Midnight Ganache

I find empty theaters magical. The excitement of a great performance hangs in the air. I like to be at school before anyone else except the custodians. I can feel the potential of the day. Restaurants after closing are magical, too.

He unlocked the back door and had me wait until he disarmed the alarm. The fluorescent lights flickered on as he took my hand and led me through a maze of flour bins and prep tables to a wall of reach in coolers. Their glass fronts showed a cool blue interior light and containers of various sizes. He selected several containers and handed them to me as he gathered cream and garlic, grabbing a bottle of Chardonnay.

He was the chef. He made his magic with the best ingredients and a little spice. His domain was a trendy little Nouvelle Cuisine spot, with maybe 30 seats. The flickering candlelight at its intimate cloth covered tables was the setting for marriage proposals, real estate deals, celebration dinners and corporate write-offs. It was way out of my league.

I was twenty-ish and didn’t even own a car. Which is why I found myself on a rainy night in a restaurant after hours with the chef. He came to my rescue on a shitty night. I came home to find my basement apartment flooded. I didn’t have a phone. When I slogged up the street to a pay phone I realized I had no idea who to call or what to do about 12,000 gallons of water on a rainy Sunday night. I called the chef because I had his number and he lived nearby. He cleared off the front seat of the truck when he pulled up. When he saw I was shivering from being rain-soaked, he wrapped me in his leather jacket. I love that smell. He let me rant and ramble. When we pulled up to the back of the restaurant he said, “Well, there’s no use fretting now. You can deal with it in the daylight better. In the meantime, I know what will make you feel better.”

He drew up a tall stool to the stainless steel prep table and had me sit. He knew I liked vodka so he poured me a generous shot of Stoli and then he set to his magic. As the warmth of the vodka helped relieve my distress about the flood, I watched him add a splash of this and a dash of that, while humming and swaying to his incantations. It smelled heavenly; the combination of garlic, butter and wine reduction opened the portal to happy memories of gourmet dining with my parents when times were good. The scent reminded me of the Portuguese boarder my parents took in or the exchange families from Spain and Italy who rented half of our duplex.

The hiss of a splash of wine hitting the pan brought me back to this perfect moment. Here I was raiding the refrigerator of the swankiest restaurant in town with the chef. I was surrounded by hanging pots, giant whisks, an enormous mixer, super-sized kitchen gadgets and stacks of buffet. The light was cinematic and the storyline was hopeful.

We carried our plates and the wine through the kitchen, past the bar, into the darkened dining room. The streetlight outside spilled a bluish light onto the two tops by the window.

“Hang on a minute,” he whispered. Suddenly all around me and above me the room was filled with twinkle lights. When I squinted my eyes it was like being in an enchanted forest. It was like twirling under the giant cone made of Christmas lights in Zilker Park during the holidays.

Chef made me a meal of pure comfort, whose details I don’t recall, but throughout the meal I had to resist the urge to lick my plate. It was that good.

And then there was dessert. “If chocolate doesn’t help you feel better, I don’t know what will,” he said as he set before me a skinny wedge of deep brown ganache silkiness covering dense layers of cake with Mexican style chocolate filling. It was almost too pretty to eat. I hesitated, but he did not. He scooped off a piece and fed it to me. The butter in the filling melted into a chocolaty dream seasoned with cinnamon and a dash of chile. The cake soaked up the filling and the ganache curled around my tongue to wrap all of the flavor and texture together. It was so good it made me cry.

“What did you put in that cake, Chef?”

“Magic,” he answered coyly.

“Sorcery, more like. Another bite of that cake and I would follow you anywhere forever.”

“That’s what I was hoping for.”