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By Root 525 0

tell him. We’d eaten at Silvano’s three times in our weeklong stay there. Usually, when we traveled we tried never to eat at the same restaurant twice, but we’d met Silvano on one of our first mornings in Polignano a Mare. He was picking mussels from the sea floor at low tide on the beach near our hotel. Jake and I stopped to watch him, and after a while we got to talking. We told him we were chefs on holiday. He told us he owned a tiny restaurant a quarter mile or so up the beach, and he invited us to come for lunch. By the end of the meal we were in the kitchen helping him prep for dinner. He did everything himself, from the cooking to the dishes, relishing all the tasks with the intensity of a person who is uniquely content with his life. We’d enjoyed his company and his food so much we kept going back.

“I was thinking,” Jake continues, “about the concept of a cooking holiday. Not just a cooking school, but an actual working restaurant, where people come to work for an afternoon, an evening, even a week.”

It’s an interesting idea, but an impractical one. When I tell him so, he shrugs.

“Some people are fascinated by what we do, and I bet we could get them to pay big bucks for the chance to walk in our shoes for an afternoon. I think it might be an interesting idea for a television series, actually. Didn’t you ever fancy yourself a star?” he quips.

“No!” I tell him, shocked at the suggestion. He laughs, and I finally figure out he’s been teasing me. “Well, maybe,” I say, smiling.

Jake reaches across the table and picks up my hand, tracing his finger over the butterfly bandage Boulie placed there a couple of days ago. “What happened?” he asks. The gesture surprises me, but the roughness of his calloused hands is familiar, exciting.

“Nothing, just a cut,” I tell him, gently extricating my hand from his grasp.

“Don’t move,” he says, getting up from the table and crossing the kitchen. He hefts a large cast iron pot from the oven. He lifts the lid, cups his hand, and wafts the steam upward toward his face.

Even from across the room, the smell makes me want to swoon. Jake has made my favorite dish—his signature take on cassoulet, made with wild boar sausage braised in Barolo, cannellini beans, fennel, and sweet red peppers. I can hear the hollow snap as he breaks the delicate crust of toasted bread, garlic, and grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. He fills a shallow bowl and places it reverently in front of me.

“It’s not exactly summer fare, but I know it’s your favorite. I missed making it for you this winter. It actually works nicely with your pizza recipe, which has always been one of my favorites. We make a pretty good team, don’t you think?” he says softly. “Go ahead, taste it.”

“Aren’t you going to join me?”

“Of course,” he says, raising his eyes to meet mine. I watch as he fills his plate, picks up a bottle of wine and two glasses, and joins me at the table.

He pours us each a glass of red wine. “Well?” he asks, his eyes focused, unblinking, on my face.

I spear a piece of meat, which yields easily to my fork, and raise it to my lips. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I give Dr. D-P’s anthropologist one last desperate try, but all I can taste is Jake. The flavors are at once complex and earthy. I taste every ingredient: the thick, slightly gamy taste of the boar; the subtle undercurrent of the fennel, which, when braised, releases a delicate licorice perfume; the gentle creaminess of the beans; the smoky heat of the roasted peppers; the harmonious balance of the wine.

It tastes like love.

I open my eyes slowly. Jake is still watching me. I look away, embarrassed, shamed at what I’ve allowed him to witness.

“I’m not sure anyone appreciates my cooking quite like you,” Jake says, his voice thick and low.

Suddenly, he’s at my side. He pulls me to my feet, presses me to him, and kisses me, a deep, rich, extravagant kiss that reminds me of a bowl of late summer raspberries, warm, tender, lush, and tart. I can feel how aroused he is. He pulls my shirt free from my jeans and runs his hands across my bare back, pressing