His Mise en Place

He started at my shoulder, my right one in fact. His mise en place complete, he began. A light touching, an effleurage of my skin. We were lying naked, side by side. I was on my back, he was on his side. He was the Chef de brigade and I his willing kitchen.

He passed beside my breast and worked his way down my rib cage, his hand moving in slow circles, monter au beurre, bringing me slowly together. I was tingling, no more than tingling — I was at frémissement, trembling just below the surface.

He moved back up slowly and started all over, réduire, concentrating his attention until I was more myself than I had ever been. I could feel his breath on my neck.

What was he doing to me? This time when he went down he came closer to my nipple — a goûter, a tasting, so deliberate, so precise. Oh my God.

He continued down to my thigh and circled once, twice, three times, tempérer, patient and certain, building me toward something I couldn't yet name. I was aching.

“You have to stay still,” he said as he circled. “Just do what I ask, can you do that?” He was waiting for à point — the perfect moment — and only he knew when that was.

“Yes,” I said, barely.

He took his hand and opened my legs and moved down the inside of my thigh, his fingers twirling and whirling, a liaison, binding me to him with every touch. I wanted to move so he would touch me where I wanted to be touched, but I kept still. Laisser reposer. Let it rest. Trust the Chef.

He stopped at my knee and started back up, slower and lighter this time, a bain-marie of touch, so gentle I had to imagine where his hand was on me.

“Comment ça va?” he said with a bit of mirth, the Chef checking his dish, already knowing the answer.

I didn’t answer but he could tell I was enjoying myself.

He slowly came to my center and I opened more to him. I was at nappe — that perfect consistency, that moment of readiness — and he knew it. He circled but never touched, all the time breathing on my neck.

He started kissing my neck and moving down my body, licking and kissing all the way. Flamber. He had brought his torch at last and I was on fire, ready for whatever he had planned.

But then he slowed down, stopping at my waist, moving back and forth, kissing and licking. So gentle and quiet. We were wrapped in douceur, sweetness without urgency, the flame turned low.

Then he kissed my lips, so wet, so ready. I opened for his tongue and he Frenched me — bien sür, of course he did, he was the Chef. The crème brülée complete, the surface cracked, the sweetness released. I was in paradise.

—

Glossary of French Culinary Terms

À point — The precise moment of perfect readiness. The Chef alone determines when this has been achieved.

Bain-marie — A method of gentle, indirect heat in which the subject is surrounded by warmth rather than exposed to direct flame. Patience is essential.

Bien sür — Of course. A statement of inevitability. What else would one expect from a Chef of this caliber?

Brigade — The hierarchy of the kitchen. Each element has its place. The Chef de brigade directs all.

Comment ça va? — Literally, “How is it going?” A routine check by the Chef to assess progress. The answer, in this case, was self-evident.

Douceur — Sweetness. Gentleness. The quality of something unhurried and perfectly controlled.

Effleurage — To lightly brush the surface. The first contact between Chef and ingredient.

Flamber — To apply direct flame to the surface of a dish. Reserved for the precise moment the dish is ready to receive it.

Frémissement — The state just below boiling. A trembling. A shivering of the surface. Not yet broken, but close.

Goûter — To taste. To assess with full attention. A professional obligation.

Liaison — The binding of separate elements into a unified whole. A joining.

Laisser reposer — To let rest. To allow the process to work without interference. Restraint produces perfection.

Mise en place — Everything in its place. The Chef’s preparation before the work begins. Nothing is left to chance.

Monter au beurre — To finish a sauce with slow circular motions, bringing all elements together into something silky and complete.

Nappe — The moment a sauce reaches perfect consistency. It cannot be rushed. The Chef knows it by feel.

Réduire — To reduce. To return to heat and concentrate, intensifying everything already present.

Tempérer — To bring to perfect temperature through patient, repeated circular motion. Rushing produces failure. Patience produces perfection.

The Chef with the Sun Tattoo accepts no responsibility for any culinary experimentation inspired by the above.