“Only about a hundred times on that twenty-minute ride,” I say, pressing my lips to his for a kiss. “Although I think I may be a little over dressed.”
“Trust me, you’re perfect,” he says, and starts leading me to what I’m assuming is the restaurant.
He opens the rickety security door and says dramatically, “After you, señorita.”
I’m shocked when I walk inside. As generic, and frankly creepy, as the exterior is, the interior is overwhelming. The walls are covered in tapestries, deep reds and purples, of dancers. Beautiful flamenco dancers with flowing hair and dresses whipping around them, some surrounded by musicians in cafés and others woven into abstract backgrounds. The tapestries create a cozy ambiance and buffer the conversations at the tables. Over the low buzz of voices is a soulful guitarist’s chords. He’s playing in a corner, and his lush notes fill every corner of the room. Diners lean over tables that glow in candlelight. There are candles everywhere. In hurricane lamps on shelves around the restaurant and low tealights on each table. It feels like I’ve stepped into one of the tapestries. The air is spicy, like garlic and cloves and saffron, and beyond the guitarist I see into the kitchen, where giant stockpots are steaming, and a chef is fussing over a smoking skillet.
“What is this place?” I ask Chris.
“This is the best and oldest paella restaurant in the city. Prepare to have your mind blown,” he says.
“Señor Beliem,” a voice booms in our direction. An older woman greets Chris. She’s wearing a jacket with ornate read epilates and a bright red carnation in her lapel. “I’m Sofía, Arturo’s grandmother. I was so pleased to learn you’d be visiting us tonight. Follow me, I have our best table reserved for you.”
We follow her to the back corner, away from the guitarist and the kitchen. It’s a secluded table, and while I’m excited to sit down and have some privacy with Chris, I yearn to get up close to the kitchen and inhale the amazing aroma.
“Thank you, Sofía. This is perfect!”
“Then I will leave you. Qué te aproveche la comida!”
“Well,” Chris says, a cocky note in his voice, “what do you think?”
“I’ve seen more authentic,” I deadpan. But I can’t help it, my smile cracks wide open. “It’s remarkable. I’m just overwhelmed by this place. How on earth did you discover it?”
“Sofía’s grandson picked me up at JFK last week. We got to talking and he told me about his grandmother’s restaurant and before I got out of the car, I made him give me the phone number. I knew I wanted to bring you here,” he says.
“You were that confident this was going to happen?” I ask.
“I was,” he says, leaning closer. “Because I knew I’d do anything to get close to you. I wasn’t going to give up.”
A waiter comes by and serves us two large glasses of red wine and places a platter of roasted red peppers, still sizzling and drenched in olive oil. Chris doesn’t hesitate, he raises a glass and looks me so deeply in the eyes I feel myself blushing.
“To you, Weaver,” he toasts. “Thanks for taking a chance on me.”
I raise my glass and meet his, warmth spreads through my chest and tummy as I drink. The wine is delicious and I’m happy, truly happy, that I did give Chris a chance. I pick up one of the red peppers with my fingers and take a bite. Olive oil soaks my lips and the bitter but fruity flavors explode across my tongue. I moan in appreciation, and Chris leans in to kiss my greasy lips. He holds his forehead against mine for an instant and says, “You couldn’t expect that I wouldn’t want a taste.”
When our paella is served, we are all business. The rice is cooked to perfection, so rich with flavor and streaked with red strands of saffron. Chris and I playfully dual with our forks to claim the juiciest bits of meat, laughing at each other’s appetites and our shared enthusiasm for this unique meal. It’s fun and light and a relief to know that we have fun together. Sexual chemistry doesn’t always translate into friendship, but by the end of the meal, when there’s just a few grains or rice and a couple of lima beans left in the pan, it’s clear we enjoy each other. When Chris motions to Sofía for the check and stands, disappointment floods through me.
“I don’t want to leave,” I say honestly.
“We aren’t leaving just yet,” he says. “Not before a dance.”
I look around confused, because I don’t see a dance floor. But that’s not stopping Chris, who takes my hand and urges me to my feet. “There’s plenty of room right here. In fact, I think the guitarist would be insulted if the most beautiful woman in the restaurant left before she danced.”