Author's Note: Back from vacation with a new chapter! Thanks to everyone who left such nice notes for me to come home to. :)
- four: tasting notes -
bella
I'm pounding up the back stairs to the apartment before I can second-guess this half-baked scheme. My mind's on the last dregs of a 2009 Jura chard Carlisle had brought me to see if the producer was one I'd want to carry.
I'd been looking forward to savoring it tonight. But suddenly I really, really, really have to know what Edward Masen would serve with it.
I deliberately ignore the equally strong desire to watch him drink it.
I fumble with the Coravin top and pour a couple ounces into the sharply curved, delicate glass I pulled down from my special cabinet. Unthinking, I take a sip to make sure it's still—
"Oh, fuck, that's good," I mumble as the complex flavors hit my tongue. I hope there's still a bit left at the bottom of that bottle for later…
I rush back down to the kitchen, holding the glass by the long, leggy stem.
Edward is waiting right where I left him, leaning casually against the prep table with his long legs canted out before him, crossed at the ankles. His back is to me, but he turns when he hears the door. Leisurely, he presses his palms against the counter-height surface that separates us, resting his weight against it.
He's lost his jacket in my absence, revealing a chambray button down with the sleeves rolled up.
My eyes snag on his tatted forearms.
I'd already spotted the hint of some kind of ink at the base of his throat, peeking out of the undone top buttons of his collar. So it's not a surprise that he's got more on his arms, but it catches my attention anyway.
I want to stare, to see what they are, but I drag my gaze back to his face. He's watching me with a mix of curiosity and anticipation, that charming little half-smirk lingering on his expressive mouth.
I place the glass on the stainless steel surface between us.
"What would you make to go with this?" I ask, nodding down at it.
The smile disappears, replaced by what I'm already recognizing as his thinking face. A little furrow between those straight brows, lips tugged down at the corners in a not-quite frown.
He picks up the glass, holds it to the light—
We both spot it at the same time.
The imprint of my lips on the rim. Fuck.
"Oh my God," I say aloud, horrified. "Jesus, I'm so sorry! I must have—I was—" I'm stammering, reaching out to grab it from his hands. "I'll go get a fresh one!"
I remember doing it now, the thoughtless sip to see if it was still fresh after a few days open, even with the Coravin. I can't believe myself—I'm a professional, God dammit, and yet I'd let my rush to see what he would do obliterate my brain.
He's laughing at me, and I want to die.
"Don't worry about it, Bella," he says, holding the glass out of my reach. "This isn't service, I'm not an irate customer. I don't care."
Fuckin stupid. This whole thing is stupid. How can I even think of hiring a chef if I can't keep my head around him?
Edward's already back to inspecting the glass, ignoring the scarlet letter of my tinted lip balm.
"It's a nice piece of stemware," he says idly, turning it in his long fingers to examine it. I've always loved how thin the stem looks in my hand, but his makes it seem impossibly fragile.
"Gabriel-Glas," I mumble, my face still aflame.
His eyes flicker to me, just for a second, but then he's intent on the small pour again.
"Cool color. Like a golden apple."
I force myself to say nothing. I don't need him to be able to identify anything about it. I just need to know what he does with the flavors.
He gives it a tentative little swirl, watching the legs as they run down the inside of the bowl.
Ok, so the man's done a few tastings in his life. I guess it's not a surprise, given his work history.
It's impossible not to stare as he raises it to his bold nose. It's long and sharp, and might have been straight once, but now tilts a bit to one side.
The imperfection makes it a bit more interesting, I think.
He inhales deeply and immediately shoots me an accusatory look. I stifle a smile—I know exactly why. He thinks I'm trying to trick him, that I've handed him something oxidized beyond drinkability.
"It's not faulty," I assure him. "Just taste it."
He narrows his eyes at me, but lowers the glass slightly from his nostrils to hover before his mouth. For a second, he just sits there. I don't know why he's hesitating but it makes me tense up, waiting for him to touch the frail rim to his lips.
The rim I've already drunk from.
He closes his eyes. And then he tips the glass and lets the golden liquid slip into his mouth.
A soft, surprised "oh" escapes him, and his eyelids snap open.
His gaze finds me again, and I bite back a self-satisfied smile.
"Not quite what I expected," he says, a little sheepishly.
"I told you it wasn't a fault."
He tips his head in acknowledgement, already lifting the glass back up for another sip. He holds this one in his mouth for a moment, looking up at the ceiling as he thinks. When he finally swallows, I can't help watching his throat work, Adam's apple bobbing.
