Cat on a stick

My, this was awkward. Peggy stood quivering in the doorway before Tom, reminding him of the eager mussel on the plate which demands one’s attention first, being immediately accessible, and thusly, a tad on the dry side.

She no longer spoke, having said all there was, and now awaited the inevitable kiss. He would oblige, quickly doing his duty, lingering for only the required caprice. Then he gripped his collar, shielding from the winter gust, to avoid the inevitable disappointment in her eyes, perhaps even coyly hidden tears, as she watched her would-be prince disappear forever.

The wind was unbearable, sweeping down the mountainside and across frigid waters, converging on the sloped streets with sadistic intent. Luckily, it was mere blocks back to his hotel. Now was the time for Tom to reflect on his dissatisfaction and try not to beat himself up for what many deemed his unreasonable standards. He had kept expectations low, sought out positive qualities, but the whole affair had been doomed from the start and would have been best left alone.

Things had started well enough with an amuse-gueule of deviled eggs which wreaked of girlish pride. Clearly these had been the hit of yesteryear sorority lunches or backyard cookouts, each with nearly a flitch of fresh cooked bacon and sprinkled with out of place cilantro, an ingredient Peggy desired to make abundantly clear she was aware of. Tom had quelled the urge to suggest she scrap all of that for avocado and caramelized mango. The unabashed excess of Miracle Whip demonstrated her novice, but he reminded himself that this was better than he’d expected.

Tom adored his vocation, as it gave him opportunity to travel the globe, spending his days at tedious conventions where million dollar radio towers sold themselves, leaving his evenings free to sample the finest that the region had to offer. Unfortunately, he sometimes found himself someplace where the pinnacle of cuisine was an oversized pretzel. Upon arrival in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania, he’d been informed that he absolutely must try the pierogis. He’d been appalled to discover this to be a pile of dry ravioli, appearing on the plate like a litter of kittens born horrifically premature.

The challenge was the company, as meals are meant to be shared. But, as a rule, Tom refused to engage those he encountered at work in afterhours activity, due to shop talk at dinner pairing as well as steak tartare with potatoes. One solid meal per day was his foundation, and the conversation surrounding should always be either in regard of, or inconsequential.

Tom rose each morning to a plain bagel topped with cream cheese, so delicate as to be accused of being tasteless, acquired religiously from a secret source and painstakingly shipped to wherever he happened to be. Throughout the day, he would snack on what was available, being careful that by dinner his appetite would be ample but not ravenous. Of course, he would make a point of sitting at the esteemed temples of comestibles and perusing local vendors, but his real joy was in the safari.

He would find someplace quiet for aperitif and hopefully a date. The hotel bar was not preferable, as he would certainly encounter those who, understandably, would be prone to chat of business. Better to seek establishments inhabited by the locals, and find someone coeval. Single ladies approaching middle age smelled Tom’s wealth like good brandy in turtle soup, and the limited time given would ensure they gave it their all. Tom would commonly use the tactic of gently ribbing the tropes of the regional fare. In California, he’d remark that styles were imported and inconsistent. In New Orleans, he’d tell of speaking in confidence with restaurateurs who’d confessed to never eating crabs or crawfish, as to them shellfish was food for the serfs. This would lead to his challenge. “Why don’t you cook for me?” It worked like a charm, and led to many a fleeting romance and some of the finest meals he’d ever had.

But not with poor Peggy. Her entre had been Salmon, forgivably overcooked, but drowned in lemon and a molasses-like garlic aioli. She had regained stars for a pan baked fettuccine which she had apologized for burning, but had actually seared to perfection. The moist center encased in a charred edge with just the right amount of salt, Tom found delectable.

It was right on the rim, but Tom gave his praise, both for the meal and her upbeat suggestions of activities to do before departing the gothic metropolis. More concerned he was with after. On only his second night of gustatory abuse, he’d decided it was high time he retreat to the foodie haven of Singapore, where one must be careful while strolling the open market air, marinated with zest and chili, to fill up, lest one be tempted later to gnaw at one’s own well-seasoned arms. He longed for the Korean buffets and the Cantonese inspired maestros with their innovative concoctions and Yin/Yang sauces. And he would ask Peggy to join him. As he was finishing the final morsels, he anticipated her look of joy.

That’s when it had all gone sour. Peggy had laughed when Tom told her that he never drank during repast, which should have been a red flag right there, but once he’d proclaimed it had all been marvelous, a harmless exaggeration, she had delivered the masthead in a glass. The worst of the worst. The dreaded Merlot with its metallic staleness, like blood separated from muddy water, would give him a hangover before it had reached his stomach, and he was out the door moments later. To think, he’d been seconds away from committing to globetrotting with a Merlotian.

Now, he was reminded of his second reason for despising this Midwestern hub. The sale of wines was secluded to specific locations which closed at early hours. He cursed his plight and trudged, in search of snacks, towards a bodega while averting his eyes from several hobos huddled for warmth. Tom had heard of his assemblage having scattered the poor souls when he’d inquired about vacant lunch carts seen locked up in a nearby tunnel. The scraps discarded from these were apparently the downtrodden’s primary sustenance. When he’d raised the subject to Peggy, she’d used the curious term: “Cat on a Stick”.

