EVA

As Nicholas grew older, his personal aesthetics changed, together with his taste in women. He could no longer imagine himself making love to a skinny girl, who might be fretting over each bite he had prepared for her. The realm of sensations is very demanding. The right dosage is always necessary. The greatest pleasures are found at the place where mind and body go together, hand in hand, where excess and deprivation are both under control. Most people believe that passion is a weakness, a loss of all moderation. Nick knew it was not so and he had learned that in his own kitchen. Use more pepper and you will spoil the dish; less salt and it will be inedible.

Passion is a balancing act on a tightrope. It requires patience, confidence, tranquillity, slow steps. It needs faith and love, respect for the abyss down below. It calls for impulsiveness but also caution.

Nick had discovered that mature women knew that secret. They ate with a hearty appetite, relished the meal without excessive anxiety, opened themselves to his food and his love. That was the reason these days he was hardly ever attracted to younger women, unlike other men his age who were looking for self-confirmation. Nick did not need any confirmation other than a woman’s moans of pleasure. The older his lover, the better. For mature women would never be seduced with cheap tricks. They demanded the truth.

He lifted Eva from the couch and carried her to the bedroom. There he would extinguish the fires he had himself lit. He took off her clothes, one item at a time, slowly but purposefully. Now there was still one thing left to do.

‘Are you my canvas?’ he asked her.

‘Oh, yes…,’ she moaned, not really understanding yet.

He popped to the kitchen for a moment, leaving her purring in bed like a feline, and brought back the two small jars containing their dessert: white and dark chocolate mousse. He placed Eva on the dark duvet, white on black, and started painting on her naked body with his finger. Around her nipples he drew white daisies. He counted her ribs with lines of dark chocolate. On her belly button he placed a small raspberry. One more a little further down, on her mons Veneris.

He looked at her with admiration for both the canvas and the work of art.

‘And now my love, I shall eat you,’ he said. ‘But first – a monotype.’

He removed all of his clothes and lay on top of her. The sweet imprint passed onto his own body too. Having both become art, they licked each other until no trace of chocolate was left on their naked skin. Only the two raspberries were still in place, one on Eva’s belly button and the other at the centre of her femininity. Nick pulled those off softly with his teeth. He gave the first one to Eva, mouth to mouth. He ate the second one; it was sweet, with a touch of sourness. He imagined paradise tasted the same.

Then they celebrated together the age of maturity.

Menu

Ravioli in spicy broth

Spicy avocado salad

Veal in chocolate sauce with mashed potatoes

White and dark chocolate mousse

(The original recipes are included in the book.)

VIOLETA

It was a chilly night and Violeta, who was dressed lightly, started to shiver. The balcony on the seventh floor below was full of potted flowering plants and thuja trees. The eighth floor, where Nick had his flat, sported a somewhat receding balcony; this created the illusion of a garden below their feet. The view from here was majestic: the Upper Town resembled a postcard. Tsaus Monastery was glowing in the night. An orange, perfectly round moon, emerged from behind the clouds.

Suddenly, she felt Nick against her back, pushing her softly towards the railing. Holding her firmly with his right hand, Nick lifted her dress with his left hand, revealing the silicone stockings she was wearing. The cold night air glided over her thighs. She moaned. Was that where he would make love to her? In the balcony, seen by all? Before the main course?

She looked at the lit balcony doors in the apartment building across the street and she thought she saw a woman peering at them.

‘We will be seen,’ she ventured, attempting to prevent the inevitable. She was, nevertheless, already aroused.

‘They are my neighbours, not yours,’ Nick said curtly.

Violeta felt the intensity of the phrase even before she understood its meaning. What a thing to say! It was as if he had decided to carry on his own the entire weight of her guilt. He was even scolding her for feeling ashamed!

