Purple Potato Girl

Appetizers

Clams ($20)

Him: Your pick. Because I’m a gentleman. And even if I think the texture of the salty mollusk is like chewing on someone’s tongue, I make it seem like it was my top choice, too (it’s actually the pork wontons).

It’s important you think I’m selfless, and I need you to believe you’ve got some control here. I need you to believe I like you so that you’ll trust me. So, I play: I pull one side of the shell, you pull the other, and I pretend your tantalizing efforts to seduce me, flicking your tongue ridiculously against the meaty center before sucking it up into your mouth, are working. Our flirtatious giggles attract a little too much attention from the bartenders, but I’m off this island in the morning, so it’s really only a preference that we fly under the radar tonight. The young bartender who looks like she just stepped off the plane from her shift at Hooters tells us we’re just like little sea otters over here in our dimly lit corner of the bar. You seem to love this comparison, laughing so hard you have to catch the white wine broth from spewing out of your mouth. A bit mists my lapel, and your cheeks instantly flush red. You quickly grab a cloth napkin and pat my shirt. I wrap a hand around your wrists to stop you, and our eyes meet. These are the best clams I’ve ever tasted, I tell you. Really, they’re disgusting. You’re disgusting. You lick your lips, and mine peel open into a full-teeth grin. There it is; the sign I needed. I’ve got you.

Sea otters. Yes, please think of us as sea otters.

Her: I’ve seen a sea otter drown a seagull and rip off its head simply because it was annoyed with the thing. So, I don’t mind that you think of me this way – shallow, dimwitted, innocent. Cute. I make a mental note to thank Kelsey for planting the thought in your mind later, but it’s quickly lost in that smile lighting up your face. That grin is worth fighting the impulse to break your wrist and flip you on your back in front of this entire establishment. (Twenty-five years of jiu jitsu, it wouldn’t even wrinkle my dress.) But that grin tells me I’ve got what I came for this evening: a free meal at the most expensive restaurant on the island. And I won’t even need to sleep with you, which is exactly what you’re expecting after that tongue-dance I performed on these clams. Admittedly, it was a little over the top, but I needed to test you. I needed to see what thread inside you is broken, to see what thing you think is going to fix you. Interestingly, it’s not sex, though, you wouldn’t turn it down. No, you want something else, Ander Simmons, something more. I can see it in your eyes. They’re guarded, darker than the others. Sex is just the clams of it. You need the broth, the white wine, the fish sauce, the cilantro. You need the whole damn thing. You crave realness. You’re searching my eyes for it now. I wonder what you think you see; because aside from these breasts you keep staring at, unfortunately, Ander, there is nothing quite real about me.

Entrees

Seared Catch (Ahi) ($48)

Him: Furikake encrusted, with Okinawan sweet potato puree, bok choy, truffle soy vinaigrette. The food wasn’t particularly important this evening – we could have gone to a questionable food truck or the McDonald’s down the street that clearly hasn’t renovated since the 60’s – and the goal would have been the same for me. The fake flirting, the façade of romance. The night would have ended just the same if we had done this all over a basket of overly greased French fries and mediocre cheeseburgers. But you convinced me to go here. You told me their purple sweet potato puree was to die for, that I couldn’t leave without trying them. And while the unrealized truth of the statement on your part made me laugh, I’ll admit the idiom is adequate. These are the best mashed potatoes I’ve had in my entire life. They’ve become your identifier in my mind, as I scoop some up and offer a forkful to you. You are surprisingly coy, waving me off, urging me to savor every bite for myself. As if it were my last meal. I don’t mind the opportunity for playful back-and-forth if it gives you another reason to think I care about you. Please, for me, I insist. You stare for a moment, your eyes scanning through my words. No one’s insisted for you before. Perhaps, you’re forming your own identifier about me. I inch the fork forward. Open wide, I tease. Hesitantly, innocently, like a lamb coaxed to a slaughterhouse with grain, you reveal the dark canvas of your throat.

When there’s nothing left, they use teeth to make identifications. But to me, you’ll always be my Purple Potato Girl.

