Page 62 of The Cruelty of Thorns

We crossed the street and walked for several blocks before he ducked down a narrow side street that didn’t seem wide enough for two cars to pass. A number of small businesses dotted the area, most of which looked to be closed for the night. There was a sign over one door with neon letters that spelled out Tagine. Julianus reached for the door handle and guided me inside.

The interior was dark and intimate, the only lighting coming from the colored glass in the brass lanterns hanging above the tables. A small woman met us at the door and pointed to a wooden shelving unit lined with cubbyholes.

“We have to remove our shoes,” Julianus explained to me while he slid his off and handed them to the woman, who placed them in a cubby and handed him a ticket. I did the same, realizing then that the room was layered with thick, colorful rugs.

“Is the private room available?” Julianus asked the woman.

She nodded and led us through the tightly-spaced dining room, the tables of which were separated by carved wooden screens, giving the diners a sense of privacy. She stopped before a heavy curtain and pulled it back to reveal a small, dimly-lit alcove. There was no furniture to speak of, just several large cushions arranged on the floor around a low brass table.

Julianus nodded his approval to the woman, who then asked if we needed menus.

“That won’t be necessary,” he replied. “Bring us a tray of starters and tea.”

“Very good,” she said and turned to leave, pulling the curtain closed behind her, and I noticed there were small bells attached to it that tinkled when the cloth moved.

Julianus indicated for me to find a seat and folded himself effortlessly onto a cushion. Once I was seated, I looked around. The walls were covered in colorful tiles and another jewel-toned lantern hung above the table, providing the only light.

“Do you come here often?” I asked Julianus, who was watching me intently.

“It is one of my favorite places in the city when I want to eat.”

It seemed an odd thing to say, but I didn’t comment on it. “What kind of food do they serve here?” I asked instead. Whatever it was smelled amazing; spicy and sweet at the same time.

“The owners are Moroccan, but they mix in several North African specialties. I ordered us a sampler of finger foods.” He reached over to me and brushed a hair behind my ear, his hand lingering near my lips. “I’m glad this room was available.”

Sitting as we were on the floor cushions seemed somehow more intimate, like we were in a bed, and my pulse stuttered wondering what he had in mind when he requested it.

The bells tinkled and the curtain parted to reveal a server who brought us an ornate brass urn and two glasses, which she set on the table before slipping quietly out of the room.

Julianus picked up the urn and poured two steaming glasses. “It’s atay, a traditional Moroccan tea.” He handed me a glass and I took a sip. It was sweet and strongly flavored with mint.

“Do you like it?”

I nodded. “It’s very good.”

He seemed satisfied with my reaction and took a sip of his own glass before setting it aside and focusing his attention on me. I suddenly didn’t know what to do with myself and started fidgeting nervously. Julianus closed his hand over mine and pulled my eyes to his.

“Relax, cuore mio. I promise I won’t bite you.” He leaned closer, his voice oozing like warm molasses over me. “You weren’t nervous the other night.”

I felt myself blush, but before I could respond the curtain tinkled again and the server reappeared with a platter laden with all sorts of delicacies and two small plates. She set it all on the table and asked if we needed anything else.

“I believe we’re fine,” Julianus replied without taking his eyes off me.

After she was gone, he scooted closer to me and swept his hand over the tray. “What would you like to try first?”

I was slightly overwhelmed. “I don’t know what any of it is. Why don’t you choose for me?”

He smiled at that and after a moment of deliberation, picked up a small triangular-shaped pastry and brought it to my lips. “Close your eyes and take a bite.”

I did as he suggested, nibbling at the warm crisp dough. An explosion of flavors burst against my tongue.

“Now, without opening your eyes, tell me what you taste.”

I chewed, savoring the rich tang and spicy aftertaste. “Feta?”

“Very good. This is called bakoula, and yes, the main ingredients are feta cheese and pine nuts, along with various spices.”

He popped the remaining half of the pastry into his own mouth and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as though he was savoring every nuance of flavor. He opened his eyes and smiled at me before picking up a walnut-sized brown fruit. “Stuffed dates,” he said, placing the fruit against my lips. I opened my mouth and he pushed it inside, tracing his long fingers over my lips. I chewed the fruit, marveling at how something so simple could have such intense flavor.

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