She started rubbing up and down against his body like crazy. Now she wanted to be seen! There was nothing she desired more in the world than the secret gaze of strangers, behind the semi-transparent curtains of Alexandrou Svolou Street. She imagined them looking at her face with curiosity, ecstatic as she seemed over her own desire. In her mind’s eye she saw them shake their head with disapproval – and yet, they would still be unable to take their eyes off her. 

She bent forward a little more and swayed slowly in front of his hips, right to left, forming a circle of lust. She had gone wild now. The cold air did not have the expected impact on her. On the contrary, it made her feel hotter. She had lost all sense of place and time. And the thought did not even occur to her that what was happening had nothing to do with what she had planned for the evening.

Suddenly, his hands withdrew. A sense of loss overwhelmed her. But… why? Violeta, half naked, held onto the railing like a broken puppet.

MADAME KIKI

That summer, Madame Kiki moved to the four-storey apartment building that had no lift. The entire neighbourhood heaved a sigh at the sight of the explosive maturity of the forty-year-old woman. She could be heard giving instructions to the two men with a van carrying her sparse items of furniture to the small flat on the fourth floor. Nick and his mother lived on the first. The young man came out to the balcony to watch the whole affair. 

That was the very first time he saw her. She had a peculiar body type. Without being particularly tall, she possessed a domineering aura, perhaps due to the size of her bosom. She wore one of those old-fashioned bras, very pointy, which made her look like a double-barrelled tank. Waist that could be enclosed in a pair of hands, thin hips, muscular legs, peep-toe shoes, pencil skirt barely covering the knees. And the canons above.

Nick swallowed hard. Waves of arousal pierced him, and his Lee Rider stretched dangerously over his crotch. He stood there staring at the woman, as she walked back and forth in the alley, while the movers silently complied with her instructions, given in a mellifluous voice, with her R’s rolled to perfection – carrrreful and this firrrrrst. Rough-looking men, covered in sweat, wearing dusty coveralls and tattered trainers, they bent their heads in front of the proud bosom of Madame Kiki, filled with an indescribable awe. Nick was also ensnared in the woman’s seductiveness. He went on gazing, until the last coffee table and the last cardboard box had been transferred into the cool interior of the building’s entrance, and from there to the small penthouse apartment of the fourth floor.

That same night he dreamed of her. As expected, he woke up with the wet sheet clinging to his body. He quickly washed the spot in the bathroom sink; he did not want his mother to see it. He made the bed again, knowing the sheet would dry out very fast. It was turning out to be an extremely hot summer.

Byzantine hot-pot

• 500 gr beef knuckle
• 500 gr pork shoulder
• 500 gr chicken (use three boneless legs)
• 500 gr lamb (use ribs with their bone)  
• 4 finely cut garlic cloves (remove the green germ from the garlic)
• Salt and pepper

Optional: 2 tablespoons honey and 1 teaspoon vinegar

Alternate version: If you do not use honey and vinegar, you could add 150 gr kefalotyri cheese (cubed) or pecorino.

We wash and drain all the meat. We mix the cuts of meat and lay them out in the pot, sprinkling with the finely cut garlic, salt and pepper. Cook in a pre-heated over at 180° C for 2 hours. Towards the end, sprinkle with honey diluted in vinegar – or, alternatively, with the cubes of kefalotyri cheese or pecorino.

Note: This dish does not require any oil or butter. If you add onion, it will lose the taste of the unique synthesis of the meat.

(Recipe: Koukouvitis)

LET THERE BE BIRDS

‘This chicken soup should be cooked only for someone you really care for,’ Nick said. He leaned back and looked at Alice with a mischievous smile, as if they were both kids playing in the alley and he was about to suggest a game of hide-and-seek.

The young woman seemed somewhat dazed already. Nick could sense that she had begun the descent to the world of the senses. Not a descent, he corrected himself. It was an ascent, a little like floating over the streets and the benches and the parked cars, over the high-rise buildings and the terraces, over the balcony where the young couple were having their dinner at the flat on Aristotelous square, in the heart of Thessaloniki.

