Chef's Kiss

Chef's Kiss by Arlene J.M. Grant

With each step toward Chef's Kiss, I feel the lingering anger provoked by the disaster of the day. I love my job. It's a passion for sure. The only thing equal to the joy of shooting food is the pleasure I. eating from the tables of dreamers who dared to say, "I'm a Chef."

Chef is my favorite four letter word followed by kiss. I was really pissed when the restauranteur attempted to bully me for free photographs. I worked extra hard because his food was just as ugly as him. His wife was more bearable, but clearly no regard for people. I needed to shake the ugliness and grabbed an Italian dark chocolate lemoncello bar en route to my next shoot. Another Italian restaurant. Yes, and it was, well, tell me what you think, as I share my Chef's Kiss experience.

I sit waiting as the chef and restauranteur perfects his special dish. I notice glimmering light in his mirror reflection; a stark contrast to the devil of the day. I search looking to find the source of light setting him apart. I can't find it. We share the same light yet he glowed. I wanted to ask, but remained silent hoping to taste his perfected dish. Through my lens was certain, but I wanted more than a photographer's taste. I was hungry. His glow increased my appetite. I wanted to sample his glimmering light.

Words become lost in the trance of glimmering light and perfection. Photographers notoriously fall in love with their subjects. It is something familiar to me, but this feeling is unfamiliar. His fingers carefully arrange the food like a bouquet with thorns one can sense yet the eye cannot see. Not only did his creation look good, it smelled amazing! I fell deeper into the trance as my senses engaged.

He hums a melody - new yet comforting. It was majestic. I'm not religious, but I felt an echo of angels in one voice. He sang as if there was a chorus. The acoustics required an explanation. Was it the tiles? The high ceilings?

My senses become more engaged. Was he meditating in the midst of preparing this gift of culinary art? It looked like meditation. Was it a prayer? I only know he wasn't speaking words. I looked at him so very deeply. He focused upon this dish and seemed unaware of my gaze.

I fell further into this multisensory event. It was surreal. It was as if linear time left. I was not in my thoughts. I felt light. I was present. As I sat in this trance, his light seemed to illuminate to empower mine. I wanted to sit in this moment forever. I closed my eyes as he continued to arrange this perfect dish.

I heard the waves crashing against rocks forming a fortress around Chef's Kiss. I saw the waves walking in, but I didn't "see" them. Now, I could hear sound, formerly noise, drowned out by my overloaded mind. The waves breaking accompanied the hum of angels as a conductor. I felt surrounded by comforting movement. It was as if I had returned to the womb to be reborn aware of my senses.

I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I couldn't open my eyes. I didn't want to open my eyes. It was the greatest comfort, since the pandemic, to connect with myself. I heard his voice, "Senora, tutto post?" His voice vibrated another level of calm. It was as if he was a healing frequency. My eyes, my ears, my sense of smell, and now his touch.

I opened my eyes to see love mirroring from his eyes. He reflected what I felt. I managed to speak. "Si, Tranquila." He smiled. I felt as if an angel was peering into my soul. I smiled. "Va Bene, Senora." He quietly slipped away behind the counter.

Looking down, I realized he placed the first course before me. As I looked into the plate, I silently wept. I had not yet raised my lens, but I was overcome with the beauty before me. Each piece, considerately, placed to echo love.

I looked up. He was in the midst of preparing the second course. He noticed my gaze and smiled. I was aware of myself in that moment. Did he notice my tears? I hoped he could not from the distance that separated us. I sighed heavily, gathering my talent, to capture the beauty of his perfection.

Reaching into my camera bag, I wanted to hide my tears. What would he think? An emotional woman unable to handle life? A starstruck foodie? I didn't want to appear unprofessional or to insult him. I grabbed my lens cloth trying to quickly lower my head below the table to wipe my tears.

The moment I raised my head, I was met by his soft gaze. "Senora," he handed me a cloth handkerchief. "This may be better." I felt only love and acceptance as the handkerchief danced above the flame of the candle upon the table. I wondered when that appeared. I take his handkerchief. He smiles. He says nothing. I feel words of comfort echo within my cells. If I had to say what it was, I couldn't. I just know I felt like that Jamie Lee Curtis character in "A Fish Called Wanda". But my Chef spoke English. Wait, let me correct that. He telepathically vibrated English. Does that make sense? He leaves as quietly as he appeared.

I look around to see if I am alone with this - I'm not even sure what to call him. I realize he's waiting for me to photograph the first course. I raise my lens. I'm satisfied and fight my happy dance. I probably should explain that. I'm known to give high-fives and break out in spontaneous dance when satisfied with a shot! I give myself a high-five on the inside.

