Hungry Woman in Paris

by Josefina López

  “So what’s the problem? Why do I need to go?” I asked, not bothering to hide my suspicion.

  “You saw how depressed I was and how much champagne I drank… well, I was flirting with him and now I think he expects me to show him some flesh or let him taste me or something.”

  “So do you want me as a chaperone or am I a two-for-one deal?”

  “Look, just come with me,” she said, rolling her eyes and not answering my question. “We can flirt with him and play along and see if he can get us both a stage at one of the best restaurants.”

  “But I’m not planning on doing a stage. I don’t care about that.”

  “Okay, then do this as a favor to me. Look, how often does a world-famous chef cook for you at his apartment? We’ll just eat his food, drink his wine, and laugh at his jokes, and if he starts getting nasty or inappropriate I’ll take pictures of him in a compromising position and blackmail him,” she admitted, trying to make it sound as innocent as possible.

  “Why do you want to do this? You’re such a good cook you can probably earn it on your own.”

  “Canela, come on. We both know it’s the guys who get all the respect and that the blondes and pretty girls who flirt with the chefs get higher scores. Look at Miyuki. There’s no way she could have gotten first place. I have a friend who was right next to her station and she tells me Miyuki flirts with the chefs all the time and they help her with things… I’ve heard things…”

  “But it’s wrong to—” the feminist in me interjected. Yes, by now you surely know I am a hypocrite, but having sex with a teacher for fun is one thing; doing it to get a good grade or get ahead is another.

  “Canela, please save the lecture. Yes, if we were in the U.S., this would be unthinkable. But here in France, seduction is how you get ahead. I’m just playing their game.”

  “Don’t you think it’s degrading to—?” I tried to reason one last time.

  “No. I really want this. Please help me. It will be quick. I promise.”

  “Okay, I’ll go with you, but the minute anything weird happens, I’m leaving.” Sage knew I meant it.

  Sage and I rehearsed our roles and we agreed on hand signals and gestures that would help us communicate with each other in case Chef Sauber tried something. Sage asked around in her broken French for directions, and after several failed attempts a little old lady made us follow her and pointed to a tiny street not found on any tourist map. We climbed the stairs to a decrepit apartment building. We rang the doorbell, and as soon as he opened the door it struck me that this was not really Chef Sauber’s apartment. A man so successful and creative would have a residence that would rival Yves’s apartment. I knew Chef Sauber was divorced, but this apartment was too tiny and unkempt to be his. In demonstration class he was always meticulous, organized, and clean. You could eat off him. This apartment was out of character. He caught me studying the interior design and said he’d just moved in and was sorry the place was a mess. Sage handed him a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and he kissed her on both cheeks, commenting on how thoughtful it was of her to remember how much he liked American whiskey. Sage introduced me and Chef Sauber said, “Viva México” to demonstrate that he remembered me clearly. He kissed me on both cheeks and I got a whiff of his fine cologne.

  When we sat down on his couch, I could practically feel the sexual tension left behind by other young American female cuisine students. Sexual tension, just like violent energy, leaves an imprint on things in the ether. I’ve developed a feeling for it over years of covering all sorts of stories. I’ve reported on everything from rape and gang violence to celebrity gossip. I was a social issues reporter covering immigrant stories, but did a little bit of everything just so I wouldn’t get bored. On occasion when I was covering a march or a rally I would get pushed by an anarchist pretending to be an activist or get teargassed by police or shoved and threatened by any number of officials or men in power. Whenever I would return to the scene of the incident, the wind would practically whisper to me all the details that had come before, and the energy would be heavy.

  I reclined on the couch and lost my balance—my legs went up and I’m sure I accidentally gave Chef Sauber a peek at my leopard-print panties. Sage looked at me, wondering if I had started flirting already. I shot a look back at her to tell her it was an accident and she should start pleading her case. Sage was about to share with Chef Sauber how she’d dreamed of being a chef since she was a little girl, making pancakes in her play kitchen, when he interrupted her, telling her to save her story. The stuffed quails needed to be taken out of the oven. He left for the kitchen and I got up and looked around. On the floor was mail. I made sure his back was to us, then studied the date on the junk mail: five months ago. I looked around for a few seconds before he returned with two glasses of champagne.