It was no more than thirty square metres, a modest studio flat given to him by his kind aunt Katie. ‘You are welcome to stay here for as long as you need to,’ she said, ‘at least until things get better. Which they will.’ Modest, indeed, but the balcony view was breathtaking. One block from the sea, overlooking the pier and the entire Thermaikos Bay, with the sailing boats and the merchant ships, with the gulls flying overhead cawing their shrill love messages to each other.

The thirty square metres were allocated as follows: an oblong room, to be used as a bedroom and sitting room at the same time, so full of light it would have chased any depressing thoughts away before they even formed. A kitchen no bigger than a water-closet, but perfectly equipped for Nick’s ambitious cooking skills. A set of metal shelves was extending all the way to the ceiling. Designed and constructed by Nick himself, the shelves had cost practically nothing. They held Nick’s precious cook wear, pots and pans and measuring cups, precision scales, baking trays, stainless steel graters, and food choppers. An immaculate bathroom with a shower (no room for a bathtub) completed the young man’s residence.

It was spring and the air carried an unmistakeable rich aroma, consisting of pollen, rising warmth from the asphalt, and the desire to sing and dance. The pigeons, still few and far between, not having reached the point of proliferation where they would become the plague of the city, fluttered overhead in the sky. The sun was now beginning to set in the horizon, behind Mount Olympus. It would soon get dark and the birds would disappear, finding some shelter or other for the night. And in that tiny balcony, at the most privileged spot of the square, a mystery was about to unfold. Nick’s first experiment. He wondered if it would work. It should do. It must, he thought.

Nick had met Alice at the little shop where he worked in Ladadika, the olive-oil district of the city. That was the centuries-old market, where mostly Jewish merchants used to have their shops selling cooking oils before the war, before the Jews of Thessaloniki, men, women and children, were loaded onto the infamous ghost trains and transported to Kraków, and from there to Auschwitz, to be annihilated almost in their entirety. Places are not devoid of emotion. They tend to carry their history and their tragedies in all eternity. Nick understood that very well, even if the city pretended to have forgotten – as if the past can ever be forgotten.

He had been working in the grocery store for the last five years, learning the trade. He remembered the day he had passed outside the shop, seeing the sign on the window, Help wanted, written in clear, calligraphic letters. He stepped inside and found himself in a wonderland. He never left and he never would. Nick collected carefully the most exclusive ingredients he could get his hands on and all the recipes that he could find. He had been fond of cooking since his early youth, when an extraordinary woman had introduced him to the world of the senses and carnal love. And he was already good, really good. But what he wanted was to gain access to the apocryphal, so to speak, knowledge of the magic art of cooking.  

Until that day, Nick’s dream had been to become an artist. He specialised in portraits – mostly portraits of women. The first one he had painted had been his mother. Stern, with her hair in a tight bun, in a dark, unassuming dress, and with the same blue-green eyes that Nick had inherited. The second woman had been Madame Kiki, his mother’s best friend. Then the three college students, another important chapter in the story of his life. He usually preferred pastel shades for his muses, wishing to venture into their inner world, their emotional universe. Each woman, it seemed to him, harboured an inner truth. It was that truth Nick was after, not the façade presented by each one of them.

A peculiar relationship started to form between him and the world. The outward appearance of things was not enough. What he really wished for was to lift the veil of reality, as if it were a sheet covering the furnishings of this life to protect them from dust, lift it away with his fingers to reveal the true, secret world lurking underneath. Then it might become his own, a truth that belonged to him alone. If I know how something works, I might control it, he thought. Then it will be mine. That was the game he began to play with life, though the specific rules were still to be discovered.

The most important breakthrough had been the grocery store in Ladadika. Sometimes fortune will smile upon us, even though Nick felt we all create our own fortune – and that was precisely what he was doing. This is my destiny, he thought. And if he never became an artist, so be it.