Mr. Chef appears as I smile at the back of the camera. He smiles as he places the second course before me. I'm tempted to taste the first course. I look at him as he lifts the plate to return to the kitchen. He smiles, "Would you like this later?" Of course I cannot conceal my excitement. He nods with light almost blinding me as he return to his culinary heaven. Who is this man?

Eyeing his second course of culinary passion, I whisper, "Thank you God." I don't believe in God. But, the moment was so perfect, I wanted to believe there was a God believing in me. The night of the earlier monster now broken away by the light of perfection placed before me. This time, I didn't weep. I high-fived myself again. But, I wanted to touch this course.

I felt eyes upon me. Mr. Perfect appears with a small plate, "The taste is as important as texture." I glance into the plate before me and bravely utter, "Thank you." I say bravely because I wasn't sure what would exit my mouth. I struggled to look into his eyes. I was somewhere between drool and a proposal. I wanted this King as my personal chef. He understood me. As I reconciled my lust, love and hunger, he gave me space. I considered feeling embarrassed and forgot about being professional. He leaves me in a place of curiosity and confidence.

He didn't wait for feedback. Maybe he knew he was that good at his craft or maybe he didn't think my opinion was necessary to validate him? I reach for the sample with my camera in the other hand. The food felt great. I took a bite. I dropped my camera. The flash went off as it hit the ground. I should have worried about the camera, but I was more interested in finishing the bite.

Suddenly, a waitress appears. She's picks up my camera. I notice she has a black book. Looks like Moleskine®. I smile as she hands me the camera. "Grazie." She smiles as she makes notes in her black book. She shows me her note, "You're Welcome."

I realize she doesn't speak. Was she deaf? I look to the Chef to glean an answer. He smiles and waves. She smiles and their light explodes into sparks. I manage to see more scribbling into her black book despite the sparks. I am eager to read her message. And then, not so much. It reads, "My husband is amazing." I wish for a typo. To be sure, I ask if her brother is amazing in Italian. She corrects me, "Non frattello," smiling. She disappears as quickly as she appeared.

I don't know if I can handle another bite. I'm afraid to look at the kitchen or whatever they call his den of goodness. She places a hand to my back with another note. I read, "He is Love. Don't worry about it." I manage to smile as this woman of an angel, masquerading as a waitress, shows kindness to a woman lusting after her husband.

I decided in that moment I was in heaven. Something in me died in Chef's Kiss. An ending not a physical death. An end to anger with myself. An end to insecurities that would have caused me to recoil at her touch and retreat in shame. Feelings transformed into Love. Pure love for them and myself. I began to bawl cleansing, unapologetic tears.

As the tears flowed, I am briefly transported back to the first time I wept in Italy. I was hungry trying to find gluten-free food. Finally, potato chips, fruit, cheese and yogurt failed to satisfy me. I released fear agreeing to eat a meal at the next restaurant my companion and I could find on the back roads of Tuscany. We stopped in a family restaurant where my broken Italian could not be translated into a dish with the Chef's broken English. I almost lost hope of moving from the convenience of roadside gas stations offering "senza glutine" foods. That means no gluten.

The Chef reappeared at my Italian table with a villager to translate. The Chef assured me he understood my dietary restrictions. As the dish arrived, I was overcome by a feeling of love. The Chef smiled presenting my meal. I felt like he placed himself in the dish. As I cried, I realized tears filled the Chef's eyes. We communicated. Love is like that.

I feel the familiar touch of "the" Chef bringing me back to present day. He places the third course on a neighboring table. Like a cheerleader confident in my success, his wife places my camera in my hand. More love. This time there are no silent high-fives or tears. I am celebrated.

I begin to shoot the courses with a precision and accuracy. I had flow. I was right on time with each course. I managed to create images that reflected the beauty of the chef and myself. As we finished, what must have been the eighth course, if you've been to Italy or dined in an authentic Italian restaurant, you know what I mean, I was energized as if espresso had been transfused into my veins.

I was ready for a ninth course, but it was time to say goodnight. I didn't want to say goodbye or goodnight. I packed my camera bag while the angels packed a box, of treats with each course photographed, as a gift. I squeal, "I think I'll need car service to take that home!" They smile. She writes in her black book, "We can take you home." I cried. I almost wish I could say I didn't, but I'm glad I did. I learned another lesson. I learned that love isn't just giving, but also being willing to receive. Before meeting these angels, I'm certain I would have said no to the ride and struggled home.

Once home, I sampled every course. The ingredients perfecting each dish was love.