

"Hatch, I need something to wear?"

"Check the lower drawer of that dresser", I pointed to a dresser in the alcove. "There are some nightgowns and stuff."

"Sister?"

"Umm, no just friends with privileges." I blushed and retreated upstairs.

After a while she came up, scrubbed rosy and modestly dressed. I handed the fresh coffee over.

"What's the plan for tomorrow?"

"I have to be out of here by 5:00AM so we need to be up early. The markets open early and the best produce goes fast. I have to be on the spot. If you want to sleep in I can come back and pick you up after I get the marketing done."

"I would prefer to be back to my flat early. I need time to get ready for work."

"What do you do?"

"Don't laugh. I'm a librarian. Always been a bookworm.

"Then does this mean you are not a prostitute? I was going to start saving nickels if you were available", I teased.

She grimaced. "I admit there may have been some gifts exchanged and he may have had some expectations. It's better that it is ended. He was getting tiresome."