That store was a small oasis, the laboratory for a different kind of sorcery. It was crammed with jars carrying all sorts of strange ingredients, glass bottles with precious cooking oils, airtight bags filled with dried fruit, cans from faraway lands with bamboo shoots and edible seaweed, like nori and wakame, and sweet and sour sauces made with pineapple. And herbs, so many herbs, large sacks bursting with herbs. The neighbourhood cats threw a party every time a new sack was opened. The lovely smells, sometimes pungent and sharp, others floral and sweet, would waft over the entire block. White cats, black  cats, ginger cats, the entire cat population of the district would suddenly appear in the narrow stone-cobbled alleys of Ladadika, emerging from patios and old ruins, heading straight for the little shop. There they would begin their shameless rubbing up and down against the sacks with the herbs, performing their mating dance with an invisible lover, unable to resist the sexual fever driving them to these uncontrollable antics.

The young connoisseur kept meticulous files on every little thing he learned every day. That was how he started his career as a grocer at the age of twenty-one, right after his military service. He became a diligent apprentice to Master Spyros, his boss, the owner of the shop. Strictly speaking, that was not a grocery. Later on, this type of shop would be called a delicatessen. For the time being, though, Nick’s mother boasted to her friends: ‘A grocer makes the best kind of husband. With a grocer by her side, a woman will never know hunger.’

Everything under the sun could be purchased at the shop. Lorries came and went, delivering goodies. Spicy cheeses, savoury fermented sausages, prosciutto that had been buried in sea salt in cold cellars, rare truffles… The entire Northern Greece cooked with the ingredients chosen by Master Spyros, who increasingly left the management of the deli to his worthy apprentice. Business was booming, the country was thriving, people were selective about their food. Fast-food had never won over the Greeks, and Nick dreamed of opening his own slow-food school someday.

Alice strayed into the store one afternoon. She entered like a breeze, armed with her twenty years of youth and a white, airy dress, a little shorter than fashion demanded. Nick stared at her dumbstruck. It was a delicate creature, petite, with a slim waist. Her eyes were green with long eyelashes, her hair chestnut blond, cut very short, save for a golden fringe falling over her eyes, forcing her to blow upwards every now and then, so that she might supervise her surroundings for a moment, before shutting herself back into her personal girlish happiness. Nick had never seen any girl looking more like a dove. She was not walking, but hovering a few inches above the ground.

The young woman took a quick look around, saw the tall, young man who was staring at her, and immediately turned to the study of the food stuff on the shelves. She was probably used to the adoration bestowed upon her by members of the opposite sex, and perhaps she had decided that feigning indifference was as good a defence as any. But Master Spyros, being as old as he was, was beyond reproach. He went up to her, greeted her politely, and began a fatherly, good-natured interrogation. A gargantuan man, with white hair and a thick moustache, he might have reminded her of her grandpa, for she gifted him with a smile. Philosophy student, she replied when he asked her.

And what could a philosophy student possibly want at a grocery  store?

‘Truffle oil,’ she said, not looking at him but at his assistant, a glimmer of guilt on her face, as if she felt that an interest in cooking were not to be reconciled with her role as a student. Cooking was a hobby. She had apparently been doing some research into antiquity and had come across an ancient recipe for a chicken soup intended for a Greco-Roman symposium. But the recipe was incomplete and she was trying to work it out for herself. The idea was to experiment a little with some new materials.

Master Spyros, who was far from blind, noticed the furtive stares being exchanged in the shop and gave room to his assistant to do his thing. Nick grabbed the chance. Soon, the two young people were discussing the ancient recipe.

‘If I am not mistaken,’ Nick said, ‘this might even be an aphrodisiac recipe.’

The young woman seemed a little taken aback at that, but Nick went on undeterred.

