“Do you like fish?” Chef Dave smiled as he asked, showing off his white smile surrounded by lips that looked so kissable.
“I love fish,” without blinking an eye, I lied. Truth was I hadn’t taken a bite of any kind of fish in fifteen years. The traumatic recollection of watching my brother Rick poke the eye out of the bass he caught still haunted me. It flew through the air and hit me smack dab in the forehead. I felt too embarrassed and self-conscious in front of the owner of the restaurant and this sexy chef to admit that I didn’t like fish, no matter what the reason.
Chef Dave left the table, and in no time sent out simple green salads tossed in a fresh dressing that I later learned was a secret recipe from his mother. John asked me what I thought.
“I don’t have much time to cook these days myself, but I love to eat and this salad is delicious,” another stretch of the truth. These little white lies were just pouring out of my mouth.
When we finished our salads, the chef sent out a light, fluffy whitefish. Chef Dave’s whitefish looked innocent enough and one bite made me rethink my pessimistic verdict, mainly because it didn’t taste a thing like fish. It was cooked to perfection with julienne broccoli, carrots, and a few stalks of asparagus, all beautifully arranged on the plate.
So far, I liked what I saw on the outside of the chef—his looks, his confidence, his culinary skills—but he really won me over with dessert. chocolate profiteroles. I had never before tasted the light and fluffy pastries filled with whipped cream and covered with chocolate. I tried my best to savor them slowly, but I was the first to finish.