1
" He pulled away and- just like at our meeting at Tellicherry- my skin sizzled with the memory of his touch. I still felt his chest against my shoulder blades, my butt against his hips, his arm curved around mine.
I couldn't decipher what he was doing with me. We had accidentally bumped into each other at Tellicherry and Whole Foods, but this, now, was intentional. But on whose part? The way he talked to me, looked at me... This morning, I never would have thought that I'd end up here, in Bakushan, with Chef Pascal Fox practically spooning me while teaching me knife skills. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
2
" He stroked me on the head, and I nuzzled into him like a cat. I saw his chest heave, his lungs filling with his accomplishment, our accomplishment. I had never been so attracted to him, or any man, before.
Then he took me by the face and kissed me harder than I've ever been kissed. He kissed me over and over, his lips only loosely aiming for mine. He pulled my lips with the strong pucker of his mouth, then let them snap back. All I could do was give in. That's all I wanted to do.
We made our way to the couch, lips locked. He laid me back so my feet were off the ground and my head hung over the armrest. He massaged my neck hard, digging his fingers alongside my spine. His breathing took on a husky bite, an animal roughness that gave me goose bumps. His hands followed my curves, focusing on my hips and butt. I kicked my leg around and sat on his lap. It wasn't very comfortable, but it'd have to do.
"You are irresistible," he purred, and toyed with the straps of my dress. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
3
" I shifted one strap over my shoulder, then the other. I circled my head around and swiveled my hips, creating a sort of hula hoop helix, a study in the curves of a woman's body. He reached for me, but I stepped back, just beyond his reach.
"Not yet..."
"Argh," he said, but he said it with a smile. "Yes, mademoiselle."
I turned around and grazed the tops of his knees with my butt, then spread my legs and bent over, because I knew the dress would ride up. I'd known this Hervé Léger was good for dancing, but I hadn't known until then that it was made for holding men entranced.
I stood up while his hand moved up and down my inner thigh, and then his other hand joined in. He unzipped the back of the dress and it fell to the ground with an unsexy sandbag-like thud. I had never stood in front of a man in just a bra, panties, and heels. My first instinct was to be embarrassed, to want to cover up or turn down the lights, to jump on him so he wouldn't have such a complete view of every inch of me.
Yet his gaze only grew in intensity.
But then Pascal pulled me at the knees so I buckled and tripped on the way to his lap. He flicked my bra open and off so my arms flew wildly in front of me. Then, in a rather impressive move, he slid my panties off and circled me around me so I was the one sitting and he stood over me. All of a sudden, he had the control.
"Hey," I said. A quiver came into my voice now that he was on top and I didn't know what to do.
Pascal unbuttoned his shirt and unbuckled his belt. I got the picture and began to kick off my shoes, but he stopped me.
"Leave them on," he said. "You look so fucking sexy in those heels."
I blushed, but now wasn't the time to be sheepish. He leaned over me. I squeezed his waist with my legs and held his neck in the crook of my elbows so I could keep his face to mine.
We rocked together forcefully but in sync. He swiftly slid off his boxer briefs and put my hand on him. He was even harder than before, harder than I had ever felt with Elliott. Pascal was roaring in triumph as he sat over me, himself in hand. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
4
" His fingers moved deeper and I thought that the dye may have given me new nerve endings because every hair prickled up to his touch. "We're sensualists, aren't we?"
"Sensualists?" He lowered his hand to my neck and pulled me so close our foreheads touched. "What do you mean?" I asked, the tips of my lips- just slightly- against his.
"Sensualism..." he repeated in his bizarre accent. He didn't press his lips against mine and I didn't dare press back. We let our mouths push and graze as we spoke. "We are passionate, you and I. We know how to give in to our senses."
Then I felt the full heat of his mouth on mine and I lapped him up greedily, my hands grabbing his face and hair and shoulders.
I had never thought of myself as much of a sensualist. I was a writer, a rationalist in a sensualist world. I was always worrying about what other people thought of me and more often than not I liked the company of babies and dogs instead of humans my own age.
But what's rational about a man's lips on you, when he's touching you in a way that makes you feel the exquisite pleasure of belonging? Everything else is a distraction.
