15. Noa #2
“Mmm,” she breathes. Her long dark lashes flutter as she closes her eyes. I look away.
The handsome waiter throws me a kindly wink before walking off. He passes Arjun, who’s walking back toward us, and they share an intimate glance. I want to ask Aarti what their relationship is, but now doesn’t feel like the time.
Arjun sets what Aarti tells me is a brass thali upon our table, its small bowls filled with jewel-toned preparations. Emerald spinach with cubes of paneer. Ruby-red tandoori cauliflower. A dal so transcendent I want to bathe in it.
“What’s in this ?” I ask between bites of dal.
Aarti gets a look on her face of pure mischief. She snags a clean cloth napkin from the next table.
“Tie this around your eyes.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your turn. It’s only fair.”
I do it.
“Okay,” Aarti says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Taste it again.”
I feel the spoon touch my bottom lip, and she feeds me a bite of the creamy, rich sauce. “What flavors do you recognize, doctor?”
“Cumin,” I identify, almost competitively.
“Yes,” she says, bringing the spoon to my mouth, dropping her voice to a lower register. “And?”
Her tone soothes me, taking away my edge and allowing me to just… taste.
“Black mustard seed.” I lick my lips. “But there’s something else…”
“Curry leaves,” she says. “From the garden. And a tiny bit of hing–asafoetida. It’s what gives it that savory depth.”
She leans in to give me another bite; this time her knee grazes mine beneath the table. I try to wrap my head around the taste–something cool and springy… Or is that my heart rate?
“Cardamom,” I ponder. “Rose. Or…”
“Kewra water. Screwpine essence."
“Screwpine,” I ponder the new word. The way she said it. How it makes my mouth water.
I push the blindfold up to find Aarti watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. We’re closer than I realized, her hand holding a piece of naan inches from my mouth. I take it between my teeth and her gaze doesn’t move from my eyes.
“That’s good,” I say. She nods. Stares. I don’t know how her guests are going to remember their own names with a stare like that.
“I have to say thank you,” she says, and I remember to breathe. “For not saying anything about… you know. You could’ve easily taken that to the press.”
“I–I could never. Out–” I lower my voice. “ Out you?”
She shrugs and leans back with her drink, taking a long sip. Her chic loafer touches my ankle, but she doesn’t move it away. “You never know.”
By the time the next course arrives–an eggplant dish that makes me reconsider my relationship with vegetables–we’re halfway through our second round and I can feel my edges getting fuzzy.
“So,” I start, noting how my tongue feels slightly too big for my mouth. Aarti shakes her head woefully.
“We’re so screwed,” she drops her head into her hands. "I have no idea how to make this segment work.”
“I’ve never had to perform my job and make it entertaining,” I lament. The word entertaining takes two tries.
“You’re entertaining when you’re not trying to perform,” she tells me.
“That’s like telling a worrywart to just stop worrying.”
“Isn’t that the solution though?” She flicks me that glowy gaze. “In this instance, at least. Don’t try to tell me the same.”
I groan, gesturing a bit too widely with my glass as I try to ignore her maybe-flirting. “I’m not made for television! I live in the sensory realm! I need to touch and taste and smell and see and hear…”
My god, did she just lick her lips? Either that or I’m more drunk than I realized.
“…the world around me.” I try to finish the thought. I can hardly remember my point. “I can’t just… exist in someone’s TV box!”
Aarti strikes a sarcastically worried expression. “You know that’s not how television works, right?”
I roll my eyes, her teasing making me slightly dizzy. “You know what I mean.”
“Take it from me. Newbies navigate broadcast nerves every day. You don’t have to reinvent the wheel–or should I say the banana split–in order to figure out how to be at ease on TV.”
Like a sleeper cell awoken by a code phrase, my eyebrows jump halfway up my forehead.
Aarti looks confused. “What… just happened?”
“You were making a salient point, but you invoked my activation trigger,” I inform her.
“You’re an ice cream scientist and a secret agent?” She slips into a Mid-Atlantic drawl, like something out of a noir film. “You’re full of surprises, sweetheart.”
I blush. “Not quite a secret agent, but I am on a lifelong mission to reinvent banana splits, rendering your reassurance kinda moot.”
Aarti snorts, shaking her head. “I should’ve known. Please, explain. I can tell you want to.”
She’s right, I do, and I’m just tipsy enough to give her my entire spiel about how there could be a whole world of fruits split open and piled high with ice cream and toppings, if only we would stop limiting ourselves to mere bananas.
She gives my rant her full attention, nodding along vehemently as I sell her on the myriad sundae splits I’ve dreamt up over the years. Only when I finally finish, a bit breathless, does she respond.
“You’re worried about your ability to translate what you do through a TV, but just hearing you describe your sundaes, I need them. Like, now. And I’m very full.”
Her compliment warms me from within, and my cheeks heat even more.
Something about what I just said seems to strike a chord with Aarti–her face takes on a wistful look.
“What?” I ask.
“My grandmother used to say, ‘beta, you must romance food with your whole being, with every sense you’ve been given.’” She bites her bottom lip. “You do that. Obviously.”
The idea hits me like a freight train. I jump up from the table, fork clattering to the ground.
Aarti opens her mouth to say something, but I hold up my finger and frantically search my being for my idea notebook.
I quickly remember where I last saw it: clutched in my hands, soaked in sprinkler-water, right before I passed out.
“You still have that terrible joke notepad???” I ask fervently. “You kinda owe me one.”
“Not with me. Also you kinda owe me an entire backdrop?”
I wave my hand. “Forget I said anything.”
I settle for the Notes app on my phone even though my fingers aren’t quite cooperating with my brain anymore. “What was the thing you just said? Grandma said?”
She raises her brows at me. “You must romance the food with your whole being.”
The letters on the screen swim as I furiously type, the plight of being a lightweight.
When I’m done, I hand her my opus.
Ghee
Aroma????
Smell yum
Memorees
WHole beinfg
Oh shit
The fivresennsez !!!!
“Are you having a stroke?” Aarti grabs my phone, squinting at the screen. “What is a fivresennsez ?” She says it like it’s a French delicacy.
“SENSES!” I exclaim too loudly, spooking a nearby server. “Each segment explores a different sense as we develop your flavor!”
“‘Memorees?’” She’s trying not to laugh.
“You know I can’t spell for shit! Memories! Like–” I take the phone back, nearly dropping it. “Like comfort foods when you’re sad, or–” I’m typing frantically again, each word a small victory against my uncooperative thumbs.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this about something that looks like a drunk text to your ex,” Aarti says, “but this could actually work.”
I look up from my phone, where I’ve written RMEMBER THIS TMRW WHEN SOBER, to find her watching me with something resembling hesitation. And… hope?
I must’ve mumbled the words aloud as I typed because she hits me with:
“Fortunately you don’t even have to save this for tomorrow. Since we’re going back to work right now.”
Oops.