(As originally published in Salt & Pepper Magazine, Summer 2017.)
At one of our regular dinner gatherings, Karl brought a date. She was a tall girl with her head shaved on one side with long sheets of golden hair draped over the other. She wore a white sweater with matching leather pants, purple lipstick, and perfume so strong I opened a window to keep it from competing with the food. Every man in the room, accompanied or not, stole glances at her, laughed at her jokes, wanted to know what she did for a living, tried to figure out the name of her fragrance; I bet they were imagining their tongues filling the gap between her teeth, or something else filling the gap between her skinny thighs. But as soon as dinner was served, the competition was over.
That night, it was Puttanesca. I brought it out in a huge red cast iron pot that I set down in the middle of the table. The steam impatiently pushed its way out from under the lid and filtered up, hovering over the table. I landed the pot next to a platter of bread with olive oil, moving the candles to make room. Some people like their Puttanesca paired with white rice, or laid over pasta. Others like it all by itself in a deep bowl so it stays hot the whole time it’s being eaten. That night I chose black, mushroom-flavoured rice to be served on blue plates. The earthy, intimate aroma of the rice begged for my hot ragout to tangle itself with it and stir something more than hunger.
As was the routine in our home, my husband sat at the head of the table and I was at the foot. I stood quietly in my place until everyone was watching, waiting, about to breathe in the magic that I had all but unveiled. I picked up a potholder and a large serving spoon. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Haitian Puttanesca. Or, as I like to call it, Sos Bouzin.” I lifted the lid. The motion of air being sucked in plugged everyone’s ears and for a split second, they all went deaf. Time stood still as the aroma rose and spread steadily out. It floated, danced, and infiltrated every nose and throat at the table. I watched their eyes blink slowly and their lips slightly part. I went to get another spoon and when I came back, all hands held plates eager to be filled. I spooned a healthy dark mound of mushroom rice onto the blue porcelain. It smoldered like a trembling volcano before a I spread it into a crater. I plunged into the Puttanesca and poured heavy spoonfuls of it onto the rice. It was conch meat, firm to the tooth and tender to the tongue, blended in saucy harmony with with crushed plum tomatoes, black olives, oyster mushrooms, white beans , salt, pepper, garlic, onions, and olive oil. The ingredients clung to each other, this and lusty with tastes that whispered and screamed together at the same time. I smiled, handing the first plate to my husband. I waited for his pantomimed appreciation, then moved faster, watching fingers wrap around fork handles. I served everyone with the same grace, but I saved Karl for last. I watched his eyes move from my fingers to my spoon to my pot and back again. I watched his vision go double as he waited with his knees squeezed together, the muscles in his thighs taut and twitching. I had him.
He worked at a small private firm in Soho and kept unpredictably late hours. It was after ten when he called about two weeks after dinner. My husband was away at an overnight teacher’s conference and would be home the next afternoon. Karl never even asked for his old running buddy. His voice was halting as he apologised for the late hour and he rambled on about propriety and respect, but I told him it was fine. He said he had tried to make the Puttanesca, but it didn’t come out like mine. He wanted the recipe. He needed to know my secret ingredients so that he could try again, and perhaps have better luck. “There’s no secret at all. Im happy to take you through it. When can you come by?” I said. He came over within an hour like a somnanbule, leaning forward in the doorway, almost on his toes, with his eyes dimmed and soft brown hair falling in a mess over his brow. I invited him into my kitchen and showed him everything he needed to know.
After Karl, there was Nick, the blond. Then Mason, the broad. Then Greg, lean and hairless. After those friends, who weren’t truly my husband’s friends at all, it was on to any man who was hungry.
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