Absinthe

Chapter 32: Questions and Answers - Part 1

"I'm really sorry, Rob."

"Don't worry, I understand."

"I called Derrick. He's on his way now. Please do enjoy the rest of the evening with him. I'm really,

really sorry. I'll make it up to you, I swear."

Robert smiled as I kissed him on the cheek. I mouthed one last sorry before rushing toward the

entrance and riding the taxi the maître d' had procured for me.

It was annoying that I didn't get to finish the amazing food at Le Chaumiere. I shuddered at the thought

of Nico's skill level. And it was even more disappointing that I wouldn't be able to spend the night with

Rob. After all, I'd prepared for it by cleansing myself thoroughly down there.

But there was no use crying over spilled milk now. And I shouldn't have been thinking about failed

sexcapades! I'd just gotten asked by the Chef Maxwell Olivier to cook desserts for his restaurant. That

was an honor no amount of shagging could replace, even if it was with hot half English Rob!

However, when I reached Chef Maxwell's, I felt as though something was wrong. For one, the parking

lot seemed emptier than I had expected. Where were the fancy cars for diplomats?

I paid the fare and tipped the driver handsomely before rushing in.

The whole place was empty. Seriously, I had no idea what the hell was going on. Was there some

hidden function hall I didn't know about?

I walked further inside, toward the special area right in the middle of the restaurant. There, the

transparent ceiling was accentuated by a gigantic live tree, with flowering vines hanging all over the Belongs to © n0velDrama.Org.

place.

It was the best spot in the entire restaurant. When I glanced at the table behind the tree, there was a

guy sitting there. His back was to me, so I couldn't see his face, but I noticed that he was handsomely

dressed. He seemed tall, too, with slender yet athletic legs framed perfectly by an amazing set of

trousers whose brand I couldn't quite put my finger on. And don't get me started with the breadth of his

shoulders—the mere sight of them made me weak.

In other words, I was only a few steps away from an impossibly handsome man.

For a moment, I thought I had said that adjective out loud because before turning and looking at me,

the stranger at the table said it.

"Hey, handsome."

It was Jiwoo.

He stood up, walked toward me, took my hand, and gently led me to the table. He pulled out the empty

seat next to him and motioned for me to sit.

As if on cue, Chef Maxwell and two other members of his staff approached and greeted us.

"Good evening. My name is Maxwell Ollivier, your chef for this evening."

"Good evening. My name is Rachel Samonte, and I will be your head attendant for tonight."

"Good evening, sirs. I am Gabriel Montalban. I will also be attending to your needs for tonight."

They all smiled before Rachel and Chef Maxwell bowed themselves out. Gabriel stayed and raised an

unmistakable golden bottle with an engraved spade symbol in the middle of it—I was 100% sure it was

Armand de Brignac Brut Gold! That costs more than 2,000 dollars!

"Champagne, messieurs ?"

Jiwoo nodded and gestured toward the chair again.

I wanted to make a scene at that very moment, scream and walk out on Jiwoo, but the champagne was

to die for, and I was tempted to drink no fewer than three bottles. I needed to get revenge for Chef

Maxwell's lies!

Once Jiwoo and I were both seated, Gabriel expertly opened the bottle with a soft pop. He then

proceeded to pour a generous amount into two peculiar-looking glasses before putting the champagne

back in an exquisite crystal champagne cooler sitting on a beautiful side table.

I took a sip of the sparkling wine and studied the glass it was in. It wasn't the typical flute most

restaurants used for champagne. It wasn't a coupe, either, which was what I had seen earlier at Le

Chaumiere. It looked like a typical glass wine, but the stem was longer, and there was a depth to the

glass akin to a flute.

"It's called a tulip," Jiwoo said. He must have been watching me. "We had the same thing at the Hilton.

We only use it to serve VIPs when they order champagne costing $1,000 and up."

"A tulip, huh?" Indeed, the glass resembled a tulip bulb.

"Do you like the champagne?"

I nodded. "You seem to know your alcohol."

"Not really. But I did work in the hospitality industry, so I've been trained for these things."

"Why are we here?" I asked as I put down my glass. "I thought I told you that I have neither the time

nor the energy to play around with you."

"Play around? That's a bit much, don't you think?"

"And what you did wasn't?" I asked, remembering what Jiwoo had done that day and instantly feeling

the anger rise in my chest.