While glossing over the tiny grocery’s cheese selection, Tom’s eyes were drawn to shady dealings at the cash register. The clerk was whispering to a petite, brown haired woman, some mix perhaps of Italian and Latino, an interesting combination, who was all business, and Tom hoped he was to be privy to the exchange of black market vino. But, the contraband was not wine. She was examining meats. Upon her nod of approval, these were quickly wrapped and bagged. No money was exchanged. Tom was intrigued beyond rational thought.

First, the chivalrous approach, followed by forthright honesty. Yes, he confessed, he’d only offered to carry her bags because of his curiosity as to the contents and their destiny. She scrutinized him with her very cheekbones as he explained the situation: that he was soon to leave this place with a literal bad taste in his mouth and wished to give it one more shot.

“You can cook?” she asked, conspicuously lacking in steam expulsion, and Tom mused she must be a few degrees cooler on the inside than most. He confessed himself to be no master confectioner, though he did know his way round the kitchen. She relinquished the bags and beckoned him to follow.

Trudging through an unlit ally, she shooed several vagrants and led him through a heavy backdoor where he was stunned by sudden illumination. His blindness lasted until after she had locked the door behind them, preventing what surely would have been immediate flight from stacks of rusty cookware resting in black puddles, flies buzzing around decrepit boxes of produce and a monstrous stove fitting for a Grimm’ s tale.

Quickly, she went to work heating pans. Tom could not believe his nose at the fetor of rotten vegetables. A chipped knife was thrust into his shaking hands and he obediently obliged, only to be scolded for salvaging but a mere tidbit from a festering onion. He then stifled a yelp, as she seemed poised to fill a pan with laundry detergent, only to be slightly less horrified when cooking oil emerged from the plastic jug.

His sight finally adjusted, Tom discerned them to be alone in a tiny kitchen with the serving counter directly behind them. Beyond that was a cruddy seating room surrounded by windows which looked out into the street, through which he was disturbed to find rows of red and black eyes, peering eagerly, hungrily, bulging from bony skulls flanked by tufts of hairs, wrapped in filthy layers. He glanced at her to catch a smirk. She’d caught his aghast expression. Even when sampling camel brains in Dubai, he had prided himself on never betraying alarm.

Tom had no time to process. He’d reserved a table, menu unseen. He had, after all, been forced once to abide an entire week in Juneau, Alaska. This couldn’t be that bad. Tom had resolved to do as in Rome, when he turned to find her heaving some kind of crude pandowdy into the oven, but with canned apples!? Whoever heard of such a thing? Sprinkling spices from unmarked tins and stained zip-lock bags? He forced a smile. Pointing blindly at a haphazard shelf she shouted, “Hand me those chick-peas!”

Frenziedly searching faded labels he asked, “You mean this white hominy?”

“The garbanzo!” Was she chiding him? He started to apologize when a putrid aroma exploded into the room. She was unpacking the meat. Being next to it made him fear he’d be a walking health code violation for weeks. Be calm, he thought watching the chef spread expired shredded beef into a large pan. Catching a whiff, she cringed, and asked him if he knew how to season tacos. Marvelous. She’d set him up for his wittiest food related remark: “Well,” he coughed, inhaling a clump of cayenne. “You either Mexican or you Mexican’t.”

The chef gave Tom a glare to chill plums. Then she giggled, and soaked the meat using a gas can. “I sure hope that’s Worcestershire,” said Tom.

“We can only hope,” she replied. This was kitchen banter. He’d always longed to have kitchen banter!

The following hours were a blur while, as a team, Tom and the chef slapped together dishes from boxes of miscellaneous cans and unmarked Tupperware. He hadn’t received even a warning when she flung the doors open, allowing entry to a sea of teeming masses, and their bodily fumes succeeded in masking the malodor of the main course where garlic and chili powder had failed. Plates, bowls, and silverware emerged from dangling cabinets and mangled drawers which, as quickly as they were thrust upon the voracious horde, were snatched back and refilled without so much as a rinse. The demand was endless.

The hostess was a machine, and Tom became fixated on a strand of hair which had escaped her headband to wag hypnotically across her face, weighed down by a growing trickle of sweat until it dripped, PLOP, right onto a dish. This became as Chinese water torture, repeatedly drizzling onto random plates.

When, at last, the rush subsided, Tom was barely coherent and lucid dreaming of a table for two at the Odette Restaurant in The National Gallery of Singapore. He resolved he would book posthaste when The chef handed him a plate he couldn’t help but notice bore a certain amount of presentation, the carrion flared neatly beside the best rancid vegetables he’d seen all night, and he choked back bacteria infested vittles, imagining them cleansed by the salt of her brow. Then came the coup de grace. She placed before him a coffee mug brimming with dreaded Merlot. Tom thanked her.