Famished Night: Part 2 of 3: Entrée

By Toni Juliette Leonetti

“What the hell.” Tyler squinted through darkness lit by candles in the crimson-walled foyer. “It’ll be darker than this?”

“Certainement.” The woman who’d answered their buzz on the door sealed blindfolds over their eyes, knotting them twice. “Wait, please.” Her footsteps pattered away.

“This is crazy, Jules. Blindfolds? And that locked door? Like a speakeasy. This could be a robbery racket. That nut Connie skipped out—”

“Don’t talk that way! She couldn’t help getting a cold. When she heard you were back, she fought against my taking you. She said you’d hate it.”

“Right, for once.”

“She pretended to feel fine then. She was ready to drag herself out of bed and rush here. To stop you ruining it.”

More footsteps approached. The woman nearing Tyler asked, “Ready?” while a man’s voice drifted to Julia. He touched her elbow. “Vous me permettez, mademoiselle?” You permit me?

“Oui, monsieur.”

He led her past a door that creaked open to saxophone and piano, Edith Piaf, and hushed, indecipherable voices beneath the clink of metal. He guided her hand to feel a velvet curtain, and its whooshing sweep to the side.

Julia assumed that Tyler must have been urged downward as she was, reaching for a chair, banquette, anything to carry them. Until his yelp told her that he, too, had found his seat.

“The floor! What the—”

“Mmm. I’m glad to lie down. These high heels are killing me.” Julia leaned against a pillowed backrest, the cushions under her more welcoming than her couch. And more welcome, with neither television screen nor Tyler’s eyes casting judgment on her. He’d noted her tighter black silk. You’ve been missing me and the gym, I see. That was his greeting tonight, after a month apart. She groped through space. “Where are you, Ty?”

“How should I know?”

“He’s rather far, mademoiselle. Across the table.” Those “r”s in the Frenchman’s throat purred English, too. “Bien?”

“Bien—ahhh!”

Monsieur had slipped off her shoes. His palm cupped her right heel. While his other hand began massaging her arch and toes. “Vous me permettez?”

“Oui—heee!”

“What are you moaning about?” Tyler barked.

“Just—” Her left foot melted in monsieur’s grip. “Getting comfortable.”

“If it requires lying down at dinner to get you comfortable, you must be hauling even more of a load than I thought.”

“Belle mademoiselle.” Monsieur’s whisper tickled her ear. “Quel imbécile il est.” What an imbecile he is.

When he released her feet, it was to bring plates. And she was still too blissful, curled toes seeping languor up the rest of her, to care if he washed his hands.

“The cups and plates are steel,” madame instructed Tyler. “Nothing to break. Pinot blanc at left. Beaujolais, center. Syrah, right. You have a spoon and fork. But you’ll eat most with your fingers. Hold them out.”

Monsieur placed a square in Julia’s hand.

“What is it?” Tyler demanded.

“You must taste,” monsieur answered. “Part of the joy is savoring without sight.”

“Yeah? What’s the other part?”

Julia tasted puff pastry, topped with scrambled egg and pearls that burst into sea.

“Is this breakfast? Eggs?” A clash announced Tyler’s fumble for wine.

“With caviar. Beluga,” Julia sighed. “And—” Thumb-sized globes, briny trembles of pudding, ocean and butter married. “Sea urchin. I love it.”

“What don’t you love? I can’t eat it.”

“Pass it here, then.”

Over that span of feast, he rejected all but the wine. Salad of scallops and fennel with—

“My favorite mushrooms,” she guessed. “Chanterelles.”

“He must have told you. You couldn’t know—”

“You couldn’t. I feel those frilly edges. And they taste apricotty.”

Lobster dipped in key lime hollandaise. Roast duck cradling cherried demi-glace and creamy polenta. Lychee sorbet to cleanse the palate. The tenderest Wagyu Tomahawk ribeye to gnaw from its bone, spinach gratin with bacon and brie. Truffled fries. A palette of sauces to paint with by flavor, not hue: béarnaise and bordelaise, vierge of olives, capers, and herbs. Roasted garlic aioli and sun-dried tomato ketchup.

The instant Julia had scraped every lick, her hands were taken and swished in a bowl of lemon-mint water. Toweled dry. Massaged, fingertip to wrist. No, to elbow. Naked shoulder. To the nape of her neck, after she obligingly lifted her hair. Oh! A flow of lips followed that path, farther, to her earlobe, the pulse beneath it. She gasped. Stretched her own open lips forward, as if she sought again a seat in air.

A dark chocolate truffle, spicy with aleppo, was plopped in her mouth. Its tingle, cooled and heightened by milk chocolate gelato spooned into her.

Monsieur whispered, “Ensuite, la finale.”

Finale? What might he feed her next? Next, not finally. Please. His current along her skin, her veins, had sparked new appetite.

🩷🩷🩷

Toni Juliette Leonetti is a lifelong resident of the San Francisco Bay Area. Her writings include short stories, poetry, plays, and a mystery novel. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Okay Donkey, Literally Stories, DarkWinter Literary Magazine, and Elegant Literature.