by JR King
“Ladies, you’ll have to excuse us.” I spoke to no one in particular. “Everything okay at work, Alex?”
He smiled at that and let out a chuckle. “Super, ma’am.”
My brow furrowed in confusion. “What’s so funny? Do I look like M?”
“Asking me how my day was, you sound positively domestic. Twenty-two-year-old girls discuss flirting and fucking. Not this.”
“I’m a domesticated pet. Good?”
“Very good. Have you had anything to eat yet?” He teasingly plucked my flute away. “Elena, we don’t want this rushing straight to your head,” he chuckled some more after gulping down the half of my champagne.
I smiled woodenly. “I had a few of the amuse-bouche thingies. May I, please?” I looked longingly at the half-filled glass in his hand.
“I’m more of a whiskey man myself. Do you deserve this?” He looked me up and down. “I don’t want skin and bones. Have you been a good girl today, Ms. Anderson?”
With a deep sigh, I nodded. “The best, Mr. Turner. Worked out, too.”
“There’s barely proper food in this whore house. I’m taking you out to dinner after.” He handed me my glass back and smiled as he paced away. Straightening his tie, he walked toward Frederic. His gait was relaxed, his expression calm as he spoke to my soon to be ex-boss. There was a compelling quality about him, an intense vibe he radiated, and in a place jammed with Boston’s intelligent elite, of course he was downright at home.
I scanned the room for a cater waiter bearing food, and more champagne. Good drunk but underfed, I was scrutinizing Alexander. At least five minutes went by before he glanced away from Patricia Cole—Boston’s very own Gloria Allred, his eyes pulling straight to mine. Everything stopped as our gazes held each other. I saw him extend a hand to perform a perfunctory shake, dismissing Patricia with a charming smile. Though a few vultures encircled him, his legs carried him in my direction. Our eyes locked again, and I didn’t look away. I watched as he stalked across the room in slick strides until he stood before me, a smile entering his eyes.
“Ready, little one?”
I tried not to jump him.
Once outside, I searched for Hamilton. Copley Square looked freakishly serene. “Alex, don’t you think there should be…like…like a nocturnal Farmer’s Market!”
“Fuck. You need food.”
A sea of black cars along the avenue signified the upper class’ dislike of diversification regarding the color of chauffeured cars, but for one man. “What’s with all the cars?” He was leading me toward three waiting silver Rolls Royces, white-gloved drivers standing beside each car. It was hard to stifle a yawn and a snort at the same time. “Show off.”
“Just taking precautions, babe. We’re being followed.”
“A shell trick? Who’s following us?”
I squirmed when his fingers glided up my cheekbone, tugging at my earlobe. “Pedestrians want their cake and eat it too.” His voice went soft. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” I inhaled the cold air, trying to ignore the spicy smell of his cologne, the smoothness of his fingertips, and the warmth of his breath. Going for random selection, I started off on eeny meeny miny moe, but he ushered me to the last car.
Glossy white gloves moved, opening the door for us. “Ms. Anderson,” an unidentified middle-aged man started, extending his free hand to help me into the vehicle.
Doors closed, and I half-expected Alexander to touch me when we’d settled into respective rear passenger seats. Possessive hands stealing onto my covered thighs, greedy lips tickling my bare collarbone. He did nothing of the sort.
His fingers did drum a pattern on the armrest as he stared out the window. “Damn it, I want to fuck you right now.” In that respect, he adjusted the sizable bulge in his pants somewhat inelegantly, twisting toward me. “What?” He put his finger on my raised eyebrow to lower it to its normal slant. “It’s all your fault.”
Notice that the driver’s eyes never flicked to the rearview mirror? Made me wonder how many women he’d driven for Alexander—with or without, and how many indecent sayings he’d imbibed. I forced myself to turn my attention off him, and admired the city. In between the Financial District and Chinatown lay the Leather District. The good news is that I loved Japanese food; the bad news is that I was as neurotic about punctuality as I was about being overdressed.
