a sophisticated palette like you.”
“You? Ghetto? You live in an architectural dream.”
“Well, my parents were well off, but they worked full time and neither of them cooked. I mainly lived on frozen pizzas, hot dogs, and mac and cheese.”
“That’s it?” He looks appalled. “I grew up poor, but only in the material sense of the word. My mum made a feast out of every meal. We spent lots of time discussing food, preparing food and consuming food.”
I lean my elbows forward in fascination. “So what did you eat most of the time?”
“My mum’s homemade meatballs in sweet cherry sauce,” he says with a smile. “And you?”
“Hot dogs cold, right out of the fridge,” I admit, embarrassed.
“You speak of euphemisms, but don’t you know that a hot dog is pig snout, pig liver, pig kidney, pig fat and scrap that’s ground up, stuffed and squeezed into casings made of animal intestines? You’ll eat that but you won’t eat a snail,” he taunts.
“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll try a snail.” I fork the tiniest escargot, squeeze my eyes shut, and force the slimy thing down my throat.
He stares at me expectantly. “So?”
My face contorts. “The texture is a bit strange, but the garlic buttery sauce sort of makes it edible.”
“Well, I’m glad you at least tried it.”
The next course is Grilled Portobello Mushrooms and Alaskan King Crab Legs served with a red wine reduction.
“Now this is a humongous fungus!” I stifle a laugh.
A smile crooks his lips. “I’ve never understood why they call skinny, spindly crab legs King Crabs.”
“I know,” I concur. “They should call it Poor Man’s Crab legs, or Anorexic Crabs.”
Sometime later, our next dish arrives—Pan Roasted Breast of Squab over Beet Salad and Oven Dried Black Figs.
“Enjoy your street pigeon and weeds,” says Mika cheekily.
“Mmmm.” I crunch on a lettuce. “I love rabbit food. And as for this pigeon, it’s payback time for messing up my balcony.”
Mika takes a bite off his rat with wings. “Sorry pigeon, this is for firing your mess all over my car.”
After all that pigeon bashing, I’m suddenly consumed with guilt. “You know what? Pigeons are also symbols of peace,” I say, paying tribute to my meal.
Mika matches my somber mood. “Pigeons are credited with saving thousands of soldiers’ lives in World War One and Two.”
“How?” I ask, nibbling on my salad greens.
“They were used to carry messages. Pigeons can fly at high speeds for miles and miles without stopping for food and water.”
For a little while, we lapse into silence.
“You know what?” I say in a sage voice. “I think we should call this hero with wings a squab. That way I’m not reminded of the fact that I’m eating a patriotic, lifesaving pigeon.”
“Okay, no more deconstructing euphemisms,” agrees Mika wholeheartedly. “They’re around for a reason.”
Our fourth course is soon placed before us, this time it’s Citrus Marinated Salmon with a Confit of Navel Oranges, topped with Sustainable Sturgeon Caviar and Pea Shoot Coulis.
Now let me start with my one caveat—I really detest caviar. But as I cautiously spoon some pearly eggs in my mouth, it pops with a flavor that’s surprisingly pleasing to my palate. The food here may sound pretentious, but it certainly doesn’t taste pretentious. We relish and savor every bite, praising and applauding the dishes along the way.
The last three courses are all desserts. And the first one up is White Chocolate Bread Pudding drizzled with Bourbon Caramel Sauce. It is to die for.
I breathe out a sated sigh. “Mika, you’re the best! I’ve never had food like this before. Thanks so much for bringing me here,” I say preemptively.
He beams at me. “You deserve it!”
“What did I do?” I fork a voluptuous portion of pudding.
“Well, you spent a lot of time tutoring me, and you helped me out with my papers.”
I wave my hand dismissively. “I hardly did anything. And if you thank me for tutoring you one more time, I’ll eat my own head. Actually, you have to eat a tenner.”
“Well you did,” he insists. “You have mad talent, Maddy. You could even earn some extra money on the side if you wrote for an essay mill.”
I stare agog at our next dessert placed in front of us.
Juan announces, “Triple Molten Chocolate Lava Cake served with a side of hand churned chocolate ice cream.”
It is literally a detonation of chocolate. And it is dynamite!
Mika smiles at me indulgently. “You can have some of mine.”
“Sure,” I say without hesitating, and he slides his oozing plate of chocolate my way.