Taste of the Chef

Jody craves my tongue as much as she craves the succulently flavored Lebanese meatballs stuffed with herb-garlic rice that I call Kufta ali Baba and the Forty Cloves. I see no reason to sate her appetite and leave her hungers unappeased.

After dinner, dirty dishes stacked, leftovers stored in the refrigerator. I open a bottle of merlot, Santa Ynez Valley 1992, and slip the stems of two glasses between my fingers. Jody waits in the living room, sitting loosely on the couch so that when I walk from the kitchen, I am greeted with her seductive smile, her deep claret hair tumbling along her shoulders, her open blouse revealing doughy breasts ripe for kneading and the clipped wedge of pubic hair that decorates her.

I kneel before her, present her with a glass of wine and sip mine while I marvel at her presentation: thickly rolled lips glistening moistness, boastful fingers revealing her individual form as a series of artful skin folds gothic in style, soft lights playing jewel-like off delicate pinks and shimmering corals and robust purples.

Could she use garnish? Perhaps a spring of parsley entwined in the neatly manicured reddish bush? Or maybe crushed oregano leaves and chopped basil and fresh pine nuts scattered sporadically in these feathery hairs?

Understand, I do not find fault. I merely wonder how I, as a chef, would arrange such a delectably singular course. I believe the eye plays as much a role in satisfying the appetite as the taste buds. A dribble of golden honey, carrot shavings, or raspberries and Devonshire cream oozing slowly into the glossy folds would add elegance.

But Jody offers herself straightforward-a simple Midwestern selection of meat and potatoes, as it were. Something innate in me finds comfort in this, the appetite so directly stimulated, nothing to mask the flavors, nothing to enhance the presentation, nothing to confuse the palate.

I quickly toss aside thoughts of adding substance to Jody's marrow.

I lean forward for my first aftertaste of dinner.

The meal has been a recipe I have spent years perfecting. I call it Mr. Jarrod's Plum Drunk Chicken. Plump chicken breasts, boneless and skinless, browned with seasonings strongly hinting of garlic and then braised over a simmering heat with a glaze of plum jam thinned by Irish whisky. I complimented it tonight with stir-fried asparagus and marinated tomatoes with cucumbers. Earlier, we sipped Margaritas and snacked on crudites dipped in mild vinaigrette.

Jody shivers as I test the first of her drippings. She slides forward as I sample the faintly intoxicating aromas. She growls softly as I pull the full range of flavors that ooze from her folds and simmer from her heat and tantalize this gourmand's tongue.

She calls this dessert. She says that if I can so expertly prepare her evening meal, the least she can do is provide me this one dish. Yet, I find no sweetness between her legs, for Jody's juices return to me the flavors of the dinner I have cooked for her.

I had noticed this unique aspect of her physiology the first time I tasted her. I had spent the afternoon preparing Pasta Curry Oslo: thin strips of Norwegian salmon filets broiled in lemon juice, saffron and minced ginger, and arranged on a bed of curried angel hair pasta garnished with chopped fresh parsley. A side dish of spiced apples had rounded out the meal. We ate with relish and sipped amaretto after and talked of things culinary as I basted her wanton and whisked her fluted with delicate fingers and ripened her al dente with nibbling lips. The initial touch of my tongue brought forth a burst of delicacies as richly gluttonous as dinner. The more I licked, the more I tasted the food I had prepared. I had thought it odd, but dismissed it as nothing more than the residual flavors left on my tongue or bits of the meal lodge in my teeth being worked loose.

After our third dinner together, when my tongue lapped her deeply, I knew the phenomenon came from Jody herself. We had attended a celebration dinner for a friend. He had just sold a novel (a tale of unashamed sex strewn with just enough violence to capture the reading public) to Hollywood for a very nice chunk of change. I did not return Jody home until well after one-yet, the moment my tongue flattened against the richness of her dessert, the full strength of the evening's Veal Normandie came as creamily smooth as when I slipped the first sliver of tender meat between my lips. I had hesitated in midlick, running my tongue along my teeth and across my lips, trying to understand the why of this culinary surprise. But Jody refused me this moment's reflection. Greedy fingers closed around my head and held me urgently against her as I willingly polished off course after creamy course.

I did, however, decide to pursue further tests.

I began making slight changes to our dinners: two drops of Worcestershire sauce sprinkled only on her serving of Brisket con Sante Fe; red wine vinegar marinating only her portion of Pork Medallions Bakersfield; sauted pearl onions in place of white grapes sprinkled across only her helping of Sauerbraten Veronique. Always, the thickly pliant flesh she arrayed blatantly for me yielded up these flavors as though fresh from the kitchen.