We tussled with our shirts off, until he pulled me on top of him and slid his hands from under my hair, to my shoulders, down to my arms, and finally to the place where the top of my pants met my skin.
"Leather pants, you little minx. Shall we have an encore?" he asked.
By now my hair was a wild mess. I was red from the wine. The lights were sort of dark, but not dark enough. I was wearing some Kiki Montparnasse lingerie, black lace with tiny bows that were at once sweet and not so sweet. You could even describe them as naughty.
He let the tip of one finger move around the edge of my pants. When he got to the button, he made a flicking motion that stressed its hold. The critical button. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
5
" I couldn't help staring at him, slurping up every atom and utterance and whistle in his voice. He'd become more relaxed in the kitchen, relaxed yet assertive. He bit his thumb in thought and the contrast between his big, strong hands and this adorable, boyish habit made me woozy.
"Well... what are we doing with this dish?"
"Let me think," I said, letting my exhalations calm me down yet again. "I think the dish needs something more to ground it. Something earthy."
"That's the lovage," he said, now looking in the fridge, his jean-clad butt poking out.
"No, the lovage is the wild card," I said, as steadily as I could, even though I was intensely distracted and slightly astonished that a man's butt excited me so much.
"That flavor remains suspended in your mouth," I continued. "You need something that goes deeper." As I said it, he slowly approached me. I lifted my hand to make way for him but he caught it in midair.
"I need something?" he asked, tightening his grip with a little smile and a little threat. He walked one inch closer and that inch set my heart fluttering again, the air between us compressed and tickling.
"Yes. Um, I mean..."
Still holding my hand, he grabbed a bowl of toasted almonds. "Like this?" He dropped one in my mouth with his free hand, his fingers barely touching my lips.
I didn't feel like eating it. I felt like either running back to my apartment and hiding under the covers, or maybe just pretending I was someone else and kissing him right then and there.
But I ate the almond and resigned myself to imagining his lips on mine. His hand was still around my wrist... his finger on my lips...
"Or, maybe this." He gripped me tighter and, with his other hand, picked up a frond of dehydrated kale, as big and light as a feather. He touched the end of my lips, but when I opened my mouth, he pulled it away. "Careful," he said. "It crumbles." He placed it on my lips once more and I took a bite, little flakes of kale falling like green fairy dust. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
6
" And before I knew it, the tip of his finger was against the side of my mouth, the mousse cooling my skin. I turned my head to get a full taste, but he moved his finger away so I only got a tiny wisp of the mousse, not enough to know it.
"Hey, come on," I said. "Let me taste it."
He took another step forward, and I took the tiniest of steps back, pressing us both against the wall, Helen's write-up just over my left shoulder. "Oh? You think this is what's missing?"
I chased his finger with my lips. He had only grabbed one of my hands, so I could have brought his hand to my mouth, but I stayed there, transfixed, like a bug pinned down for inspection. Finally, the flat of my tongue and the tip of his finger met. He gently pushed it inside my mouth, and I tasted the yogurt at last. It was surprising in every way- airy yet hearty, sunny yet earthy. The final piece. He kept his finger in my mouth even after I finished tasting it, my tongue against the ridges on the underside of his finger, coarse from cooking, I suppose, but more likely from being a man. Pascal was a man.
He pulled his finger out and my lips made a suctioned pop sound.
Maybe Pascal was the oxygen. Maybe he was what I should have been breathing. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
7
" We're so exposed," Elliott said, as people tapped at the window, oohing at our neighbors' dishes. "This place is good, right?"
"Yeah," I said. "It's supposed to be awesome. Though the menu is pretty controversial."
"Controversial, huh? Well, I'll leave it up to you to navigate the terrain."
"Come on, really? Order with me. Please?"
"No, no, don't worry about it," he said. "Go crazy!"
"Okay..." I said. "What about... gizzard porridge?" That was actually on the menu.
"Sounds fabulous."
I giggled. "Or what about the pork with three sweetbread jellies?"
"Only three? I like at least a half dozen."
I held the menu up like an inspector with her clipboard.
"What about the strawberry ramen with peanut broth?" I challenged.
