On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [93]
“Come on, Lilah Jane,” he coaxed, as if sensing her reluctance. “I can do this, I know I can. I need to get back to basics. Help me wake my taste buds up.”
“Can you see anything?”
Devon felt a shift in the air in front of his face, as if Lilah were waving her hand before his blindfolded eyes. He shook his head. “It’s black as night under here.”
“Okay. Boy, you’ve sure got some crazy stuff in this kitchen. Even with both eyes open, I’m not sure what some of it is or how the heck you’d cook it.”
Devon could hear her moving around the kitchen, gathering things from the fridge, the pantry. At least one item required chopping; another, mixing. She spent some time at the stove, made multiple trips back and forth across the kitchen. It was the auditory equivalent of spinning a kid in a circle before a game of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.
Except this wasn’t child’s play to Devon. As the knotted tension in his neck and the clammy palms of his hands could attest, this was deadly serious.
If he couldn’t do this taste test anymore, if he couldn’t recognize the flavors Lilah put in front of him, he might as well pack it in right now. He’d do the fundraiser with old, well-tested recipes, and that would be it. He’d retire.
Unwilling to confront the terrifying question of what he’d do after he retired, Devon shifted on the bench, making the leather creak loudly. He rubbed his hands dry on his pants and ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth.
He’d had plain crackers and a glass of water to bring his palate back to neutral after the wine. He was as ready as he’d ever be.
Lilah kept his jitters from escalating by placing something on the table in front of him with a quiet clack.
“Here we go,” she said, and guided his hand to the rim of what Devon recognized as one of his glass nesting bowls.
He breathed out through his nose and dipped his fingers into the bowl. The roughly diced contents were slightly wet and cool to the touch. Vegetable, his mind immediately supplied.
Devon popped a couple pieces into his mouth and crunched down, releasing a sharp, almost licorice flavor.
With a burst of relief, Devon recognized it. “Raw fresh fennel root,” he said.
“Right!” Lilah sounded so thrilled for him, Devon had to grin.
“Next,” he reminded her. “Clock’s ticking.”
“Shoot, okay, sorry. Here you go.”
This time his hand found the chill, matte edges of one of his small French stoneware plates. He knocked his fingers against a mound of tiny spheres that scattered and rolled when he touched them.
He captured a few and brought them to his lips. They were smooth and very fragrant, the scent herbal and lemony. The taste was the same as the smell, only sharper, the little balls dry and almost powdery against his tongue.
Devon dabbed up a few more and tasted again, frowning. Something about it reminded him of traveling through India. “Dried coriander seed?”
“Right again! This is fun. I can see why you and your cooks liked doing it. Okay, try this.”
The next few items went quickly; he easily identified Hawaiian acacia honey, coconut milk, chopped hard-boiled egg, pomegranate juice, smoked Scottish salmon, tamarind paste, and minced chives. He wasted precious seconds on a spicy-sweet powder that smelled like Christmas—allspice? Ground cloves? Grated nutmeg?—and eventually got it right with ground mace.
“Sneaky,” he told Lilah. “I’m impressed.” He was—she’d managed to put together a great test with widely varied textures and flavor profiles. She hadn’t taken it easy on him. Devon loved that about her.
“I can’t believe you got that last one.” She sounded faintly grumpy. “I thought I’d stumped you for sure.”
“Mace is tough,” Devon agreed. “It’s actually the lacy shell covering the nutmeg seed, dried and finely ground. Extremely similar tastes, obviously—mace is a tiny bit more delicate.”
Lilah made a “hmph” sound. “There’s not a thing wrong with your taste buds, Devon. What have you been playing at over in that