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!"