"Ah, the sweet nectar of my youth."
I spread out my elbows. "Okay, Mr. Chambers. I see your palate is quite sophisticated. Which means you simply must have the poached toothfish with nitro-chocolate ribbons."
"Darling, it would be heresy to not."
Elliott and I burst out laughing and a couple sitting next to us gave us dirty looks, which only made us laugh more. This was beginning to feel like old times.
"All right, for real," I said, rubbing his hand from across the table. "What do you want?"
"You decide, T. I trust you."
I gave in and decided on three of the most talked-about dishes: buttermilk Parmesan flan with maple broth, pork and snail dumplings with effervescent chive oil, and beef meatballs with deep-fried cilantro chips. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
9
" The waiter returned with a pre-appetizer amuse-bouche, a soup spoon filled with diced radishes, shortbread crumbs, and a black pepper gastrique. After the waiter left, Michael Saltz said, "They're trying. Hard."
The radishes had been pickled, articulating their peppery bite and giving them a sharpened edge. The shortbread grounded the bite with a bready, buttery mouthful and the black pepper-vinegar sauce finished it with an elegant and seductive wisp of sweet, salty, and spicy. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
10
" In thirty minutes, Pascal was at my door with a bag of beignets he had freshly fried. We ate them in my bed, getting powdered sugar on our clothes, and then on our underwear, and then on our naked bodies.
"Who was that out there?" he said, his tongue edging up from my collarbone, to my neck, to the curve of my ear. His hands were on my butt, and my hands were on his. We were pressing into each other as much as we could, as much as was possible until we were finally one.
"No one," I said, as he began pushing into me.
No one, I repeated to myself. No one. No one.
Inside, a mountain of tension squeezed tighter and tighter before crunching into a tiny crystalline diamond. That diamond shattered into a billion pieces of wonder and I came harder than I'd ever come before. I was broken, but I was also new.
I silently cried myself to sleep with Pascal beside me. But when I woke up, I felt much better. Kissing Pascal had made me feel like another person. And after having sex with him, I knew that the change was finally complete. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
11
" I ate a coconut crisp and the whole thing shriveled in my mouth, evaporating into nothing but pure taste. I held another up to the golden light as someone sat down across from me.
"I can't figure out this cooking technique. Do you think it's a meringue?" I asked.
"Actually, I believe it's freeze-dried."
My gaze leaped from the coconut crisp to the source of the foreign-sounding voice, smoother and younger than Michael Saltz's agitated lisp. Pascal Fox.
His black hair was slightly matted and spiked, hair that was- amazingly- a bit like mine, thick and straight in places, wispy and fine in others. He wore a cobalt-blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his tattoos. In the semi-dark, I made out a mural of forks and knives, cows and pigs, carrots and eggplants and squashes and melons, like a super-hot, toned supermarket. He seemed to be showing off the whole mural to me.
"Oh, hi!" I said.
"I remember you. You came to my restaurant about three weeks ago, right?"
"Wow," I said. "You have a good memory." I couldn't stop blushing and I regretted eating all that food. It was hard to feel pretty when I felt nine months pregnant.
"I don't remember everyone. Just the special people." He nudged his body an inch toward mine and my breath caught in my throat. Up close, I noticed he had a slightly crooked smile and somewhat stained teeth. I liked that he wasn't the perfect model he appeared to be in all the magazines. He was almost a regular person. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
12
" But I was even more surprised when he stuck around with me and smiled a full, toothy, letter-D-shaped movie star grin.
The magazines said he was only twenty-eight, which was young for an executive chef but felt old to me. He looked like a man. Even when Elliott turned twenty-eight, I doubted he would look as manly as Pascal. Somehow, in the supermarket lighting, Pascal seemed hotter- more capable and more real. In restaurants, he blended in with the scenery of the meal. But here, holding his basket just like everyone else, looking at the discounted produce, getting lost in the aisles, his presence became even more magical, as if I were seeing a beautiful, powerful animal in the wild instead of at the zoo. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
13
" Now that you have the menu, tell me what this is."
"Tuna, vanilla brioche crumbs, and a bruléed disk of monkfish liver."
