Through The Grinder

what?”

He stood so close the heat from his body was truly distracting. I felt my hands becoming moist, the paring knife in my fingers slipping.

“I think its safe to give you a knife,” I said, clearing my suddenly dry throat. “What do you say, sailor? Peel these potatoes?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

I handed him five plump Yukon golds. He peeled while I knocked five cloves of garlic from a large head and stripped the dry white skin. Then I helped Bruce cut up his peeled potatoes into manageable cubes.

“I talked to your daughter downstairs before I came up,” he mentioned in passing. “She’s a good kid.”

“Very. She’s actually watching over the part-timers for me while we have dinner.”

“Oh, so she gets a reprieve as soon as I leave?”

“Something like that.”

“And what if I don’t leave…right away?”

“That’s a loaded question, Mr. Bowman. Keep your mind on the cooking, please.”

He laughed. “She’s a lot like you.”

“She’s stubborn like her father.”

“She’s got your features — the chestnut hair, the green eyes. You two look a lot alike.”

I stopped cutting and looked up at him. “Don’t say like sisters. I’m not that gullible.”

Holding my gaze, he smiled. “No, I can see you’re not.”

When we finished cutting the potatoes, we both tossed them into boiling water, adding one smashed clove of garlic per spud. Then I pulled a pan from the stainless steel Sub Zero and removed the foil from the marinating meat. A powerful aroma filled the kitchen.

“What’s that smell? Coffee?” Bruce asked, surprised. “You marinated the meat in coffee? ”

I nodded. “One bite and all doubts will be dispelled.”

“Okay, I’m game. I think.”

“You better be — your wine has coffee overtones.”

“True.” He looked closer. “So what exactly have you got there?”

“Four thick, gorgeously marbled T-bones, courtesy of Ron, our local butcher. They’ve been marinating overnight in enough brewed and cooled coffee to cover them completely.”

“Nothing else?” Bruce raised his eyebrow.

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

He laughed. “It’s just that I’ve never seen it done before.”

“Actually, a chef who specializes in Southwestern cuisine told me he believed coffee was a fairly common ingredient in frontier cooking. There was a limited amount of spices available on the plains, and some of the gamier meats like horse and boar needed both flavoring and tenderizing.”

“I’ve heard of using beer as a tenderizer.”

“You’re thinking of Kobe beef. In Japan they ply live cattle with malt liquor daily. It results in fatty, well- marbled meat. This is different.”

“Okay, but I’m sure I remember hearing the Japanese do something odd with coffee.”

“There’s a Japanese beauty treatment that uses coffee grounds fermented with pineapple pulp. The citric acid from the pineapple cleanses, and the caffeine firms and tightens the skin — smoothes out wrinkles.”

“Oh, I see…” His brown eyes fixed on me. With the backs of his slightly callused fingers he gently touched my cheek. “Is that your secret?”

I blushed. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

“You’re beautiful.”

“I’m cooking,” I said, determined to keep my head.

We barely knew each other, and even though the man’s proximity was having an embarrassingly unnerving effect on my state of mind, I resolved to maintain control of this situation. A public restaurant may have been a better bet for that reason — but it was too late now.

Disregarding his irresistible smile, I pressed on.

Using a cool, professional, pre-trial Martha Stewart tone, I explained that a carefully chosen coffee brewed strong not only imparts a nutty, earthy flavor to the meat, but tenderizes it as well. “You want an acidic bean, because it’s the acidity that does the tenderizing. Most Latin American beans will give you enough acidity for this recipe, but I usually go with a Kenya AA.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I’m not yet convinced,” he teased.

“The only way these steaks could be better is if I grilled them over mesquite — though I do love them with eggs in the morning. Nothing like a coffee-marinated steak to really jolt you awake. You’ll see.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “Is that an invitation for tomorrow morning?”

Oh, god. What did he think I was implying?

Bruce took in my expression and laughed. “I’m kidding.”

“Right.”

I hastily refocused my attention on browning the T-bones in the cast-iron skillet, trying like hell to forget about the incredibly charming man leaning casually against the sink a few feet away — and watching my every move.

“Smell that?” I asked. The aroma of roasted coffee and sizzling beef filled the apartment.

“Mmmmm. I see what you mean. Nice combination…”

After both sides of the thick steaks were properly seared, I placed them on a rack in the broiler and deglazed the pan with a splash of beef consomme.

“There’s actually another way of getting the coffee flavor into the meat. I wrote a piece on it last year. Restaurants in Seattle, San Francisco, and Colorado rub the steak with coarsely ground coffee. But I’m not a fan of the crunch, you know? So I prefer to get the flavor through the marinating process — it’s more intense this way anyway.”

“Intense? Mmmmm. I’m up for intense.”

“You mash the potatoes while I make the gravy,” I commanded, handing him a potato masher.

“Do you have enough butter in there?” Bruce asked, peeking into my copper-bottomed sauce pan.

“I seem to recall you were friendly toward the subject of cholesterol.”

After the butter melted, I whisked in the flour, then added the deglazed drippings from my steak skillet, more beef consommé, and coffee.

“More coffee? You’re kidding,” Bruce said, still mashing up the garlic potatoes.

“I never kid about coffee, or gravy.”

The dining room table was already set, the candles lit, the homemade butter biscuits in the lacquered basket, Madame’s Spode Imperialware at the ready, the tomato and avocado salad in the crisper. My marinated steaks were sizzling on the rack — quite rare now, but darkening more with each passing minute.

“How do you like your steak?” I asked, turning — right into Bruce Bowman’s arms. How did that happen?

“Hot,” Bruce replied softly.

And then he was leaning in, closing his arms around the small of my back, pulling me close. Ladle in hand, I closed my eyes and let his mouth cover mine. All feeble attempts at keeping my head were now completely and utterly lost.

He was rough and sweet at the same time, like that peculiar taste we’d achieved downstairs, between the espressos of North Beach and Milan. Warm and rich and tender…

“Nice,” he said softly against my lips.

“Very.” My eyelids felt heavy, my limbs heavier. “But we hardly know each other.”

“I know. I just had to see how you tasted.”

Oh, god.

He smiled. “You know, I have yet to see those alleged Hopper sketches you claim are in this place.”

I laughed. “It was all a lie to lure you into my apartment.”