Located in an obscure old brick building marked by tiny glowing lanterns and a single hanging sign, a gem of a restaurant was hidden away on a side street amid office buildings. Let’s just say that if you want to dine exclusively in Boston, this was one of the most highly recommended and top-rated addresses. Look no further if you’re searching for a cozy fusion restaurant with food disguised as art. It was one of those places where the meal would still be worth it even if the ambiance and service were mediocre; it was just an added bonus that every element was fantastically in attendance. To me, the brash layout of a dull as ditchwater or interchangeable sushi restaurant had no appeal, other than it might send my mind over the push-me-pull-you edge. I hadn’t the foggiest interest in eating a bunch of spicy California rolls, nor did I fancy simple slabs of tuna daubed with soy sauce or hunks of precut salmon over some sticky, sour, wasabi-pasted rice. Here, I’d never gotten bored eating because my palate and expectations were properly calibrated, and the establishment’s interplay on fresh ingredients ranged from simple to complex. My sole complaint was the exorbitant price range.
Commanding and tall, the heavy wooden door was a narrow construct of sleek material, as if giving way to a Fibonacci coded scene. Unsure and worried that the small space would feel cramped alongside Alexander’s larger-than-life personality, I dragged myself through it. O Ya’s décor was modern enough without eliminating the chic retro-industrial character of the original space: cool, dim, exposed brick and stonewalls. Unpretentious and minimalist dining area, there was intimate seating for about twenty tables with a similar amount of space at the L shaped sushi bar. It felt roomy and comfortable enough, and a very diverse clientele that was dressed to the nines occupied the Feng Shui arranged space. Though, waiters and waitresses were always dressed casually, so I felt a little out of place in my fancy dress.
For the first few minutes, as it slowly dawned on the well-trained waitstaff who was requesting a special table, they smiled kindly one by one. Blissfully seated beside Alexander at the private chef’s table back in the kitchen, I listened to the clarification about ordering drinks. There was no full bar, only saké, Japanese whiskey, wine, and beer. Lumpy and sunburned with a bad Ivy League haircut, our waiter was caring and knowledgeable, promptly asking me if I had any dislikes or food allergies. Before excusing himself, he told me I shouldn’t hesitate to ask questions about the food.
Alexander said, “Want a true culinary experience? Chef’s menu?”
“Please, yes.” I smiled. “I’ve yet to try it.”
“I think I can afford it.” With a silent motion of two fingers, he brought back the waiter and ordered non-pescatarian Omakase for us, strictly indicating that he didn’t want Bluefin tuna near or on our plates.
“I like this.” The back of my hand slid over the length of his much larger hand, each of my knuckles rubbing wildly over him. “We should go out more often. I’ll make rezzies once a week.”
A steely grip on my wrist put my marauding hand back in my personal space. “Don’t touch me without permission, pet.” Locking up curses inside my body in public was easier said than done, I was a basket case. “Eyes on me,” he ordered.
Closing my ears to the dull, flat tone in which he’d spoken, my hand went to my throat, stroking, as if playing with a necklace that was there. Arcane thing, the human mind, isn’t? Pah. I’d made peace with the fact that I’d never truly understand how this man functioned. I tipped up my chin toward him, eyes cast upon his chest, giving him a friendly but silent pinch of the arm. “You’re mean, Alexander. Very mean.”
“So I’ve been told. Let that be a lesson.” His chuck
le had a thick, mocking tone that I wanted to strangle. “You seem to have trouble grasping the prudence concept.”
“I have no problem grasping the concept. You and your big-cock attitude are the problem here.”
“Big…what?” he drawled. “Dating me for my cock? Not even my money or brains?”
Sinful. Illegal. Horrible thing is that he backed up his charm with what he rocked beneath his spectacularly executed Norton & Sons outfit. He knew precisely how to use the damn muscle between his legs and, compared to the mind-numbing techniques of other guys, his sexual prowess—as I had contemplated many times before—was unfair. He wasn’t just good in the sack because practice makes perfect; to master whatever thing, he first studied it.
“Hey, women objectify men too.” I raised my eyebrows suggestively at his groin. “When can I inspect the merchandise?”
“Patience, Elena.”
“I might need a ruler.”
“An iPhone works too,” he chuckled.
I gave him a rough headshake. “Incorrigible snub.”
At the speed of light, a heralding little bite made it to our table, commencing the cavalcade of gastronomic cuisine. Unshucked oysters in unscrubbed shells might look scary, but the zinc-rich flesh made for a potent and incredibly noteworthy aphrodisiac. Grateful for the saké, aged ten years, and comped Kumamoto oyster with watermelon pearls and cucumber mignonette, I indulged and ignored the arrogant asshole seated at the table. Mentally, I had to ready myself for the endurance exercise. This type of meal could undo hours of gym-toil.