‘I am thinking of a velvety soup with a light aroma that can nevertheless overwhelm. Creamy texture, but not a heavy taste. It is mostly a prelude, the opening of the senses to something stronger that will follow. The first moment of relaxation, an initial faint quiver, before an explosion of pleasure.’

The woman listened attentively, seemingly sharing the man’s enthusiasm. And as it might have been expected, a spark lit between them, as is wont to happen among young people under the influence of the spring breeze.

Alice kept blowing her fringe out of her eyes, throwing green looks at the handsome young man, as he went on with his culinary suggestions in a low voice.

‘You have the right idea about truffle oil, I think it is precisely what this soup needs. You must remember, though, that a soup is only the first course. Personally, after the soup I would serve pheasant. A well-planned menu needs cohesion, harmony. A light soup should be followed by a richer dish, a bird cooked in a sumptuous sauce. Something that few people are aware of is that small birds, like quail and pheasants, are to be eaten fresh. There is no point waiting. The aging of the meat will not tenderise it further.’

Nick spoke of little birds and in his mind’s eye he saw Alice sprawled on a white bed. He dreamt she was his, that he was kissing her and whispering love things into her ears. And every time Nick said the word ‘birds’, Alice laughed happily, an impulsive laughter that started in her belly and ended in a sparkle in her green eyes, hidden under the fringe.

Nick’s culinary skills became his passport to their first date. He invited Alice to dinner and the girl accepted. They would meet on Friday night that same week. The young man would prepare the aphrodisiac chicken soup, as he imagined it would have been served in a Greco-Roman symposium. Alice took the note with his phone number and address, thanked him and Master Spyros, then walked away floating a few inches above the ground.

Nick began preparations on Thursday. He left the shop a little earlier at lunch break and took the bus to Cedar Hill, in the outskirts of the city. There, near the pine trees, he found the wild asparagus he was looking for. The asparagus ferns are usually thorny, but fresh, green sprouts emerge in spring. He collected enough to fill a bag and returned home to work on the meal. He already had in his possession the ingredients for the salad: lightly sautéed wild asparagus served with a simple dressing of olive oil, lemon, and mustard. A salad must be impressive enough and the one Nick had decided on would be fresh and delicious.

By Thursday night Nick had deboned the chicken. He smeared the bones with pomegranate molasses, then boiled them together with the chicken flesh. As the soup was boiling, Nick was dreaming of holding Alice in his arms. He desired her with all the strength of a first love. More than anything, he was inebriated with the boldness of the scheme. Paying tribute to the two greatest human pleasures. That was a valiant goal for an artist.

Removing the flesh and the bones, he strained the broth carefully and placed it in the fridge for the next day. The cooked meat would be stored separately, and would be used for a chicken pie, with various cheeses and a bechamel sauce. A good cook throws practically nothing away. And if everything went well Friday night,  they would be able to continue with the affair on Saturday, munching on chicken pie.

The pheasant had troubled him a little. Though it was not very expensive – it was slightly more dear than a chicken – his limited budget would be stretched. Luckily, a quick phone call to Manos, his friend who was a hunter, had saved him. The pheasant had been procured at no cost, straight from Manos’s personal stock, and arrived at the grocery Friday morning. Nick would find a way to repay the kindness of his friend later on.

Wild mushrooms were plentiful at the shop. With the blessings of Master Spyros, Nick took a handful of dried chanterelle and porcini mushrooms for the sauce for the pheasant. He was now ready, having all the necessary materials.

At four in the afternoon Nick donned the cook’s apron. Leonard Cohen’s song, ‘Dance me to the end of love’, was his choice for the background music. After washing the pheasant, he sautéed the bird with butter and olive oil in a large pot, then put it aside, covered with aluminium foil. The flat had already been transformed to a paradise filled with ambrosial smells.

Nick knew very well that great chefs often use both butter and olive oil at the same time. When cooking for a household, people are usually in a hurry, so they make do with one or the other. But this way they miss out on the smell, the first component of a successful meal. It is not an accident that food is one of the greatest human delights, since it appeals to all of our senses. That is why moderation is important, so that the intensity of the experience is not drowned in excess.