  “Voilà. L’apéritif.” He gave us each a glass and we drank. I slowly put the pieces together and realized that this was the place where he seduced women. Maybe he wasn’t married anymore, but only his real girlfriend would get to be in his real apartment. This was the casa chica, the small house for the mistresses and lovers.

  Sage continued her story and he interrupted her again, this time to compliment her on the sexy dress she was wearing.

  “The uniforms make the women so unattractive,” Chef Sauber said. I wanted to reply that it was supposed to make us look like sacks of potatoes so the chefs would keep their hands off us, but I wasn’t drunk enough to just spit it out in my usual uncensored style. Sage took the compliment with ease and flirtatiously complimented him back.

  “Chef Sauber, you also look very handsome out of your uniform,” Sage commented, using her little-girl voice. He smiled and drank from his wine.

  “S’il vous plaît, call me Renault. We are now friends,” he declared.

  “I heard you were good friends with several of the chefs from the three-star restaurants,” Sage continued. He waved his head and sort of agreed.

  “Yes, it looks good on your résumé to work at these places, but you must also find a place where you will feel comfortable. Sometimes all you do is cut vegetables at the three-star restaurants, but you can do a lot more at smaller and lesser-known restaurants.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but I want to go back to New York City with a strong résumé that will get me considered for sous-chef and eventually become a chef,” Sage countered.

  “If that’s what you want, then no problem. I will help you. I will call Ducasse or Savoy or Robuchon. Whichever one you want me to call,” he offered without hesitation.

  Sage’s face lit up as if Santa Claus had just told her she was getting a pony for Christmas. Chef Sauber left our side to attend to the kitchen.

  “Sage, you got what you wanted—now let’s fake a headache and get out of here,” I demanded.

  “Mademoiselles, venez ici,” Chef Sauber said, calling us into the kitchen. When I saw the table all set up for an haute cuisine experience, plans for a pretend headache vanished. Why waste a free meal? I asked myself. I could fake the headache after we ate. Or, better yet, a food allergy.

  We sat down and had a salade de homard au melon with strawberry vinaigrette for our first dish, or as our entrée, as they really call it in France. He would join us at the table to eat but would become our waiter and sommelier at different times throughout the meal. When he brought the main dish to the table, my eyes watered and my mouth tingled. On our plates were two perfectly positioned quails stuffed with green seedless grapes and foie gras. So this is what they were supposed to look like done right. When I’d done my stuffed quails in practical, I’d been unable to remove the skin without cutting little holes everywhere. My poor quails had looked like a serial killer had butchered them in an alley and the police were trying to reassemble them to make sense of the crime scene.

  “What kind of sauce is this?” I asked Chef Sauber.

  “Truffle sauce,” he responded. I wanted to ask how he’d made the sauce, but I didn’t really care. When was I go
ing to have the money to buy lots of truffles and make sauce like that? I ate the first quail and, feeling as stuffed as the bird, was ready to fake my headache when the chef pulled out a marijuana joint and smoked it in front of us. Sage and I looked at each other, ready to make our hand gestures for “Let’s go.” Chef Sauber took a hit and made a funny face that broke up the seriousness of our moods and we laughed. He imitated Cheech and Chong and I didn’t know whether to be offended or amused by this Frenchman’s interpretation of them.

  “I am so bad, no?” he asked. “But we are friends, no?” he said with his cute little French accent that would make you forgive a poodle humping your leg.

  “I have a headache. I’m starting to feel not so good,” I said, trying to sound convincing.

