Yes Chef, No Chef - By Susan Willis Page 0,96
had stained the floor boards a rustic, dark brown colour which was ideal with the fire mantle and surround, and with warm terracotta colours in the cushions, throw and large rug, it all blended beautifully.
Sighing, she dried her eyes and went into the kitchen-diner to spread all her recipe books out on the table. Opening each book to the relevant meat sections she started scribbling a list of flavours that would work well with offal, gammon, pork and game. While deciding upon the type of layout to use for each recipe she put her hand on a piece of A4 paper and taking a pen she drew around her fingers and thumb remembering how huge Doug's hand was compared to hers. Hmm, she mused, wondering what it was about him that she found attractive and started to make flow charts and download pictures of the four different meats.
Using colour photographs of the actual liver and pheasant in their raw state might be controversial and off putting to some customers she decided, so she used the images from the recipes she’d chosen which were liver and bacon sauté with potatoes and a hot game pie with a golden crust to hide the pieces of pheasant. But the gammon joint image with parsley and cider sauce looked impressive alongside the photograph of spring green & gammon soup, and gammon & cauliflower cheese grills. Finishing for the evening she felt pleased with her initial work and a little tremor of excitement ran through her when she thought of seeing Doug again with her proofs.
When she entered the shop he was serving an elderly lady and expertly trimming fat from a T bone steak with a sharp knife he held confidently in his big right hand. He called out a greeting and asked her to wait for a few minutes so she stood by the counter watching him. His massive hands were twice the normal size and when she raised her eyes to smile into his grey eyes they locked and she noticed his stare was so intent he was unconsciously stroking and smoothing the steak. Backwards and forwards he stroked, it was as if he'd lost track of what he was actually doing and she could feel her cheeks flushing hot with embarrassment while she too stared at his actions imagining him stroking her body in the same manner.
Try to play it cool, she thought, but who was she trying to kid, the sexual attraction between them was real, alive and pulsating through her. When the old lady left the shop he came around to stand next to her while she spread the recipe proofs out onto the counter and he admired one after another.
"They're great!" he said enthusiastically. "You've done a fantastic job, Katie. And I know a guy who'll print them for me at a knockdown price."
Her heart pumped with excitement at his closeness and she smiled coyly at his praise. "I'm so pleased you like them."
He ran a finger down the side of her arm and even through her fine knit cardigan she could feel the tingle of their bodily contact.
He gazed longingly at her. "Have dinner with me to celebrate?"
"Where and what time?" she whispered.
“Da Vinci's at eight o'clock?”
Later when her mind played back the scene she realised she hadn’t given the invitation a second thought – it had just seemed the right thing to do. Just before eight she was waiting outside the restaurant in her low-cut red dress, red killer heels – her toes, finer nails and lips were all painted scarlet red to complete the outfit.
God, what on earth was she doing? she thought, feeling her stomach churn when she saw him striding down the street towards her.
He arrived slightly out of breath and ran his hand through his thinning hair. “Not late, am I?” he asked anxiously.
“Not at all,” she said, “I'm a couple of minutes early.”
He took hold of her hand and hurried her through the doors. Her hand felt tiny inside one of his which made her acutely aware of her short height and small frame, they certainly were a strange match, she decided, as the waiter settled them at a table and she began to relax in his company.
“Well, my delectable lady in red, what do you fancy?” he asked. “I'm going to have a sirloin steak.”
She giggled. “That’s a bit of a busman's holiday, isn't it?”
“Maybe,” he said, beaming in pleasure at her. “But this place does cook the best steak