Lost in his thoughts, Nick now sautéed the onion. He added the dried mushrooms, after soaking them in wine, and lastly he added the bird. The juices of the mushrooms were plenty for the first boiling phase, which ended with a splash of white, dry wine, Moschatos de Limnou.  Another little-known secret, sprang to Nick’s mind: great chefs never cook with water. Never, ever, ever. Always use wine.

Lift me like an olive branch

and be my homeward dove…

The song was coming to an end. Nick allowed the bird to boil until half the juices were gone. He added some of the chicken broth, prepared the previous day, and simmered the pheasant for about an hour and a half, until the meat was tender.

At seven in the evening, the dove-girl came to the flat. She was wearing a pale-green dress, same colour as her eyes. On her feet, she had on a pair of silver ballet flats.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he welcomed her and let her in.

‘It smells marvellous! Wow!’

Alice looked around her at the neat flat. The walls were decorated with original paintings created by the young artist. The girl was clearly impressed. A painting depicting a multi-coloured parrot hung on one wall. And over the cosy couch that turned to a bed, in the middle of the oblong lounge, hung the portrait of a man who was destined to become the greatest poet of the city, but who was back then earning a living by working the night shift in the reception of a love hotel, on Desperai street: Aigaion Hotel.

Those were important times and Nick could sense it. The eighties had stormed the city, breeding bars and clubs, and the streets were filled with young, boisterous people who dressed garishly and drank too much. By 1984, the romantics of the era had  started to keep a low profile so as to avoid being ridiculed by the moderns. Hiding in broad daylight, when they met each other they would display telling signs – a word or a certain look – just so they would know they were in good company. Artists and poets, Philosophy students, newly-branded leftists and anarchists, flooded the city of the North, trying to carve a new, meaningful pathway for themselves.

Nick was also paving his own way. It was a truly romantic idea and a daring scheme. He would create a unique work of art, a rare menu consisting of delightful, fresh elements and bodies embracing in ecstasy. The dove-girl would be his, even if he were a complete unknown, one among the thousands in the city of Thessaloniki, an artist whose works were not exhibited in any galleries, a grocer with a flat of thirty square metres, a man without a car, without any money, without much experience, whose only attributes were that he was a food connoisseur and he was passionately inspired. That was all.

And so they ended up sitting in the balcony. Alice was stunned.

‘Look at that view. Few things are more beautiful in this world,’ Nick whispered, not wanting to destroy the peace of the evening. ‘Except you perhaps.’

The young Philosophy student laughed merrily. The art of seduction is not a hasty affair and every woman, no matter how inexperienced, knows exactly how long to wait and how much to resist.

‘The body’s beauty is ephemeral,’ she said. ‘In life and in love other things are more important.’

‘Like what?’

‘I have no idea,’ she said cheekily. ‘I only know it is not beauty.’ She blew her fringe out of her eyes. Maybe she wanted to tell him about her dreams. About the things she was looking for in a man. Or maybe she wanted to tell him that she was a predator, who wanted everything and wanted it now. But it is possible she was too ashamed to confess such truths. So she hid behind her smile and her silence, and did not make things easy for him. Let him think whatever he wanted. And it is almost certain that the ancient stubbornness associated with her sex was suddenly upon her, for such is a woman’s biology and she was not to blame.

Nick did not lose heart. He knew that the plan was underway and it was flawless. What he had prepared for the young woman was worth it, to the point that if she did not appreciate it, she would not deserve it.

The presentation of the table had demanded a lot of his attention. All the senses had to be under siege. He had begun with the smells and now it was time for vision. White tablecloth, crystal glasses, and beautiful China, all gifts from his mother, who had figured out, more or less, her son’s particular madness, as most mothers can. Alice was impressed but said nothing. She was desperately trying to hold on to her aloof style. She lit a cigarette, as Nick poured them an aperitif. He had selected a smooth liqueur made with sour cherries.