  “Try it,” he commanded, sticking the joint in my face. “The headache will go away,” he advised me. In her inebriated state, Sage encouraged me to take a hit. I told her to do it first, hoping she would not go through with it. Unfortunately for me, Sage took a hit and poured herself some more whiskey. She took another hit and giggled like I’d never seen a tough broad do. They both looked at me, waiting for me to do it too. I didn’t want to do it, not because I’m a good girl and I was saying no to drugs, but because I was afraid of my libido. I hardly ever smoked pot, but on the few occasions when I had, it was for medicinal purposes—when I was younger I couldn’t have an orgasm because of Catholic guilt, but a couple of hits silenced the chanting comadres in my head telling me I was going to go to hell for having sex before marriage.

  I smoked it, pretending like everything was fine, but then I gave Sage the hand signals. She didn’t exactly ignore me; Sage was just mesmerized by Chef Sauber and his magical dishes. I ate the rest of my dinner and it seemed like the most delicious food I had ever tasted.

  “Are you ready for dessert?” he asked. After a few hits, I was so ready for anything. Our emergency signals were soon forgotten and there was no resistance.

  He brought out miniature soufflés and informed us that they were made with pear. The plates were decorated so beautifully with pear sorbet and a raspberry coulis. He carried a small bowl with fresh whipped cream and fed a spoonful to Sage.

  “I want you to taste what fine handmade whipped cream tastes like,” he said proudly. Sage licked the spoon, and then he fed me a spoonful.

  “It’s delicious, n’est-ce pas?” he asked me. I stared at him and debated who was more delicious, the dessert or the chef feeding it to me. I finished eating the dessert with my spoon and then I licked the coulis left on the plate. He was so flattered by my gesture that he took out his large cock and put it on my plate and I continued licking. Sage’s eyes widened as I put his warm cock in my cream-filled mouth. I was so aroused by the food and his touch and I wanted him to come in my mouth. I wanted to taste him. I licked him like a hungry woman and my tongue explored him. I buried my face in his pubic hair and smelled his essence. He caressed my hair and called me all sorts of beautiful things I couldn’t make out in French. I’m sure he called me beautiful; all women are beautiful to men at this moment. I caressed his balls with my fingers and he gasped. I kept doing that and licking him harder, taking him in all the way back to my throat. He gasped louder and even Sage was aroused by now. She got up behind him and put her hands under his shirt and massaged his chest and his nipples. He gasped louder and tried kissing her. I grabbed his pelvis with my two hands and thrust him into my mouth. He went deep and I could feel by his pulsating penis that he was ready to explode. I yanked his penis out of my mouth and gently put my lips around his hole and he was coming. Would he be as delicious as the food he made? His sperm filled my mouth and I could feel my wet vagina dripping. At that second I realized that I love to experience life through my mouth. I was like a little baby discovering the world with my tongue and my mouth again. Flashes of all the men I had loved and tasted came to me like a heavenly menu of forbidden pleasure. Each man was a meal or an appetizer, enjoyed and digested.

  Chef Sauber pulled away and sat down on the couch. Sage tried to continue stimulating him, but he was too sensitive. He needed a few minutes to breathe. I left to go to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Had I wanted something more than just sexual pleasure from Chef Sauber I would have felt ashamed, but up to this point he was the most delicious man I had ever consumed with my mouth and eyes, and I didn’t even love him… I actually loved food and dessert more than sex. How wonderful that a man who gave me both made me realize that. I washed my face and looked in the mirror again, knowing I couldn’t care less if I placed or got a stage; nothing meant anything. I had nothing to lose and nothing to gain from this. I was a woman in no-woman’s-land.

  In the mirror behind me, Luna appeared holding a letter. I turned around and she was not there. I shook my head—the shock of seeing Luna brought me down and I began to think of the ramifications of what I had just done. Would there be rumors that I’d had the chef for dinner, or would Sage get crap for this later? Would this affect Chef Sauber’s ability to grade me? I adjusted my clothes and was about to tell Sage to leave with me, but Chef Sauber and Sage were in the middle of a second course. He was on top, humping her and licking her exposed breasts. They were having too much fun to be interrupted. I just hoped Sage had remembered to bring condoms with her so she wouldn’t be rumored as the second American girl to have Chef Sauber’s bastard child.