Through Uni, Oishii, and Douzo, I thought I’d seen it all in Boston, but this izakaya-style restaurant was in a class of its own. No precut fish, outstanding knife and dressing skills, themeless muzak, and attentive and unassuming staff. Courtesy of grandpa and, as a die-hard sushi fan, I’d been fortunate to dine at a few of the world’s best Japanese restaurants: Masa and Sushi Yasuda in New York; Nobu in Los Angeles; Ikeda, L’Etranger, and Zuma in London. I could still vividly remember that their Kaiseki courses often consisted of deconstructed and reinvented dishes with non-traditional or unusual toppings, and blow-torched accents. Some were even touched up with a pipette.
To start, O Ya’s upbeat, freestyle ambiance was the best of them all, hands down, because—please excuse the generalization—it wasn’t boringly quiet or zen-like. Just a ghost of a serene vibe haunted the room, and the background music bucked the trend. Where else could you listen to Kanye West and admire chefs with mad knife skills? Skeptic as I was, I must say that perhaps a contemporary Tokyo institution could top this atmosphere and meal of near-epic proportions off, but that remained to be seen. Someday, I would go to Japan, a childhood dream of mine.
Enough with the sex already, let’s freeze-frame here. To switch it up and to give you an idea, here are the highlights of the twenty something courses. Once you popped the first intricate bite, you really had to be forced to stop…felt like one mouthgasm after the other. Instead of the sharp citrus tang of sudachi, the screamingly fresh hamachi had a spicy banana pepper mousse and truffle oil, and even if slightly torched, it still melted on the tongue. This fish was similar to bonito in appearance and texture, and had that ultrasmooth quality and mild flavor to it, which an unrefined, overzealous chef could easily destroy. Without a doubt, the mousse gave off a heat that lingered on the palate, but it didn’t overpower the taste buds. Showcasing restraint case in point again, the chef’s standard kinmedai sashimi drizzled with white soy ginger, and paper-thin slices of myoga and lemon oil, had a mouth-coating bite to it. Dark soy sauce and pickled ginger could overwhelm a fish like this, so the milder fermentation and subtly perfumed citrus oil acted as the perfect vehicle to pick up the other flavors. Clean-looking and elegantly draped over a block of rice, the first serving of wild king salmon blushed on a white plate, colorfully dressed with a spicy lemongrass curry sauce and Thai basil chiffonade. The super-rich kama-toro gelée with soy marinated Santa Barbara sea urchin and Osetra caviar had a creamy taste to it, and the Alba white truffle gave a pretty amazing smoky taste to the kamasu wild line-caught Japanese barracuda. Even though smoked unagi typically appealed for its sweet quality, a soy maple brine raising the smooth texture to a higher level of complexity, it was my least favorite dish. Served on a wooden spoon, the first serving of foie gras was flash frozen and broken down into a cold powder with a preserved California yuzu topping. I shamelessly licked the spoon clean.
Seeing that, Alexander cast an irritated look at me. “Bad table manners will earn you a spanking.”
“Sir, should I bend over the table or your lap?”
His jaw clenched. “Playroom it is, tonight.” A challenge and a stop-you-dead-in-your-tracks order, two of his favorite things. Just like Oprah, he had a limited list. “Unless you disagree with me?”
As the heat left my cheeks, I dropped my gaze, embarrassed by my presumption. In his attempt not to encumber me with dominance, it’s true that he always gave me an out. “Playroom sounds like fun.”
“That’s a good girl.”
Chewy, crunchy, bubbly, and buttery in sensation was the second serving of a ridiculously plump and succulent Kumamoto oyster, freshly shucked, fried crispy, played up with a glossy crown of squid ink froth. Original and appropriate was the spring asparagus risotto grains with sea urchin, grated cured egg yolk, and shiso. To die for, really, was the flawlessly fresh Hokkaido diver scallop with Umbrian summer truffle; it had an unparalleled chervil and saké sea urchin jus that left me wanting to pick up the dish and lick it clean.
