Read Online Amuse Bouche by Anthony Bidulka - Free Book Online
Authors: Anthony Bidulka
Tags: Suspense
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silk tie, checkered, black-and-grey sports coat, shiny loafers, hair slicked back and I was ready to go.
I stood in front of the mirror. Not too shabby.
I'm six feet tall plus a bit, with green eyes, finger-combed sandy hair and a toothy smile.
Based on how often I have to go to the gym, my body is certainly not a gift of nature, but rather something I have to sweat over to keep it looking okay. It's nicely shaped, I guess, but one weekend eating Doritos and ice cream in front of 77
Amuse Bouche
the TV and my mid-section starts pooching out.
It never did that when I was in my twenties.
It was a few minutes after eight when I finally made my way down the stairs and back into the foyer. It was unrecognizable. In less than an hour it had become the place to be. The space now seemed twice the size with two sets of French doors thrown open, one to the east end salon and the other to the west end restaurant.
The lighting was dim and mystical music floated on air heavy with the smell of bougainvillea, fresh rain and simmering sauces. Another woman and three young men, all in matching black-and-white uniforms, now joined the young woman who'd checked me in. They greeted and directed and made nice with exquisitely outfitted guests drifting in from the courtyard and parking lot. I guessed that many of the patrons were not hotel guests at all but locals making a special trip to visit the restaurant.
Always a good sign.
The salon was a long and narrow room with a dozen, knee-high tables of varying shapes and from various historical periods. I found a two-seater near the unlit fireplace and tried to get comfortable in the unforgiving, wooden chair.
Immediately a gigantic man approached my 7 8
Anthony Bidulka
table. Bouncer?
"Mr. Quant, welcome. My name is Jacques,"
he said in a delicate voice that belied his size.
"Perhaps a cocktail to begin the evening?"
I smiled at him, impressed he knew my name. "Do you have a wine list?"
He handed me a leather-bound folder and said, "Perhaps monsieur would care to begin with champagne?" I studied his tone for any sign of haughtiness but heard none. Even though I'd only had champagne as a celebratory drink, usually late at night, I accepted his professional recommendation and off he went. I opened what I assumed was the wine list.
Wrong. Food menu. I flipped through the thick pages but saw no mention of liquid refreshments. Well, at least I could decide on my dinner. A quick perusal of my choices told me I was in for a culinary treat. I glanced at the price of the first entree listed and did the conversion math. Did it again. Decided to ignore the prices.
Jacques returned promptly with a flute of champagne and asked if I needed help with the menu.
Oh yeah. We began on page one under a heading that read Amuse Bouche. I was sure my translation couldn't be accurate because I thought it meant "Party in Your Mouth." (I'd have to remember to serve that back home!) Eventually I figured out that Amuse Bouche is a much less 79
Amuse Bouche
salacious term referring to appetizers.
Once Jacques left to order what I was sure would be the most extraordinary meal I'd had in years, I happily sipped away at my champagne until the sommelier paid me a visit. He was a tall, rangy man with an oversized, hooked nose and way too much energy for the room. He gesticulated wildly and described each wine in a hushed tone that was louder than my normal speaking voice, and in terms a man usually reserves for a lover. I quickly accepted his suggestions and was rather relieved when he gallumphed away in his size twelve shoes. I looked around the room but no one seemed to notice or mind his performance.
About then, a waiter, not Jacques, came into the salon and escorted a couple that were seated nearby across the foyer into the restaurant. I began to understand how the system worked.
Apparently the tradition is to begin one's evening in the salon with champagne and witty repartee. It is there that you order
I stood in front of the mirror. Not too shabby.
I'm six feet tall plus a bit, with green eyes, finger-combed sandy hair and a toothy smile.
Based on how often I have to go to the gym, my body is certainly not a gift of nature, but rather something I have to sweat over to keep it looking okay. It's nicely shaped, I guess, but one weekend eating Doritos and ice cream in front of 77
Amuse Bouche
the TV and my mid-section starts pooching out.
It never did that when I was in my twenties.
It was a few minutes after eight when I finally made my way down the stairs and back into the foyer. It was unrecognizable. In less than an hour it had become the place to be. The space now seemed twice the size with two sets of French doors thrown open, one to the east end salon and the other to the west end restaurant.
The lighting was dim and mystical music floated on air heavy with the smell of bougainvillea, fresh rain and simmering sauces. Another woman and three young men, all in matching black-and-white uniforms, now joined the young woman who'd checked me in. They greeted and directed and made nice with exquisitely outfitted guests drifting in from the courtyard and parking lot. I guessed that many of the patrons were not hotel guests at all but locals making a special trip to visit the restaurant.
Always a good sign.
The salon was a long and narrow room with a dozen, knee-high tables of varying shapes and from various historical periods. I found a two-seater near the unlit fireplace and tried to get comfortable in the unforgiving, wooden chair.
Immediately a gigantic man approached my 7 8
Anthony Bidulka
table. Bouncer?
"Mr. Quant, welcome. My name is Jacques,"
he said in a delicate voice that belied his size.
"Perhaps a cocktail to begin the evening?"
I smiled at him, impressed he knew my name. "Do you have a wine list?"
He handed me a leather-bound folder and said, "Perhaps monsieur would care to begin with champagne?" I studied his tone for any sign of haughtiness but heard none. Even though I'd only had champagne as a celebratory drink, usually late at night, I accepted his professional recommendation and off he went. I opened what I assumed was the wine list.
Wrong. Food menu. I flipped through the thick pages but saw no mention of liquid refreshments. Well, at least I could decide on my dinner. A quick perusal of my choices told me I was in for a culinary treat. I glanced at the price of the first entree listed and did the conversion math. Did it again. Decided to ignore the prices.
Jacques returned promptly with a flute of champagne and asked if I needed help with the menu.
Oh yeah. We began on page one under a heading that read Amuse Bouche. I was sure my translation couldn't be accurate because I thought it meant "Party in Your Mouth." (I'd have to remember to serve that back home!) Eventually I figured out that Amuse Bouche is a much less 79
Amuse Bouche
salacious term referring to appetizers.
Once Jacques left to order what I was sure would be the most extraordinary meal I'd had in years, I happily sipped away at my champagne until the sommelier paid me a visit. He was a tall, rangy man with an oversized, hooked nose and way too much energy for the room. He gesticulated wildly and described each wine in a hushed tone that was louder than my normal speaking voice, and in terms a man usually reserves for a lover. I quickly accepted his suggestions and was rather relieved when he gallumphed away in his size twelve shoes. I looked around the room but no one seemed to notice or mind his performance.
About then, a waiter, not Jacques, came into the salon and escorted a couple that were seated nearby across the foyer into the restaurant. I began to understand how the system worked.
Apparently the tradition is to begin one's evening in the salon with champagne and witty repartee. It is there that you order
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