Grilled Catch (Ahi) ($48)

Her: Grilled is better. A grill leaves char marks. Grilled tastes smokier, reminds me of fire. You don’t know it’s my foreshadowing, my personal inside joke: you’re going to get burned tonight, Ander. I’m going to leave my mark on you. You won’t be able to stop wondering about me on your plane ride home tomorrow. That, or you’ll be crying. Plus, the grilled catch comes with lobster cream, an aphrodisiac, a visual indicator that what you want to happen tonight might actually happen. And while I’m pretty sure seduction is not the most effective path for you, I purposefully let the sauce linger on the side of my mouth for a moment before swiping it clean with the back of my hand. Realness is flawed. Realness is dirty. No need to make you think I’m prim and proper, but coaxing the blood flow south is never ineffective. Men make the worst (best) decisions when the wrong brain is at the control panel. Though, I’ll admit I’m not exactly sure what your end goal is. Your chauvinistic insistence that I have a bite of your potatoes is not a typical occurrence in my line of work. It is sweet, a selfless offer. Most of my dates wouldn’t waste the energy. It catches me off guard. For a moment, it makes me concerned that I’ve mistaken you for a tourist. That you actually think this has the potential to be something long-term. Your eyes are piercing, searing into me like I’m the cooked fish on your plate. For a moment, I feel bad for what I’m about to do. You look like you might want to make me yours forever. I open my mouth wide.

Oh, Ander. I bite. I chew. I swallow. You should have never said yes.

Dessert

Apple Banana Spring Roll ($16)

Him: Since it’s my first, last, and only time here, you let me choose. Between this and a chocolate-coffee terrine, I would have chosen the bill. I don’t need dessert. You’re my dessert. And while I’d prefer ripping your fingernails off one by one with my teeth to listening to another second of your pathetic story about how you escaped from the mainland to find your “realest” self by living a nomadic lifestyle on a tourist island in the middle of the great Pacific, my work takes time. My work requires simmering. There are still hours of bar-hopping ahead of us, crowded rooms with loud music and a number of drinks that must be consumed before you drink the one that will inevitably end your evening and complete mine. But, alas, I choose the spring roll, because I appreciate imagery. You have graduated; from sea otter, to potato, to, now, this. You are the banana, about to be lumpia-wrapped and covered in granulated dust. Sure, let’s a take a photo together, each of us biting one end of the roll. Let’s see which reaches the bottom of the seafloor first.

Her: You don’t know your future is about to end. At least with me. But it’s time. I’ve got plans to meet up with another guy after this. If I don’t pull out my signature move now, I’ll be late.

It’s cute how eager you are. I’m always surprised how willing men are to put their lips so close to someone they barely know. But you don’t even hesitate. You’re up from your chair, leaning over the table without a second thought. I joke about this, how brave you are, trusting a complete stranger not to exploit your image on social media, or smash a hot pastry into your face. I stay seated for a second, watch you react to my threat. But there’s no caution, no fear. You trust me completely, laughing and extending a hand for me to grab. I can’t do it without you, you say. Or I, without you, I respond, purposely not taking your offered hand. You feign offense. I see how it is, you say. Do you?

I lift the sticky caramel-covered roll up to my lips, holding your gaze the entire time. Then, I lean over and bump the other end of the roll into your lips. You don’t bite right away. Your eyes linger on mine. You’re falling in love with me in this very moment, and I feel the closest thing to guilt I’ve felt in a long time. Then you bite into it. Our noses brush into each other, and the sugary goo and hot mushy banana is oozing out onto our lips and down our chins. It’s my cue. I pretend to startle, jerking forward and shaking the table, effectively spilling nearly every drink on it. Your wine, my champagne, water splash into us both, and reactively, we pull apart, sending the inside of our roll flying. By sheer luck, the banana lands in my hair. Had I had any interest in this being a real date, your booming laugh, at a time when most men would be annoyed or irritated by the mess, would have sealed the deal for me.

As I strut away from the table in pursuit of the lady’s room (conveniently in the same direction and blocking the view of the exit), I can still hear you chuckling, soaking up water from the table and using it to clean your sticky face. In another life, with another woman, maybe, you could have had the best first date of your life. You could have been convinced that the best clams you’ve ever tasted were actually only so delicious because you shared them with your future wife. It’s sad, really.

Before I go, Kelsey shoots me a thumbs-up, winking as she flashes the bill so I can see it. You owe her $192, plus tip. All that for a stranger. I stopped feeling bad about it years ago, but something about you reminds me what it's like to care about men. There certainly is something different about you. Perhaps, we could have had a nice evening together. Maybe you would have considered visiting on a regular basis. Hmmm, strange for me to imagine that. Maybe it's all that champagne, or the lobster sauce. I do think I’ll remember those eyes for some time. They almost make me feel bad. But I know when I wake up tomorrow, all I’ll be thinking about are those delicious purple potatoes and a very distant echo of someone laughing.

After all, never trust a man who chooses anything else over chocolate mousse.