Jack groaned. “The fork might not be your undoing, but that tongue will be mine.”
Flustered, I turned away to change conversation partners. Jack was much too slippery to banter with. He had every advantage.
“Scott, how did you get into the spa business?” I asked.
Scott finished chewing a bite of his grilled salmon. “I started out as a massage therapist. My school counselor told me it was a good entry job as I could start making money very soon after school, with relatively little tuition costs. And then, he said, I could make a decision to go on for further schooling and do something like nursing or be an EMT. That sounded good, so that’s what I did.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Well, let’s just say I always came home with interesting stories to share.”
“What’s your favorite story?” I asked. I could see out of the corner of my eye that Jack was leaning forward to get in on the amusement.
Scott took another bite of his dinner, chewed thoughtfully, and said, “I think that would have to be the time a client set my room on fire.”
“What? What happened?” I asked.
Jack chimed in. “Did you give a terrible massage, and he retaliated?”
Scott shook his head, took a sip of his drink, then told the story.
“I’d just started working at a small massage practice. There were three massage therapists that rented rooms in an ancient office complex, and we shared a receptionist. My room was at the end of a hallway and was just big enough for a massage table, a small table for supplies, and a rolling chair. There was a small end table beneath the window that was set up with votive candles, incense and a speaker for the standard massage New Age music.”
Natalie and Phil were leaning in now, listening to Scott’s story.
“Well, the client must have had a cold or allergies. We were about halfway through the massage, and he started sneezing uncontrollably. He lifted his head up from the headrest and asked for a tissue. I handed him a couple to blow his nose. He blew, then he laid his head back down on the face rest and pitched the wadded-up tissue off to the side. I don’t know if he thought he was aiming for a trash can, or just didn’t care if it landed on the floor, but where it landed was on one of the lit candles. It ignited and flames shot up, catching the window curtains on fire and the fire spread like crazy fast. I shrieked; he jumped up, wrapped the sheet around himself and waddled out as fast as he could.
“So, we’re standing outside the building as the firetruck screams up, watching flames lick out the window, and this guy turns to me and says, ‘You owe me for my clothes and 1/2 a massage.’”
Jack and I were helpless with laughter, imagining the scene.
“I’m sure you’ve got some great hotel stories, Eve,” Scott challenged.
I thought for a moment then smiled. “Yes, there have been some great ones, but I think my favorite was the sleepwalker.”
“What happened?” asked Jack.
“Well, we had a gentleman stay with us for the first time. We had no idea that he had quite a history of sleepwalking, or we would have had some protocols in place. On his first night with us, at about two am, the front desk got a call. One of the kitchen staff had entered the kitchen and found the gentleman rummaging through the cupboards, wearing nothing but his underwear! When the cook tried to ask him what he was doing, he replied that he was going to make himself some hot cocoa. The cook figured the easiest way to handle the situation was to make him some cocoa, so he sat the gentleman on a stool, made him some cocoa, then called for a porter to escort him back to bed. Luckily for us, he didn’t set the kitchen on fire.”
“Did he wake up?” asked Scott.
“I don’t think he did. He certainly didn’t remember it the next day. To save him embarrassment we didn’t put the cocoa on his bill, and on his subsequent visits we included hot cocoa in his turn-down service.”
Everyone was chuckling as the server approached to remove our dinner dishes. He asked if we would like to look at the dessert menus. Of course we would! Jack barely looked at it before tossing his onto the table and saying, “Apple pie with ice cream.”
“Really, Jack? That’s what you’re going with? There’s a pastry chef in that kitchen who is capable of extraordinary things, and you pick apple pie?”
“I like apple pie. Why do you care? Oh, right, it’s all about your bite that you negotiated.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t you like apple pie?”
“I do. But it’s so…pedestrian. Apple pie is anytime, anywhere food. You could go to any diner in New York, and they’ll have apple pie. I like to try new things.”
“I like to have things I know I’ll like.” As he said that his gaze lingered on my face and dropped to my lips. Oh no, we weren’t going there. I hastily looked back at my menu, feeling the flush rising in my cheeks. Reading the descriptions, drooling just a bit at each one, I knew when I’d struck gold. Turning to the server I asked, “Could you tell me about the Chocolate-Banded Ice Cream Torte?”
“It is a 5-layer cake in which 3 bands of silky chocolate ganache alternate with layers of freshly made raspberry ice cream, garnished with a drizzle of Chambord and fresh raspberries. I highly recommend it.”