"Ah, monkfish liver! Foie gras of the sea!" Michael Saltz said, lifting his cup in a toast. I refused to join him and just tipped the bite backlit a shot, letting the mouthful take shape all at once.
Michael Saltz squinted at me while I set the cup down. If he disregarded me, then I'd disregard him.
Next, Hugo brought out a single octopus tentacle, roasted to bring out the burgundy speckles in its skin, painted with sweet, sea-infused balsamic squid ink and framed by two quarters of a ruddy pear.
We stayed silent as I ate.
Skate came wading in a chorizo broth, a cap of seaweed poking through the surface like an island paradise. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
14
" I turned my attention to three dresses that were definitely not made for dining. They were going-out things, dancing looks. One was a swingy black dress made of a wet suit-like material, with a high neck and stiff A-line skirt. Alexander McQueen. Another was a red Gucci with little loops of textured fringe. It should have looked Elmo-like, but the sophisticated shape overrode the thought. I twisted the dress on the hanger, and the skirt rose and fell like the swelling of the ocean. The last dress was surprisingly heavy even though it was the shortest, narrowest, lowest-cut garment in that day's shipment. The tag said Hervé Léger and the dress was ribbed like a mummy, a very tight, shiny, green-and-gold mummy. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
15
" I wore an emerald long-sleeved dress by Vivienne Tam and a pair of tangerine Christian Louboutins. I had seen the same look in one of Emerald's Vogues and asked Giada to overnight it. I learned quickly, though I wasn't very original. I'd changed in a coffee shop next to my apartment, then hopped into a cab.
"Next time we must coordinate outfits beforehand," Michael whispered as we sat down. "I was going for 'salt of the earth' today."
"Oh, I wanted to match the décor," I said.
Tellicherry felt like a sexy, sinister jewel box. A rich sapphire blue stained the walls in large, meandering splotches, like dye dropped into water. Bronze silk leaped and dipped in the cushions. The waitresses wore black dresses with seductive lace panels revealing flesh-colored bits, and the waiters slinked in semi-sheer pajama-like outfits, conjuring bedtime escapades, none of which involved sleeping. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
16
" Pascal and I talked the whole night, and at the end of it, he walked me back to my apartment. We were tired, yet not as drunk as I would have thought. I wanted to touch him and felt like he wanted to touch me, too. The air in the late, late night was thin and hallucinatory, like we were at a high altitude.
Outside my apartment, Pascal sighed and took me by the waist. He was much taller than I and swung me from side to side. He tipped his lips down as I tipped my lips up. And then, without a care in the world, we kissed.
His lips were surprisingly soft. I had only kissed Elliott for the past four years, and every kiss before that had been embarrassingly bad. Pascal's lips were so different, full yet muscular. He held me by the back of my head, then slid his hands down to my neck, kneading as he went, so by the time his hands were at the small of my back, my insides had melted.
Elliott had a shallow way of kissing, lips that moved like an ant on a leaf. Pascal was all push and pull, suck and lick. Every bit of pressure corresponded with another withdrawal, leaving me panting and yearning. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
18
" People forget that saffron is the backbone of a flower," he said, still sniffing. "They get so preoccupied with saffron's cost that they forget what saffron really is."
"My boyfriend used to study crocuses in college," I said, unsure where the conversation was going, but determined to set it on stable ground. 'He harvested the strands for a pilot dining hall program, but gave me the best ones to cook with."
"A match made in heaven."
"Yeah," I said. "He's great..." But we weren't here to discuss my love life. What were we here to discuss?
"And what did you make with the saffron?" Michael Saltz asked.
"My specialty is a rice stew with ginger and flounder." He had brought the conversation back to food and I felt more at ease.
"Like a paella?"
"No, not like a paella. I don't use shellfish, because..."
"Oh, right, allergic! Yes, how could I forget?"
He had an excellent memory. Or maybe just for me.
"It has an Asian flair," I continued. "The saffron adds a taste of the sun. You have the pillowy sea element of the flounder and the earthiness of the rice, and I think the farminess of the saffron- that rustic, rough flavor- brings the dish together. "
― Jessica Tom , Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit
