Wine-Flavored Jelly Beans with Lark's Tongue in Aspic

Michelle was going on a date. It had been so long, a year or more, but her friends had connected her with a gentleman who could actually string a sentence together and did not have the ‘yellow fever,’ which was a real problem for a woman of her form and features.

His name was Dennis. He wrote her a few notes after seeing her pictures. The notes were revealing, but not creepy, and she took up his efforts in kind. Then he called. After a week, he asked for a date.

The Omega Bodega was his suggestion: wines, cheeses, charcuteries and chocolates. Safe. Easy escape. She agreed.

The date would start late. That worked for her, giving her time to get herself done up. She put on a filmy dress that was two inches above her knees. Just right. A song was in her head:

‘You hear a call as we walk in the night, of café conversation on the street...

‘It’s nothing profound, yet turns you around, and makes you take a seat.’

Sometimes, she resented prepping for men: Moisturizer, primer, concealer, powder, blush. Tonight, not so much. Her hands shook as she crimped her lids. She was thankful for the tranquilizing effect that third glass of merlot she had set on the toilet seat lid offered. Brows, lashes, lips. There would be red wines tonight, which tended to turn her lips brown, so she wanted a red lipstick that popped. She applied it, kissed the air, and was happy with the look. She applied a subtle blue to enhance her epicanthic folds. She had been told it looked exotic. Nothing wrong with that.

She pulled on a pair of cerulean stockings, and clipped a pen knife to her right garter. Dennis seemed nice, but one cannot be too careful. Grandfather told her stories of how to kill a man by puncturing his lungs, or how to save him with a cigarette wrapper, and where the ‘sweet spot’ was, and where to cut the femoral artery. She did not know why, but she practiced.

Dennis met her at their agreed-upon spot. He gave her a ‘Hello,’ and a peck on the cheek. Nothing gross. Just… Nice.

“Um. Here.” He handed her a box.

“What’s this?”

“A gift. Open it.”

“Jerk…” She smiled, so he would know she was joking.

“Oh, geez! You gotta be kidding me!”

“The Merlot is in there too. I know it's your favorite."

“This is sooo cool!” Despite her usual caution, she returned his peck.

“Wine in a box! Jelly beans! Thank you. Cardboardeaux!”

“Good one.”

They were standing outside a café. A song came over the sound system that stopped Michelle.

“Do you know this?” she asked.

Dennis took her hand, and she let him. As they headed toward the Omega Bodega and he began to sing the next line:



‘The talk is of nothing yet it holds you enthralled, as the waiter fills your glass with wine,

‘Your face changes hue, different shades of you, under the flickering neon sign,

‘Of a sidewalk café…’”

“Wow. You are a good singer. Especially since the singer is Vera Banu.”

“Thank you. Three years in the Vienna Boy’s Choir.”

“Don’t they castrate you?”

“I think I would know.”


“I suppose. Still… and she let go of his hand and took his arm. “But having my own little castrato.”

“They still have recordings, you know.”

“Really? Hey. Stop. Wait. Here… Let’s go here. Do you mind?”

“What? Skip the Omega? They’re having a tasting.”

“Yes, but… The song? The café.. Kizmet?”

“We agreed with OBoGaGa. The cheese and beast are the best.”

“I guess.” She let go of his arm. Date over.

He stopped. “Wait. Look. That’s weird. 'A table for two?' Over there!" "'A warm, muggy night and a table for two,'" he sang.

“What are the odds? ‘At a sidewalk café?’ Run, Michelle! Run! Get that table!”

She was there first. “You’re giving me an ear-worm! I’m starting to hate you.”

“Get in line.”

She was giggling. He was a teaser, a fearless one, and she liked it. He kept singing after they captured the table.

"‘Your smile blurs my thoughts as our blood starts to brew,’" sang Dennis and Vera Banu.

"‘At a sidewalk café, with nothing to do, but tickle each others’ fancies and wait for the sun,

‘To slip into view.’"

“Okay. I have one now.”

“So I’m in your head?”

“Tomorrow, maybe. No ear-worms… You like tequila?”

They sat down. The waiter, Jimmy, appeared. Michelle ordered two Merlots, a basket of bread and a cheese plate.”

“Tequila? Only if I have an inchworm to carry me home and massage my belly and headache along the way.”

“Do you know why they put the worm in tequila?”

“If it rots, there’s not enough alcohol. It’s bad mezcal.”

“Right you are, Mr. Smarty-pants. Oh. I’m sorry. I just jumped in and ordered for you. Did you want something else?

“A chateau, brie, owned… by me, and some crusty broad.”

And so it went.

“What is your real name, Michelle?”

“My real name? How—? My real name is Miel.”

“Miel does not sound Vietnamese.”

“It’s French. It means ‘honey.’ My mother is French. My father fought from Alabama. It was hard for him not to go into country. Desk work. I don’t know who he saved, but pens save men, I said. Still. He wanted to fight. How did you know I had another name?”

“Just a guess. Ah… Miel. Mead. Honey liquor, a drink for gods in the Halls of Valhalla.”

“And what’s your real name, Monsieur Denis?”

Jimmy came to the table. Dennis asked if they had mead.

“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t.”

“Shame. Ok.” He left.

“My real name is… Dennis. Want to know what it means?”

“I do.” She sank her Merlot and summoned the waiter back, asking for a carafe. She did not know why Dennis made her nervous.

“It’s of Greek origin. It means ‘follower of Dionysus.’ The Greek god of wine.”

“Oh, I love that.”

“Thank you. Let’s see. What would your pairing be, Miel? Mead? I pick… baklava.

“Oh, that’s awful. Too sweet.”

“Of course. You’d need heat, to offset the sweet. You like heat?

“Oh, yes!”

I make extractions of ghosts, scorpions, reapers… I use a pipette to drip. I do think baklava and miel, I mean, mead, would be killer. He drank to keep up with his date, who was outpacing him hard. “So… Your pairing, for me?”

“Larks’ tongues in aspic.”

“What!?”

“You are Guard of the greatest keg and bottle lardar in all the Universe, O, ye righteous drinking arm of Dionysus. King Crimson. Lord of the Reds! Casks of Amantillados stacked by Escher’s forever men doused in Beaujolais! What might there be in your cellars that could possibly be a dud for my pick?

“Mead.”

Michelle spat her wine on Dennis’ white dress shirt, and on they went down the way that unraveled before them, laughing.

“What makes you talk all fancy like that?”

“Merlot and jelly beans, maybe? You have food on your face."

"Does it suit?"

"If you were spread on the table, maybe."

“Would you care for champagne?”

“I get no kick from—‘“

“—I love King Crimson and Cole Porter. Not a good pairing, though. There’s some champagne jelly beans in that box somewhere, Honey-mead.” The music was on a loop. “Sidewalk Café” repeating.

‘The wine and the night stir up the passage of time, the air thick enough to clutch,

‘I take the carafe, and then start to laugh…

“No,” Dennis broke in, “You take the giraffe, and only eat half…”

Michelle punched him in the arm.

’I think I’ve had a bit much,

‘And I pour anyway…

‘A warm, muggy night, a table for two…’”

Our waiter approached us. “We are closing the kitchen in thirty minutes.” He smiled. “Would you like a meal before the sun comes up?”

“Oh, yes, yes. Deepest apologies. Too much fun at the expense of others.”

“Not at all. If everyone were like you, the fun would never end. What would you like?”

“My, God. What time is it?”

“It’s 1:30.”

“Good grief, Miel! What sounds good?” She was slurring her words and resting her hands on Dennis’, which he did not mind at all.

“Pick.’

”Coq au vin,” he said to the waiter. “Just one. Same plate.”

“And another carafe,” said Michelle.

“O, Dennis, O, my Captain of the Dionysusian guard. ‘Drink. That's the great thing; the only question. Not to feel the horrible burden of Time weighing on your shoulders and bowing you to the earth…’”

“Baudelaire? You amaze me, Honey-drop.”

“You think you are the only reader here. Copywriter? Pfft.” She laughed, and so did Dennis.

“Why do you think I agreed to date you? I know my Vera Banu, too.”

“‘Over our heads the umbrella hangs limp, another casualty of the day.

‘The moon heaves a sigh as our hours roll by, and sets the breeze into play…’”

“Brava!”

She sang and did recitations until the food arrived.

“Can you eat?” Dennis asked.

She pushed herself up. “Oh, yes.”

“Well, girl. Dig in. The Coq awaits.”

“Yes. Yes it does.”

The waiter checked in.

“Bread, please. Lots of cheese and butter, and jam. Plum jam, if you have it. Or fig!”

Michelle sipped her wine, set it down, and swiped the plate onto Dennis’ lap.

“Aw. gawd. I’m so sorry. I’m, I’m… drunk. Obviously. I’m nervous.”

“Nervous? Why? I wanted this to be fun. Fun. So you’d see me again.”

“Too quick. Me. Not you. You’re fine.” She took her napkin and tried to clean his lap. “I think I’m in love, Dennis.”

“In love?”

“Yes. Why the hell not?”

“With who?

“Ah, gawd. With you, dummy. Oh, I’m sorry.”

“You’ll feel differently in the morning, Miel. I promise.”

“No, I won’t. I’m a mess. I’m sorry. Ah. I'm crying now."

“I will wear on you.” He looked away, nothing clever to say.

“I fell with your first pun and jelly bean. You? Anything?”

“Me? It’s the same, Miel. I am afraid of you.”

“Not just the honey pot in my skirt?”

“And my hot pants?”

She laughed. “Denis. I’ve never had coq au vin. Would you let me? There’s an alley two blocks down.”

“You sure? Let me pay.”

“Never more. I want you.”

“Coq au vin?”

“You.”

“Skip the preliminaries? Café au lait?”

“You.”

“Make a miel of you.”

“When I’m done with you…”

“Are we really going to do this?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, we are.”

Michelle sang,

“‘With only the street lamps to light up our game, our shadows dance around under feet…”

She had never wanted a man so much in her life. She knew she was drunk but would feel the same tomorrow, hungover, in love forever. When she got him in the alley, she pressed him up the wall, and wrapped a leg around him, and pushed her hips into him, lifted him up. She moaned. He screamed.

She looked at his face, but he was looking down. Blood was running down his pants leg. Somehow her penknife had worked its way out of its sheath and had cut him good.

“My, God, he cried, you did want a castrato!” He dropped to the ground. She cried for help but no one heard.

“No. No!” She ran into the street.

“Help!”

“Michelle?” He was bleeding out.

“Please. Not him! Not him!!! It was an accident!!!”

She returned and found her own artery. She laid down upon her one true love’s lap, made the cut and after two pumps, blacked out.

‘Just the flick’ring street lamps to light up our game, our shadows may no longer meet’

‘The pounding of Love shakes down the stars from above as the steam starts to rise from the street

‘At the breaking of day.’