"It's definitely rich," he says. "But there's that acidity cutting through it, so it doesn't feel heavy."
He's rolling his tongue around, I can tell by the way the muscles along his sharp jawline jump. I know exactly what his mouth tastes like at this moment, I realize with a jolt—the same finish is lingering in my own palate, an echo of the tiny mouthful I'd taken from that very pour.
Another sip, bigger this time. He's getting comfortable with it.
"Scallops," he mutters, almost to himself. "Crudo, I think. They'll carry that silky texture on the tongue through the dish, and the lemon juice will reflect that brightness in the wine. Alternate some thinly sliced pears on the plate, too, for those ripe fruit notes."
His eyes flicker to mine, a silent check for my reaction. I have to make myself exhale slowly, so he doesn't notice I've been holding my breath.
"It's got a lot of minerality, huh?" he asks
I nod. "I get fresh herbs, too."
He hums in agreement. "Maybe fennel, then?"
My face reacts before I can stop it, and he grins at my sour expression.
"What? You don't like fennel?"
"I like fennel fine. But not with this wine," I say resolutely. "And definitely not raw. It'll numb the palate, and you'll lose the nuance."
"Ah. I see what you mean." He puts the glass down to cross his arms, tapping a thoughtful finger against his lips. Then, suddenly, his eyes light up, and he snaps his fingers. "Fennel pollen," he says triumphantly. "It's a bit sweeter, but it gives that herbal note. It could be a garnish, along with some nice flaky sea salt."
I'm leaning forward, nodding fervently. He's on it now. I can picture the plate, the raw scallops slick with oil and lemon juice, the bright green of the pear skin and the powdery yellow of the pollen…
Edward's sipping again. He sighs, then looks at me expectantly.
"What else?" he asks, and I realize that he's legitimately asking me. "Something with a little crunch, for texture, don't you think?" He taps his finger gently against the crystal, making it ring softly. "With almost a…creamy note."
"Hazelnut," I breathe.
His face lights up, and he nods his head vigorously. "Yes! Chopped toasted hazelnuts scattered over the top." He looks back down at the almost-empty glass with a little wonder in his eyes. "That's what's on the finish."
The silence that follows is just a little too charged for comfort. Slowly, he looks back up at me, and for a moment we're just staring at each other.
A strange impulse rears up in me. I want to drag him back up to the apartment, make him taste every bottle I've got and tell me in excruciating, minute detail what he'd cook to pair with it. Make him do it.
It terrifies me.
As though he can tell I'm on the verge of something—a panic attack, maybe—he gives me one of those achingly slow smiles, reassuring and a little conspiratorial, all at once.
"See?" he says softly. "Chemistry."
I really have nothing to say to that.
So I just reach out, grab the glass, and tip the last drops of the wine into my mouth.
Footnotes:
A Coravin is a device to keep wine fresh if you don't want to drink the whole bottle.
Jura chard is chardonnay from the Jura wine region of France. It's a smaller region that has become kind of a cult favorite among somms and wine nerds (though lots of people really don't like it lol). 2009 would be a pretty old bottle for this varietal, probably over the hill for most, but there are a couple producers that put out vintages that'll stand up to that kinda age. The tasting notes here are from CellarTracker for the Tissot Arbois Les Graviers.
Gabriel-Glas makes really, really sexy and expensive wine glasses. Mr. Vague has made a rule that we can't buy them until we go a year without breaking one of our current nice glasses, which is not very Chefward of him.
The legs of a wine refer to the "tear" tracks that run down the side of a glass after you swirl the liquid. The way the droplets collect & stream down helps reveal the alcohol content and sweetness (higher alcohol=denser drops, sweeter wine=slower, more viscous flow down the side). Science!
Oxidized wine has had too much exposure to oxygen, messing with the flavor and mouthfeel, and it has a very specific smell. A lot of the winemaking process is designed to manage how much exposure to oxygen the wine gets, and over oxidation is considered a fault. Jura, however, is famous for a special style of white (vin jaune) that undergoes purposeful oxidative aging similar to fortified wines (sherry, port, madeira, etc.). While the wine Bella pulls is not vin jaune, many Jura producers tend to treat white in a way that allows more oxygen contact than the "norm." So it might smell nutty, a lot like sherry or even faulty oxidized wine, but the tasting notes are generally much fresher, brighter, etc. than you would expect from the nose.
The scallops crudo Edward dreams up is somewhat based on a dish posted on Instagram by Alewife in Richmond, VA. I adjusted to fit the wine tasting notes.