Secret Ingredient: Love. Teresa Southwick

to her voice. Along with her call girl tone she was tossing double entendres like an antipasto salad. As her cheeks burned with embarrassment, she hoped he wouldn’t attach a personal meaning to what she’d said. “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen” had never rung more true. And she’d been face-to-face with the saying more than once since she’d decided on a male-dominated career.

      “Okay. You open the wine,” he said. But he didn’t sit down.

      From one of her kitchen drawers, she removed a foil cutter and corkscrew. The first worked like a charm. Unfortunately, the second was inexpensive, antiquated, and only penetrated the cork. It didn’t have handles on the sides to propel the stopper upward. She tried to pull it out, but didn’t have the strength. Then she attempted to wiggle it loose, without luck.

      Finally, Alex gently took the bottle from her. With only enough effort to cause a slight tightening in the tendons of his wide forearm, he removed the cork. “Voilà.”

      “I feel like a gymnast waiting to see how much the judges will deduct for a fall off the balance beam.”

      “Strength and manual dexterity are not the benchmarks of a good chef. I only deduct points for an entrée that triggers the gag reflex or food poisoning.”

      “You’re joking, but this is very serious to me.”

      “In a restaurant setting the waiter or wine steward would wrestle with this bottle. Any muscle-bound moron can do it. It’s not a failure.”

      “It’s not a win, either.”

      “Lighten up. If your cooking tastes as good as it smells, you’ve hooked me.”

      “Whatever you say.” How she wished she could believe him. She took the opened bottle from him and poured some into the wineglass already on the table.

      Before he could respond to her remark, the timer sounded. “The entrées are ready,” she said. “If you’ll resume your seat, I’ll continue to serve.”

      “Deal.”

      Fran took the food from the oven. She arranged it on two plates resting on a warming tray. Then she slipped on pot holders before she went back around the bar and set the servings on the table in front of him.

      With one gloved hand she indicated the first plate. “This is veal parmigiana.” Pointing to the other, she said, “Stuffed chicken breast with mushrooms and vegetables. Enjoy your meal.”

      Anxiously, she stood over him and watched while he picked up the fork and sampled everything on each plate. He took a sip of wine, and continued to eat. After finishing the veal, he tasted the chicken again and nodded. Hesitantly, he cut through the green vegetable with his fork and scooped up a small taste. The serious expression on his face told her nothing useful. Curiosity killed the cat and it was about to snuff her, too. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer.

      “Well?” she asked, struggling for nonchalance. “What do you think? How do you like it?”

      “Are you fishing for a compliment?” His mouth twitched slightly.

      “I want your honest opinion. An objective, yet sincere critique of my work.”

      “I have to make sure.” He took several more bites. “If I’m going to be honest, fair, yet sincere, I need to sample enough product.” He scooped up another mouthful.