Dessert for Two

from Leanne's "Above Sea Stories"

(Go to All The Above Sea Stories.)

If you’re new to The Môrdreigiau Chronicles, welcome! Mostly I share the journals and letters and novels that I found kept in a trunk found in my attic that were written during the Regency period (or shortly thereafter) and involve a small group on quests to find Arthurian treasures that will enable them to save the world from ecological collapse. Oh, and there are shapeshifting sea dragons. I know, sounds like a fantasy story, right?

This one is written for Moll Moonlight ‘s Valentines Day Cafe collab, and I gotta be honest. I loathe this holiday. Enjoy.

“Table for two?” The harried waitress looked beyond me for my partner. “Are you waiting for someone? We can only seat guests when all have arrived.”

Already she focused on the couple standing behind me.

I managed a bright smile. “One, please.”

The waitress gave me a long look that made me want to thrust daggers into those judging eyes. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Of course.” My smile didn’t waver.

She checked her tablet, found my name. “Follow me.”

We wound through the tables, all divided into two-ups, until we reached a table near the kitchen … and the toilets.

I sat, accepting the menu and returning it to her. “I’ll place my order now. A decaf cappuccino and the vanilla slice please.”

The waitress relaxed. “You’re not ordering a main?”

I arched a brow, taking in the couples seated nearby, the incessant pink and red heart decor. “Would you?”

For the first time, her features crinkled in sympathy. “Coming right up!”

From my chair, I had a full view of the kitchen through a long open pass-though. Beyond, the staff bustled, rapping out arcane requests, banging steel pots and pans. Fire whooshed. They kept their toilets clean, the faint odour of bleach mixing in with the hearty Mediterranean kitchen smells.

I took out my phone and laid it by my plate. No scrolling today. I couldn’t stomach the endless goo of valentines or well-meaning friends with their friendship hearts.

However Leonardo’s was known for their fantastic desserts and one in particular. I wanted to capture a picture to memorialise the occasion.

My coffee soon arrived along with a dinner plate bearing a large wedge of vanilla slice. “They are already cut,” the waitress apologised. “I could get you a knife or a takeout box?”

“Chef would allow that?” I raised my brows. Vanilla slice was best consumed fresh before the pastry got soggy.

The waitress put her forefinger to her lips, glancing over her shoulder at the kitchen.

“Leave it,” I told her. “I’ll be fine.”

I snapped a photo before picking up the pastry fork, pressing it through the sherbet-dusted pink icing and into the top layer of puff pastry. The top few layers of pastry lifted off the firm vanilla custard underneath, leaving one wafer-thin layer clinging to the pastel yellow square.

The fork cut through the custard like softened butter, meeting resistance only when it reached the bottom layer of pastry. A little extra pressure and the pastry separated with a satisfying crunch.

The thick custard stood a good two inches high. I wasn’t sure I could fit it all in my mouth, even so narrow a sliver.

I almost managed, the vibrant pink icing smearing my upper lip.

Sweetness flooded my mouth, and I closed my eyes to better savour the taste of the cold, rich vanilla. The extract had been made from scratch, a slight grittiness from the vanilla bean offsetting the custard’s unguent texture.

It all melted in my mouth, buttery pastry, creamy custard, sweet strawberry icing.

I swallowed, licking my lips clean. “Oh my god,” I murmured.

I wouldn’t taste my coffee just yet, wanting the gloopy taste of the vanilla slice to linger, unadulterated by the drink’s bitter bite.

I carved another mouthful, larger this time. The second bite was as sweet as the first, sugar-sweet mixing with butter-crisp and the sweet-heavy of custard.

I moaned, mouth still full, tongue swirling and tasting.

I knew I had to savour this, make it last, for it would be another year before the chef made this version again.

For the next piece on my fork, I sniffed the icing’s strawberry notes, sighing. I could eat a whole tub of this icing.

I tasted the topping, letting it melt in my mouth, before swallowing. It tasted so good. The sherbet left just the right amount of tangy tingle. I consumed the next bite, denuded of its icing. This dessert was so rich, I didn’t know if I could finish it.

I opened my eyes, looking straight into the kitchen. One of the cooks stared at me. His eyes widened at being caught. His brow rose in gentle inquiry.

Slowly, I lifted the next bite to my lips, the tip of my tongue snaking out to capture the berry-tang icing.

I licked my icing-coated lips. His gaze fell to my mouth, his olive cheeks pinking. His eyelids lowered, his gaze becoming heated.

Pastry and custard next. I opened my mouth wide, taking it all, my cheeks bulging. I concealed my mouth with a hand. My lips formed a round ‘oh’ of pleasure, but the yellow custard also oozed, just a little. God, it was so good. I squirmed in my chair.

The cook leaned forward, his bared forearms flexing. He pulled off his white striped blue skull cap, rubbing his shorn salt and pepper hair, his gaze never leaving my hidden mouth.

I swallowed a little bit at a time, until the last soft custard slid down my throat. I leaned back in my chair, fingertips brushing my clavicle and utter a happy sigh.

Someone in the kitchen shouted and the moment shattered. He winked at me, before disappearing from sight.

Time for a dose of reality. I sipped at my cappuccino, letting its heat infuse my mouth. It cleared away much of the cloying sweetness. I let the liquid swirl, ferreting out every last taste of sweet. It burned away the custard’s heaviness, creating space for more.

And oh, how I craved more.

I took my time, alternating bites of dessert with sips of coffee. The hot beverage melted the rich custard, refreshing my palate.

The cook returned, pulling up a stool. Smiling, I made sure not one skerrick of icing remained on my lips. My fork retrieved the next chunk.

I sucked the custard out of its pastry embrace. It came free with a satisfying, audible, plop. I might have whimpered.

I nibbled at the remaining pastry on my fork, taking the tiniest of slivers with my teeth.

Again, a call came from the kitchen and the cook slid off his stool, fluffing his navy blue apron.

I finished, scraping the plate with my fork for the last bits of icing and custard. The waitress came by with the check and a folded piece of paper. “Leo, the pastry chef, asked me to pass this along.”

I waited until she left before unfolding it and reading: “A woman with your passions should not be alone tonight, or any night. We close at 11. Will you return?”

They say you can tell the measure of a man by how he serves up his dessert.

I wouldn’t know. I got another piece to go and left the restaurant, the pastry safe within its cardboard box. I couldn’t wait to get it home and really indulge all my senses. I knew exactly what I wanted to do, and I didn’t need any help in achieving my goal.

Vanilla slice deconstructed? Absolute heaven.

Vanilla slice is really good, ok? Also, it can be pretty ordinary, and I’ve never had it with sherbet in the icing but I think it would definitely take it up a level.

Check out all the stories in the Valentine’s Cafe.

Thanks for reading! Would love to know what resonated or sparkled for you in this story. Please share in the comments below, or drop me an email/DM.

If you’d like to read short stories about shapeshifting sea dragons, you check them out in The Red Book of Rhiannon.

(Go to All The Above Sea Stories.)