I marveled at the result. What Jody put into her mouth seasoned the juices of her arousal as delectably as I seasoned a Rack of Lamb Belfast or Schnitzel a la Milwaukee or Moroccan Grouse Barbecue. The more I licked, the more she exuded the flavors of my kitchen labors. I began waking in the morning, already planning that night's dinner, aroused merely at the thought of enjoy the benefits of her uniqueness. Yet, I wondered: What could I do with this knowledge? I mean, savoring a gourmet dinner brings its own style of pleasure, but tasting that meal again with Jody's fleshy thighs pressed against my ears and her succulent juices dripping onto my tongue sates the diner beyond all reason.

For a week, I prepare separate meals - Glazed Lamb Shanks Basque-style for her, Armenian meatballs for me; slivers of cashews on her salad, crushings of raw clams on mine; German vinaigrette dribbled over her snap peas, sweet and sour sauce ladled across my broccoli; chocolate mousse for her, raspberry ice for me. I had the best of both meals then, the piping hot dishes I made for myself, and then later, sampling the essences of the meals she had eaten.

But making two meals takes up too much time. I spend too much of the day in the kitchen, leaving little time to enjoy myself. I return to a single meal and relished the pleasure of a second course.

"Inside." Jody tugs me from the puree between her legs. "I want you inside."

In all these weeks, we have not gone beyond my tasting her and bringing her to gluttonous orgasms. I have spent so much time in pleasing her and in trying to understand her unique talent that I haven't given much thought to anything else. I have kissed her, of course, nibbling ruby lips, testing the hardness of her teeth, chasing her tongue with mine. I have run my fingers through the fine strands of her red hair, gathered it roughly in my fist, and let it tumble promiscuously about her shoulders. I have tenderized her breasts, turning her nipples cherry red and grape hard. But these have only been preparations for the moment I concentrate my energy and my palate on-licking her into flavorful orgasm after flavorful orgasm after flavorful orgasm.

But now she pulls me urgently over her and fumbles to free me from my trousers.

"You now how to stir a woman's juices." She licks my chin, whispers heated urgency in my ear, wraps long fingers around me.

"A good chief knows the palate requires lengthy preparation." I butterfly her beneath me.

"I've had more than my share of appetizer." She churns herself beneath me. "I want you en croute."

She skewers herself, stuffing herself to bursting, bringing herself to a bubble and then to a boil, and finally to steam as I liberally baste her creamy.

In the moments after, she strokes the back of my head, shivers from the smallest of movements, nibbles my bottom lip.

"Tell me." She nuzzles my nose. "Why is a chef of your talents not working?"

"I was burned out." Yes, I lie. The restaurant owner fired me when he found me serving up his wife as a midnight snack. His reference carries weight. Without it, other restaurants refuse to answer my calls, so I have been out of work for seven months.

"Would you consider it again?" She uncorks herself from me, patting my limpness and sits up on the couch.

"Possibly."

I listen. She has money doing nothing but collecting interest. She would rather it work a bit. Why not a restaurant? "With you as chef, it could become four-star in no time."

"It shall be from the first dinner placed before the first customer."

"Good." She picks up her glass of wine. "Only one little detail to take care of. If it were up to me alone, we would start in the morning. But Daddy was an overly cautious bastard. His will ties my hands about certain things until I turn twenty-five. I can come up with ideas on how to use my inheritance for financial gain, but his executors must approve." She lets a dribble of wine spill down her chin. "I've already told them my idea, but they want me to consider several chefs, sample their best meals and return with my notes. They will then make the final decision."

"I see." I lap the merlot from her skin, despairing. They will check my references. They will deny me this chance. "Is there any other way?"

"No. And I don't want to wait. I begin the interviews tomorrow." She touches my cheek softly. "That's why I wanted you inside tonight. We won't see each other for a week."

"Such a long time."

"Only until Friday." She dips her finger into the wine and rubs the moistness into my nipple. "I will come for dinner." She licks my nipple clean. "Prepare your most sumptuous meal. I will write such a glowing account, the other chefs will seem mere hash slingers."

I spend the week culling my recipes, discarding the trite and the overdone and the ones we have already sampled. Nothing appeals. She will need something new.