"Can you humor me, then? If you think I'm playing around, let's play a literal game."

"Are you fucking serious?"

"C'mon. It'll be interesting. We'll guess the ingredients in each of the dishes they'll serve. Whoever does

so correctly gets to ask the other person any question, and the loser has to answer truthfully."

"Why the hell would I want to do that?"

"Because you'd know how I really feel." Jiwoo was looking not at me but rather at his hands.

"And what makes you think I'm interested in how you feel?"

"Because it has everything to do with what I feel for you."

How.

On earth.

Could he say such a thing with a straight face?

For three fucking months, I had kept my cool despite my anger and had avoided Jiwoo. Yet, he had not

made a single move to dispel the bad blood between us. And now he wanted to talk about how he felt?

Rachel came back with what looked like the best appetizer on the fucking planet. There was caviar on

top of quail eggs from the looks of it, and those were resting on some crispy fried noodles in the shape

of a nest.

"Messieurs ," Rachel said. "This is our ca—"

"Sorry, Rachel," interrupted Jiwoo. "We'd like to guess what the ingredients are after tasting the dish.

Can you confirm which of us is correct?"

Rachel smiled. "Definitely, monsieur." She gave me the dish first before doing the same with Jiwoo. It

made me recoil on the inside because in traditional French dining, ladies are served first.

"Ready?" Jiwoo asked. I figured I had no choice but to play along. I took a bite, and the intense flavor

of smoke coming from the soft-boiled quail egg filled my palate. The saltiness of the caviar reminded

me of the sea. There was also the unmistakable presence of cumin in the nest made with taro yam as

well as the nutty flavor of sesame.

After I described everything I tasted, a grin appeared on Rachel's face.

"Very good, monsieur. Our first course is indeed mini taro nests infused with cumin and deep-fried in

sesame oil, with soft-boiled quail eggs smoked in applewood and topped with caviar."

"I didn't stand a chance," Jiwoo said, smiling as well. "You get to ask your question."

Rachel cleared the table and refilled our glasses before disappearing back into the kitchen. There was

soft piano music playing in the background, and for some odd reason, there were visible stars in the

sky. The transparent roofing of Chef Maxwell's restaurant is truly magical at night.

"Why'd you do it?" I asked, keeping my voice as steady as I possibly could. "You know what, I don't

really care," I added, changing my mind. I mean, what good would knowing his reasons be? He had

done it because he's an ugly human being. Inside, I mean. He may be hot on the outside, but he's a

cold asshole on the inside.

Jiwoo was staring at me curiously. He wasn't talking. For all I knew, he might not have been breathing

since he wasn't moving at all. And it annoyed the hell out of me.

"But seriously," I said. "Why did you have to be such a douchebag? I thought we were friends!"

Jiwoo laughed at my question and took a sip from his tulip glass.

"I'm angry at the world."

"Aren't we all? I'm angry at the world for making me gay. It would have been so much simpler had I

been born straight. But here I am, wanting dicks and suffering for it!"

Jiwoo looked at me intently, not saying a word.

"And here's the news: despite all that, I'm not a prick like you!"

Jiwoo sighed. "I'm angry at the world for being born to a prostitute mother and a sex tourist from

Korea."

"..."

"I refuse to acknowledge him as my father. All he did was pay my mom for 15 minutes of pleasure and

knock her up."

"I'm so—"

"It's not your fault," Jiwoo said. "I'm angry because my mother married a callboy, and they had 4 other

children they don't know how to take care of."

"You don't have to say all this."

"I was especially angry that day because everything felt hopeless. I quit my jobs when I started taking

these classes with you guys. Things at home got pretty difficult. And it felt like I had nowhere to go.

"And then there was you," Jiwoo said, face turning redder by the minute. "You have everything I don't."

We were quiet for some time before he spoke again. "You're rich. You're talented. You can get anything

you want. It felt so unfair. Why do you deserve what you have? And why do I deserve what I have?"

I didn't know how to respond to that, so I didn't say anything.

"I'm not blaming you, though. I'm sure you worked hard for what you have now," Jiwoo said softly. "I

just don't get it. No matter how hard I try to make my life better, it's never good enough."