‘To the queen of all soups,’ Nick said and raised his glass. ‘This chicken soup should be cooked only for someone you really care for.’ The clinking of the glasses underlined his words.

This is the most beautiful day of his life. Annie Lennox is singing now: Sweet dreams are made of this… The young woman is sitting in the balcony smoking her cigarette. She is gazing at the ships in the distance, while listening to the fluttering of the pigeons up on the roof, above her head. Nick is in the kitchen warming up the aphrodisiac soup. He is glowing, it seems. He is so much in love, his heart feels close to breaking. He pours the double cream into the strained broth, then adds the truffle oil. He stirs. A white cream, thickened to perfection, delicious, emitting a lovely smell. It is complete. A work of art.

Nick serves the soup. Sitting opposite the young woman, he observes her carefully, as she dips her spoon into the bowl. There is still a measure of indifference on her face. Now she brings the spoon to her lips and swallows the first mouthful.

Her expression says it all. There is no doubt about it. Nick sees the miracle of taste overwhelm her.

It is over. He has won.

The woman’s defences collapse. The perfection of the aphrodisiac broth has been tested over the centuries and cannot fail. The two young people in the balcony over Aristotelous square look at each other and smile. How lucky they are to have found each other…

The pheasant is next, freshly prepared, glazed in the sauce with the wild mushrooms. The asparagus salad is the perfect accompaniment. Nick pours the wine carefully into the crystal glasses. Cold, white wine, the same he used to cook the bird. Alice’s eyes are half-closed. She seems to have forgotten the things she wanted to say. Now she is cutting into the pheasant, holding the cutlery gently with her long fingers. Despite her elegant movements, she resembles a small predator. A bite from the bird, a mushroom, an asparagus shoot, all find their way into her little mouth. A sip of wine. She licks her lips.

Nick realizes he has been in a constant state of arousal, for the entire duration of their meal. This is not a dinner, this is making love. But the climax is still to come. Soon.

Nick picks up the empty plates, takes them to the kitchen, and serves the coffee. Espresso.

‘How much sugar, darling?’ he asks. He knows he must add the sugar himself, because he must ‘cheat’. Everything is allowed in love.

‘Just half a teaspoon, please,’ Alice says, already exhausted, in a sweet state of surrender after the divine dinner.

Nick adds a full teaspoon. Women, he says to himself, but he means it tenderly. He serves the  coffee together with two pieces of bergamot orange confit from the island of Corfu. He places them on the saucer next to the coffee.

Alice sips at the coffee, she finds it marvellous. Now she tries the confit with her eyes closed. She looks like a painting or a song. Nick enters her world. He takes her head into his hands and kisses her softly on the lips. A flutter is heard in the sky above. Ah, it must be the ancient stubbornness flown to the wind. The next minute, the young woman will be lying on the couch, minus her dress. Her body is offered to the hands of the artist. Take me and do with me as you wish, her body says. I cannot withstand more of this paradise.

But there is more. The ultimate pleasure, a sweetness, a last harmony of notes, a climax of the senses, a concert of subterranean moans. Who is moaning? They do not know. Where does the man end and where does the woman begin? Their mouths have become one, their tongues are intertwined, the man’s thighs are trapped between the woman’s legs, her breasts are sheltered in the man’s palms. You are mine, his hands say. I am yours, her body shivers. Gentle movements, then more forceful, more and more, until they both take off, and are away. They are flying together now, above the couch and out through the balcony door, in the sky over the square, over the streets and the benches and the parked cars, over the high-rise buildings and the terraces. Ah, how sweet life is. For a moment they lose the world, but then they find it waiting for them again, more beautiful than ever. They embrace tenderly, in an unexpected completeness.

That is how small birds should be eaten. There is no point waiting at all.