All Friday, I am in a state of arousal. The smell of leaf lettuce wilting in raspberry vinaigrette comes as Jody's scent. Beef shanks rubbed with seasonings become the tenderness of her flesh. I dribble of cream across warm cobbler like the spurting she pulls so greedily from me. I should have had her arrive early so I could glaze the meat in her juices and let her sample each dish, test the flavor between her legs and adjust the seasonings to my taste.

She arrives flushed. "I didn't think I could wait this long."

"Come, eat."

I watch her, leaving my own meal barely touched. She makes no comments, but I see the delight in her eyes and the flush of her skin and the fullness of her lips closing around each bite.

I become the waiter. I refill her wine. I take away empty dishes. I hurry her along, ravenous now, wanting nothing more than to sink between her legs and taste the excellence of the meal.

She leans back in her chair. "My compliments to the chef." She finishes the last swirl of her cabernet. "But you've hardly touched your dinner."

"It's not I who must judge the meal."

"You needn't worry. Now eat." And then she acts as waitress, refilling my wine, taking away dishes, hurrying me along.

"Go into the living room," she says. "I will pour the after-dinner wine while you prepare my dessert."

She wants to change our routine? Why? "I have nothing to offer." My words stumble over taste buds that have salivated unsatisfied all week.

"You do. Now, go. Sit on the couch. I will be there shortly."

She shoos me away. I sit restlessly. I want to ask her about her week's absence and of the meals she has taken elsewhere-not just meals, but adulteries she has committed. I know the satisfaction she might have received cannot match what I give her, but will it be enough to persuade the executors? They will be business types, caught up in cash flows and spreadsheets and bottom lines. They will take what Jody tells them with a grain of salt while they will look at menus and ingredients. They will judge on cost and profit potential. Great chefs cannot compromise. The fear grips me. She might have sampled the offerings of a chef willing to tailor his mediocre creativity to the bottom line. The executors would select him.

Jody walks slowly from the kitchen, sets two glasses on the coffee table, fills each with a black-purple port. "I thought you'd be ready?"

"I am." I pick up a glass and touch it to hers.

"Not that I can see." She dips her tongue into the port and runs it glossy across her lips. "But no matter." She walks around the table and kneels in front of me. "I will take care of everything."

She demands my compliance by running her hand along the bulge beneath my trousers, her fingers opening my belt, and slowly sliding the zipper down. She licks her glistening port sticky lips as she pulls me free.

"Her fingers close around me. "Last week, when you skewered me for the first time, all I could think of was tonight's meal." He thumb kneads rubbery flesh. "And of this moment after." She scalds me with her warm breath, licks the thick vein running the length of me, forcing an early oozing. Her thumb swirls the moistness smooth and the tip of her tongue deglazes me and her lips flute themselves around me.

I relax as her lips and tongue tenderize me.

She raises her head slowly, licking her lips. "You have been so patient with me, attending to my needs, holding back yours. I felt each of your spasms last week, marveled at the thickness of what leaked from me on the way home, thought of nothing since except that I must taste it."

Her fingers score my flesh. Her teeth bruise the tender skin. Her tongue peels each layer of sensation. She works slowly, greedily, marinating me with port and the delectable juices of her mouth, until she brings me bubbling forth.

She pulls away so fast a spurt splashes against her chin, another dots her blouse. Perhaps I have misunderstood, that she wanted merely the feel of me, not the completion. The look of disgust on her face dismays me. "What's wrong?"

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "Nothing." She swallows her port in one gulp. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right. I misunderstood."

She stands quickly. "I must leave." She grabs her purse and rushes to the door.

"Wait." I stumble after her, pulling up my pants. "Tell me what's wrong?"

She stops. Her shoulders sag. "I'm sorry. I can't recommend you." She turns toward me slowly, sad eyes pleading forgiveness. "You cook so well. Your tongue is the most experienced I've ever enjoyed. And I would dearly love to spend each night with you inside me. It's just ..." Her voice trails off.

"What?" I put my hands on her shoulders, lean forward to kiss her.

She halts me with a firm hand. "I have set high standards for this venture; I will not compromise, not on location, not on ambiance, not on ingredients, and certainly not on the chef."

"How have I not matched your standards? I saw the relish with which you ate tonight, saw the delight, and felt the satisfaction. No other chef can out-cook me."

"I know." She runs a cool finger down my cheek, and then walks into the night, leaving me only with the echo of her parting words said in whisper of sorrow:

"I had hoped to taste your meal again, as I had with the other chefs I sampled for dessert. There is no room on the menu for blandness."