“Mr. Lee, how do you do?” greeted the hostess before taking their coats and leading them up the stairs to the private patio set up with a table for two.
He pulled a chair out for Kimani.
“Wow,” she exhaled as she took in the view of the ocean to one side and the red gleam of the Golden Gate Bridge to the other.
It would have been nice to have an outdoor patio but the ocean breeze could oft
en be chilly.
“You dine here often?” she asked.
Usually only on special occasions, he realized. Tonight was an exception.
Or was it?
“I don’t dine out often,” he replied as a server brought them sake and poured the wine into small porcelain cups.
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I guess...if you can afford to, why not?”
“It takes too much time out of one’s day. And I like to keep my diet simple.”
“I like the noodle place in Chinatown. And I’ll never pass up good soul food. Do they have soul food in Hong Kong or Beijing?”
“Unless you consider KFC soul food, I haven’t come across any.”
She laughed. “I remember driving through central California with friends, and we all had a craving for soul food. We ended up at a KFC.”
“This dinner will be different from fried chicken.”
The first appetizer was clam with monkfish and a soft-boiled egg. Kimani picked up the chopsticks, but the way she held them made it difficult to pick up the clam. He pulled his chair around.
“You’ll get more leverage if you hold one of the sticks at an angle,” he said, demonstrating by picking up a single piece of diced green onion.
She gave it a try. It was better but not sufficient. He took the chopsticks out of her hands and repositioned them in her fingers.
“You really only need to move the top stick,” he explained. “The bottom one acts as a base, an anchor.”
He could smell the fragrance of the bath bomb on her. Her skin felt incredibly smooth. After releasing her hand, he caressed the length of her forearm. Her sharp inhale and reaction to his closeness instantly roused his blood.
What had he been thinking, taking her here? The next few hours were going to be torture if all he wanted to do was run his hands over her body.
She successfully picked up the clam and smiled. “No one ever taught me the right way to use chopsticks.”
A second later, she dropped the clam.
“Guess it takes practice,” she muttered, making another attempt.
He had fun watching her work the chopsticks. By the time the second appetizer came, she was starting to get the hang of the utensils. When she picked up a single garden pea after many studious attempts and looked up at him with a wide smile, her eyes shining with triumph, he shared in her delight.
“I’ve never had Japanese food like this before,” she said after the soup with bamboo and Wakame seaweed was followed by sashimi with snow crab. “To be honest, the first time I tried sushi, I wasn’t a fan.”
“I wasn’t either. Most of my family shy away from it, partly because my grandfather refused to touch anything Japanese.”
“Why is that?”