Page 9 of Kept 4
“I have a knack,” he smirks, “I like to think of it as a gift. I can tell a woman’s heritage just with one look; American, English, German, Belgian…I can tell them all.”
I smile and shake my head, although I have heard some people remark as I passed them by that I was American, so maybe we are easy to spot; I can’t think how. I put this aside to ponder another time and bring the conversation back to the reason I am here.
“Do you have a menu?” I answer his smile with my own. I can’t help it, despite my heavy heart, everything about this town makes me happy.
“No.”
“Then what do you recommend?” I smile wider at the absurdity of the situation.
“The chicken moambe,” he says.
I frown, I haven’t heard of this before.
“What exactly is the dish?”
“It is my take on an African dish, but with a little Moroccan twist and of course, French flair.”
Seeing my blank face, he goes on.
“Spiced chicken with fried banana and pearl couscous.”
“Perfect,” I smile, “and your drinks?”
“I recommend a glass of the house white.”
“Which is?” I shake my head at his basic terminology, so different from what I have become used to, living and dining with my vampire billionaire.
“White.”
I snort and nod my head. “And for dessert?”
“Ah, a woman with a healthy appetite, Mon Dieu, what a delight,” he grins at me, “then ice cream, of course.”
“What flavours do you have?”
“Coconut.”
“Then coconut it is,” I giggle.
He bows flamboyantly and saunters back to his kitchen, sending a young boy, around fifteen, with beautiful toffee-coloured skin, over to my table with a bottle of white wine and a jar a few minutes later.
I frown at the jar but say nothing. Clearly, this restaurant is like nothing I have ever experienced. If I must sip wine from a jar, then so be it.
As the boy retreats, I take a quick sip, wrinkling my nose at the sensation of drinking from the strange vessel, but pleasantly surprised by the wine. Over the lip of the jar, I catch the eye of a young woman, around my age, sitting three or four tables over, and nod to her. She seemingly reluctantly nods back, before returning her attention to her companion, a slightly older man, I estimate mid-thirties.
My meal is not long in arriving, and I tuck in, my delight barely containable at the infusion of spices and flavours in the dish, so different from anything I have eaten before.
As usual, when I eat, the world retreats, and for a time, concentrating on the flavours and textures of the meal, I forget my worries.
Finally, as I finish up, not a scrap left on my plate, the chef ventures over to ask my thoughts.
“Delicious. It was not like anything I’ve ever had before, is your speciality in African recipes?”
“Yes,” he smiles, “all my meals are variations of my own mother’s dishes, she hails from Morocco.”
“I loved the soft, sweetness of the banana contrasting with the spicy chicken,” I smile, “and the wine, a lovely white, it was paired beautifully.”
“A connoisseur of the dining experience, obviously,” he smiles.