Okay, listen. Jiwoo's statement seemed heartfelt, but I'm sure you'd agree with me that it was also

downright cringey! And besides, I was still not ready to forgive him. I understood that he had to go

through a lot of hardships, but that was not enough reason to do what he had done to me that day.

"You don't know anything about me, so you can't make that judgment," I said in response.

"I know." He grimaced. "That's why I'm apologizing for what I did. If I could rewind and redo everything,

I'd definitely do better."

Gabriel came back, refilled our tulip glasses with champagne, and cleared out our table. Rachel

returned soon after with two white bowls each containing a small amount of icy liquid inside.

I looked at it closer and saw blue pea flowers, crispy nori, sea urchin, sea bladder, and some sea

bream. There was a black tube beside the bowl as well.

"The tube contains the special ingredient for this dish," said Rachel. "You can squeeze it onto the cold

dish to your liking. Enjoy."

I squeezed a bit of the paste onto a spoon and tasted it. It was a bomb of strong and robust flavors. I

was sensing some foie gras, but I couldn't figure out the rest.

I squeezed out the entire tube onto the dish and started eating. It felt like my tongue was being hit by

arrow after arrow of delectable goodness. The seafood inside the dish was raw, fresh, and absolutely

out of this world. The broth was light and clear with some hints of ginseng, but I wasn't sure what kind

of ginseng it was because the flavor was really distinct.

"This is foie gras mixed with Korean miso," Jiwoo announced. "And the broth is made from Korean

insam and pears, and then we have fresh sea urchin, smoked sea bream, and sea bladder."

"That is correct, monsieur," confirmed Rachel. "This is our restaurant's take on molecular gastronomy.

We call this dish French Mulhoe or French Spicy Raw Fish Soup. The contrast between the coldness of

the soup and the raw ingredients against the heat of the Korean miso is meant to create explosions of

flavors and sensations in the mouth." After that, she left us again.

"I get to ask a question this time," Jiwoo said proudly.

I rolled my eyes at his obvious attempt at being cute. "Fine."

"Are you dating someone?"

"What's that got to do with you?" I replied, unsure of what he was up to.

"I wanted to know if we can start again," he said.

"I'm not interested," I answered straightforwardly.

"I want to be your boyfriend."

I literally spat the 2,000 dollar champagne. Jiwoo was fast. He was already behind me, massaging my

back and wiping my face and chest with a napkin.

I snatched the napkin away from him and motioned for him to sit down.

"Dude," I protested. "You're a clown."

"I'm taking that as a no," Jiwoo said. "You're still single, though, right?"

I couldn't tell what he was playing at, which was the most exasperating feeling in the world. I pride

myself on having a knack for instinctively understanding what goes on in people's heads. It's a pretty

useful talent when you work in corporate finance. But with Jiwoo, I couldn't figure anything out!

"I am dating someone," I admitted. "As a matter of fact, we were in the middle of a date before you got

Chef Maxwell to lie for you and I had to drag my gullible ass into this restaurant."

"Who? The foreigner guy who picked you up last time?"

"Yeah," I answered. "And for the record, he's not a foreigner; he's half English. And he's a lawyer." I

had no idea why I felt compelled to tell him all those things about Rob, but it was too late to take back

what I had said. "We're high school friends, and we recently reconnected."

"I'm not bothered," Jiwoo said.

"What?"

"I'm pretty sure I still have a chance with you."

I almost spat again. Good thing I hadn't taken another sip.

"Are you being serious right now?" I said, laughing. Once I thought it was safe, I drank every drop of

the remaining champagne in my tulip glass.

Jiwoo stood up to get the champagne bottle and graciously filled my glass. I never knew pouring drinks

with a certain posture could be so hot. I ended up staring at his outfit. It was an extremely well-fitted,

midnight blue dinner jacket with elegant shawl lapels. I then recognized the entire ensemble from Ralph

Lauren's exclusive collection. His dress shirt had a ribbed bib and a turndown collar. Plus, his black tie

was sexy as fuck.

"I rented it," Jiwoo said, smiling as if he had read my mind. "I couldn't afford it, but Chef Maxwell took

care of that part for me."

"Rent?" I asked. "Then how did you manage to get a perfect fit?"

"You should already know the answer to that," Jiwoo said, still smirking as he returned to his seat. "I

have a model's body."

I raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"Surely you don't think I've never seen you checking out my abs whenever I change in the locker

room?"