The Origin of Apples

The waiter had those reptilian, once-in-a-lifetime kind of eyes, green ovals with yellow in the center, flickering and jewel-like. He wasn't exactly attractive. It was more that he was enticing, slim in his fitted black waistcoat and perfectly pressed trousers, and charming in the way he spoke with an almost hidden lisp, as if his tongue touched each letter of every word but lingered longer on the sibilant consonants. Think the opening lines of Lolita, except in this case his tongue caressed every “s.”

He was courteous, but not obsequious. There were other waiters slithering through the Jardin d'Éden who seemed adept at their jobs, but not a solitary one possessed what this man possessed. Evelyn wasn’t sure how she might describe him when talking to her therapist later, safe in that secluded room, sure that her fantasies would stay within those saffron-colored walls. It was as if this man moved under his own special gilded light. And when he was looking at you, you wanted to tell him your dirtiest, filthiest secrets.

Evelyn had been surreptitiously trying to catch a glimpse of his ring finger during the meal. But whenever he walked by, she somehow missed it. Was he available? Wasn’t he? Although he paid attention to all of the diners in his section, it seemed that he had a special interest in her.

When gossiping with girlfriends over Appletinis in the bar earlier, one of the ladies had asked Evelyn if she thought she had a type. “A type of what?” Evelyn had queried back. But she’d known what Aida had meant. A type of guy. A type of hunk. A type of beau who’d turn her head even when she was supposed to have blinders on.

This waiter fit her description. He had glossy black hair combed back off his high forehead, and his jaw was strong like a 1940s movie star, cheekbones defined. She could imagine what he might look like leaning up against a wall, one foot on the chipped bricks, bending to ignite a cigarette. Inhaling, drawing in the silvery smoke, indenting those hollows in his angular face. Truth was, she wasn’t exactly single, which is why she had been mild in her attempts at flirtation. Was it fair to her boyfriend? Not really. But her man was so into the landscaping now, so busy with all of his plants and his animals, he never had time for her.

“He takes you for granted,” Sheba said, “always expecting you to be there for him, as if you’re some sort of appendage.”

Which was neither here nor there, but gosh was that waiter ever hot.

When she’d first been seated, he’d introduced himself. “Sam. Samael, but Sam was fine. Ssssam,” he said. Aida giggled.

He tried to tempt Evelyn with the appetizers in a way that waiters often do in chi-chi restaurants, turning the offerings into small literary paragraphs spoken in an almost liturgical manner. He didn’t say the word “bacon.” He said, “Pancetta,” going on to add “salt-cured pork belly wrapped around a bit of a tart Granny Smith that will wake your tastebuds with a zing.” He said the offering was juicy and delicious yet still managed to be savory. All in one bite.

She nibbled her lip, and in one of those strange waking fantasy moments imagined him feeding her. Saw the two of them somewhere side by side on a blanket. She, in a sundress that almost made her look naked. She had a dress like this at home. Nude spaghetti straps crisscrossing in the back, “body-conscious” if one were being polite. She wore it with her caramel curls down, falling loose past her shoulders in corkscrews.

“Just a bite?” he said, but she had the oysters.

For the main course, he suggested Opah with Opal®, an Opah fish with a special apple (created and actually trademarked in the Czech Republic). He explained that this apple was the progeny of a Topaz plus a Golden Delicious, the type of true delicacy only ripe for a very short season and then gone. “You must,” he said, and there was that wispy, lispy sound again, as if the word “must” had three s’s in a row. “You’ll regret not trying thisss tomorrow.”

Would she regret it? That’s not what she was picturing regretting. She was picturing the way he’d look unbuttoning his vest and the way she’d look leaving lipstick prints—bright red like a Washington apple—on his collar.

She had the steak.

Was she playing hard-to-get? No, she simply kept thinking about her beau at home. He didn’t like fancy restaurants, preferred evenings in, often canoodling various and sundry vegetables into fig leaves. She joked with him about his man cave, and Adam liked to rib her about what he considered her too-exotic taste.

“A taste,” is what the waiter said now. “Tassste.”

She watched the other waiters move from table to table, and she wondered why her particular waiter seemed so interested in what she was going to put in her mouth. What did he care if she had the pumpkin-stuffed ravioli or the Chateaubriand?

But he clearly did.

Finally, came the dessert tray. Treats were Evelyn’s favorite part of any meal. She’d actually held back from devouring the pomme frites because she wanted to save room. Her father had always joked about perhaps eating dessert first. In case you died over dinner. He mother had said that’s not funny and if you started with shortbread nobody would ever eat their broccoli.

There was a hot fudge sundae adorned with real gold leaf. There were volcanic lava chocolate cakes that dripped and drooled molten cocoa when you cut in. And there was one rustic apple tart left. That’s what he said. He ssaid. He said he’d sssaved it for her.

Not a Fuji. Not a cross-pollinated hybrid created in the 80s. Not a mealy McIntosh. Not a pert and proper Pippin. These were, he said, made from the very first type of apple. Research had been done. The scientists had unraveled the gene history to recreate, or rediscover, what must have been the apple from the garden.

“The garden?” she asked.

“You know,” he said. “You know which garden.”

And for one split second she wasn’t at the five-star Jardin d'Éden restaurant on Copperhead and Vine. The walls were gone and in their place were ivy-draped rocks, and the oddly printed carpeting had become packed dirt and smooth pebbles. There was birdsong, and the scent of a multitude of flowers, and in front of her stood a solitary apple tree, and dangling from the nearest branch with those mesmerizing eyes was…

She blinked.

The waiter stood carefully at attention. He adjusted her fork and ever so slightly brushed her finger with his. She recoiled at the touch. There was something slippery, scaly even although his skin looked normal, appeared well-manicured, pampered. She thought about Adam at home, always getting dirt under his nails.

“Just a bite?” Samael simpered.

She took the fork.