Proceeding in spectacular fashion, halfway through, a traditional palate cleanser of Alaskan king crab sunomono with marinated wakame, cured daikon, and cucumber helped bracing oneself for the introduction of aggressive flavors. The shima aji with kaffir lime leaf oil and a micro greens salad was served Hue-style, and the creamy ebi tamago had a sweet taste of shrimp and tarragon with garlic foam on top. A spicy rau ram salsa, flash-seared baby tomato, and onion aioli shacked up cleanly with salmon tataki. Blameworthy was the rich taste of the warm lobster with ponzu beurre fondue, bonito, and black Périgord truffle, and the Maine Jonah crab gilded with chicken-dashi gelée, razor clam, wakame, and Meyer lemon had the smoothest texture yet.
Half-raw and unblemished, the presentation of the Fabergé onsen egg—embellished with white sturgeon caviar, gold leaf, dashi caramel, and green onion—was so pretty that I didn’t want to eat it. Once I poked it open and saw the runny yolk of the perfectly poached egg, I wished I had a hunk of warm bread. The one dish I supposed would be forgettable was the homemade fingerling potato chip with black truffle, because it wasn’t sushi related. However gorgeously prepared, no serious sushi lover would expect to like the chip on the menu, and initially it elicited an eyebrow-raise when put before me. Laughing inwardly, I thought: who would order this westernized nonsense in here? For us the truffle-laced crisp came out as part of the grand tasting menu, so I wrote it down as the throw away course. Wowed by its unconventionally exquisite flavor, imagine my surprise at being mistaken and discovering a crowd pleaser. Take note that some of my favorite foods weren’t necessarily everyone’s cup of tea since I had a palate for eccentric pairings, so eaters who didn’t enjoy the strong, mushroomy flavor of fungi wouldn’t like this bite.
Pleasantly aromatic, the follow-up of grilled chanterelles and fleshy shiitake mushrooms was layered with rosemary garlic oil, sesame froth, and light soy. My third favorite dish of the night was the Kyoto-style black trumpet mushroom nigiri with garlic and soy and smoked salt. Velvety and salty, the thinly sliced caps were tender, stems firmer and meatier, reminding me of Kobe beef layers. My second favorite dish was the lightly seared petit strip loin of frightfully costly Kagoshima wagyū that had a hint of white truffle oil, sea salt, and potato confit. Kushiyaki-wise, it was perfectly cooked rare and, one of the best meats I’d ever had. What blew the dish out of the world were the faint smears of roasted minced onion and the salty citrus-rind paste of yuzu kosho.
Near
the end, fresh chèvre lying on an imbricated Asian pear mat came speckled with vanilla nori, its tartness balanced out by the sweetness of the juicy fruit and an oloroso type of plum liquor. Of course they saved the best dish for last: a mind-blowing creation of foie gras nigiri that had balsamic chocolate Kabayaki, raisin cocoa pulp, and a chaser of aged saké from Hiroshima to wash it down. Enthralled with me for some unexplainable reason, Alexander put down his utensils and stared at me while I ate. Quite literally, this bodacious dish almost brought tears to my eyes thrice. Once as I ate it, a second time when I finished, because, well, there was no more left, and a third time as my mind grasped that the—date—meal was almost over.
“Quit staring at me, Alex,” I mumbled.
He took a swig of his saké in an urgent way that made his Adam’s apple bob pronouncedly. “Mitchell’s been in an accident.”
A deep frown crawled across my face. “That’s a sick joke.”
I ate my words.
“Not a joke,” he gave a soft hiss, his face a picture of concern. I grew pale as a chemical cocktail of insuppressible anguish and despondency hit my veins. Alexander’s liveliness was gone in an instant, his hauntingly stoic expression evoking images of my past. “Mitchell’s town car careened into a highway guardrail. He’s fine.” I didn’t know whether to run or accuse him. Trying to gain a handle on the situation—and my temper, I remained silent. “Don’t antagonize me. I had nothing to do with it, Elena.”
Alexander Turner is conniving and cunning, Elena. Galvanized by Mitchell’s remembered words and simmering fury, I stayed silent. Stupid girl. Stupid pet. To see how the land lies, going to the source of it is most effective. I dreaded the answer, but I had to know. Grappling on to the little self-control I had, I all but yelled at him. “Say you will never, Alex. Swear that you had nothing to do with Peter’s death.”
“Or else?”