Page 49 of Once Bitten

“Oh my god!!!!” I fell on the bed laughing; there, on 1500 thread Egyptian cotton were two TV trays perfectly set up for a gourmet meal complete with increasingly large forks and napkin rings.

A cart on the side of the bed was covered with metal cloches, barely able to contain the scent of the feasts within. The TV was set to a late night American talk show. It was the perfect night in.

“Mademoiselle,” Finn said stiffly, a tea towel slung over his arm as he pulled the bed covers apart and helped me settle in, leaning against the bed head. “For our first course, we ‘ave for vous, fresh from ze garden, l’escargot!” He lifted the smallest cloche with a flourish and dropped it on the floor with a clang. “Er, oopsie, I am just a clumsee Americain, non?”

He lifted the hot cast iron plate of the French delicacy onto my tray and I had to wipe the corners of my mouth with the napkin. It smelled buttery and garlicky and parsley-y, three of my favorite things. The only problem was how to get the meat from the shell and into my mouth. I poked at one with my fork and it rolled off the plate and onto the tray. I poked it again, chasing it around the tray with my knife and it plunged to a buttery death onto my blanket.

I picked it up and dropped it like a hot stone back onto the cast iron plate, only to see Finn shaking with invisible laughter.

“Help!” I pleaded.

“Ah, oui, perhaps Mademoiselle would benefit from ze ‘elp of these,” and he pulled a set of tiny prongs from his pocket.

“Finn! Why didn’t you give them to me before?” I was tempted to throw an escargot at him, if it weren’t for the way they were making me drunk with hunger.

I popped the first de-shelled snail into my mouth, hissing as it scalded the insides of my cheeks. “Bloody hell,” I exclaimed without an ounce of daintiness. “Why does it taste so fucking good?” I asked.

“Hmmmummmm,” Finn nodded, agreeing, his mouth full of bread dipped in the buttery garlicky runoffs of his own plate of snails and took a sip from his glass of wine.

We sat in silence for the next few minutes, savoring our hot appetizer and I absentmindedly watched the show on TV, just enjoying the familiar voices and language. Finn seemed to be just as immersed in his food as I was. And I had to admit, it made me feel how perfect he was for me. A ‘foodie’ to the core, (or to the tummy and thighs), I couldn’t stand when people didn’t take time to really appreciate their food. I really was a greedy guts.

I mopped up the last of my escargot sauce with the toasted baguette Finn had laid on my bread plate and sucked the butter off the bread in my mouth before letting it totally dissolve into a sweet, garlicky paste on my tongue and sighed, laying back against the headboard and rubbing my stomach.

“Fini? You are finished, Mademoiselle? You are ready for the main course?”

“If you insist...” I shrugged nonchalantly

“Oh, please don’t let me force you, I can geeve eet to ze peasants.”

“Give it here, garcon.” I pointed to my tray and he feigned fear as he lifted the larger metal lid from its plate.

“What the...?” I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

“Oui oui, c’est le Cheezburger!” He put the plate down in front of me proudly.

“Cheeseburger?! Finn! This better not be from McDonald’s!” A cheeseburger! In Paris!

He just grinned and leaned over and gave me a soft kiss, his lips sweet from the wine.”Just try it, sweetheart, I promise you, it’s like no cheeseburger you’ve ever had.”

I was skeptical, but I must admit, the aroma from the chargrilled beef patty was sending messages to my brain to get ready to freak out.

My fingers only just managed to fit around the burger and I took a good look at it; some sort of ketchup-mayonnaisey concoction smear on the bun, a limp leaf of lettuce, a thick slice of tomato, two slices of cheese that seemed speckled with something, and a thick beef patty, its edges brown from the grill, and what I hoped, was soft, juicy, rare inside.

As I lifted it to my mouth and took a bite, I could feel Finn watching me.

I put the burger down as I chewed it, taking stock of the different flavors dancing around my mouth and up my nose. I swallowed the last bit of bun sticking to my mouth.

“Ok.” I stopped and wondered how to word it. “I can die now.”

Finn’s face broke out into a grin and he punched the air, “I knew it. Best burger in Paris. The French can grill a beef patty.”

“Yes, yes they can” I agreed, almost not wanting to take a second bite in case it wouldn’t live up to the promise of the first one. Oh, who am I kidding, I gobbled down that thing so fast, the drops of sauce that kept threatening to fall out of the bottom of the bun, never made it to land. It was so delicious.

“Finn?” The wine and food mellowing me out and l loosening my muscles and tongue, “what made you buy that hotel in Dublin?”

He looked startled, whether at me asking the question or the question itself, I didn’t know.

“Well, um,” he stacked our empty burger plates up and put them on the cart by his side of the bed.