  I led myself to the door and left before they looked up. I walked around looking for the metro and realized I was in Henry’s arrondissement. I thought about going to his apartment and just surprising him, but he was probably getting it on with Bassie. I would hate to have him think I actually cared about him.

  CHAPTER 12

  Alive and Rotting in Paris

  I forgot to drink water and I was hungover the next morning. At about one p.m. I realized that it wasn’t a hangover but depression. I had no reason to get out of bed. For the next ten weeks, while I was out of cooking school, I had no reason to even leave my apartment. But if I didn’t get out of bed La Calaca Flaca would visit me again, and death didn’t look so bad from her perspective.

  “You don’t gain weight ever again and the pain is gone forever,” she would whisper seductively, tickling me if I didn’t listen to her.

  I had to get out of bed, I told myself, and I scrambled to come up with reasons to go outside. I reminded myself how little money I had and that I was forced to make some money one way or another.

  I walked past an American art school in the Eleventh Arron-dissement and saw a flyer seeking models to pose nude for the basic drawing class. It was 80 euros a sitting. All I had to do was be still. I walked into the office and the French art teacher looked me up and down. The French art teacher spoke some English, and she told me I would make a good life-drawing model.

  “Normally all the models are so skinny, it’s boring, but you are interesting with your little balls of fat here and there, nice little circles,” she said in her best English.

  “Curves? You mean curves?” I said nicely.

  “Yes, curves, that’s what you Americans like to call them. I like that for my students. They need to draw all sort of bodies, not just pretty petite ones.”

  The first class was nerve-racking, but after losing my robe and twenty minutes of the same pose, my spirit left my body and floated first over the Seine, then across the Atlantic, and then across the United States to my mother’s house in Boyle Heights. My mother was leaving the house sucking on a milk paleta. She went to the local botânica on Cesar Chavez to meet with Doña Elvira, a curandera who would close her eyes and see me naked in Paris. They conversed in Spanish and discussed what I was doing.

  “I don’t want to tell you this, but your daughter… How shall I put it… ?”

  “You can tell it to me straight,” my mother told her.

  “Your daughter likes having sex with many men… not at the same time, but she—”

  “She is a puta, yes, I know that, but will she come back and marry
Armando?” My mother kept pressing Doña Elvira for the future. Doña Elvira looked deeper with her mind’s eye and I began to shake my head to tell her no, but the art teacher coughed to let me know I shouldn’t move and I snapped open my eyes to the reality of many men watching me naked. I stared back at them, admiring each of their manly qualities. They grew uncomfortable feeling naked and exposed in my gaze. I thought, Yes I like to have sex with different men. They are the spice of life. Why settle for just one spice or flavor when your palate is hungry for more?”

  My work as a nude model was rewarding. However, I still needed to make more money. I walked dogs and placed an ad in the FUSAC, seeking English students. I taught English to old French men at cafés, who were really just interested in flirting with me. As long as they were paying for a drink and a lesson, and kept me company, I would talk to them for an hour or two. Most of them were married and I would repeatedly turn down their requests to take me out to dinner. It was my rule that I would not date married men… Okay, I admit it: once I accepted an invitation with a married man, but only because I had promised myself I would go to Jules Verne in the Eiffel Tower.

  As an aperitif my date ordered me a kir royal, champagne with cassis syrup, and I was hooked. We ordered the dégustation menu for only 120 euros and had seven little courses with amuse-bouche after amuse-bouche. I drank three kir royals throughout the meal but then my stomach started talking to me. It would make funny noises until it was tired of talking and decided to explode. I pushed down my stomach and quickly excused myself to the ladies’ room. I prayed as I rushed to the restroom that there would be an empty stall for me. The horrors of having to wait in line made my heart skip a beat. I opened the door to the bathroom and jumped into the only stall. The bathroom was empty and I opened my mouth. I quickly vomited 200 euros’ worth of food and drink. The carbonation in the champagne was too much for my body and my stomach was completely cleansed. When I stood up and washed out my mouth I looked in the mirror and thought, Wow, this is what it must feel like to be a supermodel.