Never a good cook

She signed her name and gently set the pen down on the dinner table. 

"When do you leave?" She asked.

 I picked up the paperwork and put it in the envelope. 

"Tomorrow night." 

She dished up the boiled veggies and handed me a plate. Her cooking had always been stale, flavorless, like the last year of our marriage. We sat in relative silence during what was likely to be our last meal.

Since my first cooking class in college I'd hoped we'd one day travel to far off exotic places and eat strange foods and drinks.

But she'd had no interest in traveling any further than the food court at the local mall. 

After seven years I'd gotten over 

a lot, but not everything.

I helped myself to a small serving of the mushroom risotto. I took a bite. She was a poor cook, but this? This was, something else.

What was it? A slightly sweet, or maybe metallic taste? I smiled politely as I tried to recognize the unique flavor.

I buckled into the window seat, and settled in for what was going to be a very long flight. I turned down the in flight meal. No warmed up Salisbury steak was going to satisfy. I was off to Bali for their famous street food market. I popped a couple sleeping pills and nodded off.

When the plane hit the ground I was weak from hunger. I quickly got a taxi and headed into the city. After what seemed like forever, the driver pulled over and stopped. I pointed toward the end of the street. 

"And the market? It's just down there?" 

"Yes. Street too narrow. Too many cycles. You pay now."

The driver had assured me that the Sanur Night Market was the biggest and best in Denpasar. 

I walked on toward the end of the street, where the cabbie said I'd find the Center of the market. 

The heat was awful. I removed my jacket and over shirt. The insects then saw me as a free meal. They were ravenous. I likely lost half a pint of blood that night. 

The narrow street was lined with cars, cycles and bikes. A steady flow of scooters zipped through traffic in and out of the market. They reminded me of the bugs, dodging and weaving round the tourists.

There at the next corner a gang of guys sat on their scooters and cycles. They laughed and smoked and watched me as I passed. They seemed to be judging, or gauging how much money I might be carrying. I quickened my pace and walked past them. 

I smelled it first. Like a parade coming round a corner, it hit me. The smells on the breeze were pure bliss. Like nothing I had imagined, or maybe like everything I'd hoped it would be. I felt the pangs of real hunger, not in my stomach, but in my throat.

Then, there it was. Like an oasis, maybe a couple acres of tents and carts and hundreds of people. 

I felt so proud. I had gotten on that plane, by myself and flown half way round the world to follow a dream, and I had finally arrived.

I wandered around the market nibbling on meats, breads and noodles flavored with exotic spices. Turmeric, chile, galanga, kentjur, garlic, coriander, mace, kaffir lime leaves, and clove.

I sipped sweet, fruity drinks and ate deep fried dessert pastries like nothing I've seen before.

The sun was nearly set when I'd eaten all I could. I was ready to find a place to stay for the night. 

"Stick a fork in me, I'm done."

I closed my eyes and took the last drink of my first beer in Bali. When I opened my eyes, she was there.

In a rainbow colored silk dress, she appeared from nowwhere. She was just there. Eyes the color of jasmine tea and hair as dark as stout, she locked those eyes onto mine and gracefully strode to my table. 

She had an accent so exotic as to have come from a Bogart movie, she asked.

"Would you like to try something special?" 

I stammered, "Excuse me?" 

"You look like an adventurous man. Would you like to try something the tourists never get to taste?"

I think it's important to have an open mind in moments like this. If it meant I'd get to be close to this stunning woman, it was an easy decision.

"Yes, of course," I said. 

"Please. Follow me." 

She skipped into the crowd and I skipped right after her through the maze of narrow streets.

"What's your name,?" I asked.

She laughed and quickened her pace. 

"How far away are we going? I need to get a hotel."

She smiled and nodded. 

"We are nearly there, but you are still far away."

"Well, what do you mean by that?"

She just laughed and took my hand.

We walked on to the other side of the market. Finally she stopped at the back of a Bodega. She pulled away a tapestry and softly knocked on a door.

It opened and I followed her inside. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dark as we entered a very small restaurant. Couches, love seats and low lamp light and an aroma so decadent and intoxicating, like garlic and sex. I had to try this delicacy. 

The few people there were obscured in the low candle light. All eyes turned to me, then away. I was the only tourist in the room. 

She escorted me to a low chair in the corner. A small table with water and glasses awaited us. She invited me to sit.

I asked, "How much is this gonna cost me, cause I.."

"Oh no. This is a gift. A special treat for a special guest. You enjoy."

She made a small bow to me and

walked away. Light music and incense wafted around the small room. Wherever I was, this place was very exclusive.

The mystery woman returned. She carried a bottle and set a plate down on the table in front of me. An array of appetizers. She sat down next to me, opened the bottle and poured a glass.

"Very special treat for a..."

"Yes, I know. For a very special guest. But why me? Why am I so special?"

She picked up a strange pastry and lifted it to my mouth. 

"Please. Sssshh. Just enjoy the flavors of my country."

I gave in. She was right, after all. So what if she wanted to treat me? I've heard the local women look at Americans as future husbands. Would that be so bad?

"I'm very sorry. Please forgive my bad manners. Of course. You're right." 

I opened my mouth and accepted the pastry. It was spectacular. Marsala and garlic, thyme with a smoky bacon flavor. I smiled at my hostess, lifted the glass and raised a toast to her. 

"Delicious. My thanks to you and the Chef."

"I'm so pleased you like it. It's my own recipe."

"What is that pate? Is that liver?"

She smiled.

"No. It's mushrooooom." 

My eyes got heavy and my tongue swelled up.

I looked at the other guests. Some of them looked familiar. Maybe the motorcycle gang I'd seen earlier? The men stood up as my eyes started to lose focus. 

"Hey. What's going on? If I knew it was gonna be this kinda party, I..."

The shadows collapsed and then everything went black.

I awoke tied to a chair in what was our bedroom. With a pounding head ache, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her cat was staring at me from across the room. He tilted his head and said, 

"You shouldn't have eaten that."

I then heard the familiar squeak of the door being opened.