The Gourmand in Love

1) Because I've been bad at posting, today I'll give two sentences:

His lacquered armor with its Fanelian crest at the chest shimmered with the sheen of past campaigns and long years of service.

Wood smoke and food aromas were layered on top of the smell of people, the smell of excitement.

I'm halfway done with the first part of ch4. I write slow and really need to devote more time to writing.

2) I wrote a light short story for my class this past week:

The Gourmand in Love

I was fighting to drive my way home in the late summer torrent when another wave of longing came upon me. Only two miles left to go. I think I just spoke out loud. Hunger had befuddled me. I vowed never to be on an empty stomach again.

Earlier this morning, my fiancée had hinted at the possibility of roast duck and potato gratin for our anniversary night, and so I proportioned my intake all day in anticipation for the feast, to prepare for the hot and crispy goodness waiting in the oven. Alas, I had miscalculated. The feeling of hunger upon my body and soul only lengthened and strengthened as the afternoon ticked by, and I began to think more and more about the comforting food I had eaten in my grandma’s kitchen, the best tomato and basil soup I had ever tasted, the marvelous multi-course crab dinner in Hokkaido, the perfect ripe Camembert.

The best sushi I ever had was at Tsukiji, the world’s largest fish market. I had taken an early train, intending to observe fish traders taste and bid (with store names in large yellow letters on their baseball caps) on bluefin tunas, but when I got there, the few scattered fishermen wholesalers were bundling up their remaining fish into crates and tubs for warehouse stalls. Only the public open market was left, and I looked on the 450 varieties of fish and seafood (there were stalls dedicated to seaweed and tofu in their different manifestations, too, and the occasional vegetable and meat stands) with disappointment until I spotted a sushi shop. In truth, there are many sushi stores and other restaurants in the alleyways of the market, but at that particular moment, jostled by housewives and grandmothers shopping for their evening meal, lured by shouts from the honest proprietor of every stand that his had the best fish and the day’s specials, and fish everywhere I look, this small shop seemed like a rock in the midst of an angry sea.

The chef owner behind the balsa wood counter was engaged in a conversation with two fishermen on the day’s prices, but shouted at me to please sit down and have a cup of tea. I glanced at the board behind him and ordered the chef special, then squeezed myself into a rickety stool between a couple of salarymen, one in a charcoal suit, one in navy. We started with a tsukemono of octopus, pickled wakame seaweed, sliced okra, and sesame seeds, and then as he finished each pair of nigiri, he placed them bare on the counter—no middleman tray to interfere with the simple, straightforward transaction between chef and customer. The selection was fresh and at its peak, and the succession was each distinct from the last: tuna, escolar, sea bass, scallop, eel, shrimp, salmon roe, yellowtail, and fatty tuna. The glory of them was escolar—not as sweet as the scallop, not as rich as the o-toro, not as overwhelming as the ikari, but delicate, with a translucent pure taste of the sea.

I had walked out of the restaurant and returned to my hotel room in a daze, and although we must have spent the rest of the day touring temples, I retained no memory but the photographs we developed a month later in the States. The escolar had been perfect, and now I recognize that the perfection went beyond the fresh fish—it was the skill of the chef, each rice grain infused with the aroma of mirin, sugar, and rice vinegar, and lightly molded into the underside of the fish so that the rice held together when I picked it up in my clumsy hands but separated in my mouth to mingle with the taste of fish and wasabi.

My usual parking spot was taken by a hideously large truck, and I was forced to park farther than I cared to dash from the car to the apartment awning. My jacket was soaked through and my hair matted into a dark mess, but I propelled myself towards the apartment, slightly dizzy with hunger. I jingled my keys excitedly as I opened the door, prepared to be immersed into warmth and the delicious smell of duck.

The whole apartment was full of the smell of burnt duck, and a haze of smoke stung my eyes. Elise looked up from the disaster she held in her mittened hands, full of tears and ready to cry again. I hugged her and led her to the dinner table, tipped the duck into the trash bag where it landed with a muted thump, and cracked open the window. I brought out white china and opened a bottle of pinot noir.

She laughed when I brought out our dinner: a platter of Oreo cookies. They’re perfect circles, the cool creamy center sandwiched by dry dark crumbs, and the perfect food for listening to the patter of rain at the window and toasting our good fortune in finding each other.