23 Attempts at Love

Chapter 21: Spice Up Your Life

Marcus persuaded us all to come with him – on the pretence of moral support – to his new girlfriend's house party, where I met Alex. Alex was a private chef with a killer smile and an intense gaze who talked arbitrarily about which region in Italy you could find the best truffle to pair with a specific type of pasta he cooked regularly for the celebrity family he worked for most of the week. Instead of getting trashed in the living room with a room full of people I barely knew, I spent the night in the kitchen sampling wine with Alex and talking about my favourite restaurants. He thought my taste in food was juvenile, but cute. I thought the way he talked about his work was a little obnoxious, but it sounded exciting, and he was cute too. We finished the evening with a passionate, half-drunken kiss outside on the balcony, overlooking some bins in an alleyway.

Alex took me to an Italian place 45 minutes across London which he insisted served the best food. I was briefly reminded of my first encounter with Marco, but I went anyway. The place was tiny and reminded me of the Italian I'd visited in Melbourne, also run by an elderly couple. Strings of pasta hung from the walls drying, and freshly baked focaccia was served at the table with olives before we'd even ordered drinks.

"The lamb Raghu is incredible, but so is the gnocchi. If you're looking at starters you can't beat the burrata with grilled peaches, or the marinated courgette..." He was in his own world, discussing ingredients and explaining how everything was cooked just perfectly, that the menu was small because every dish took time to create, how the bread was cooked with the right flavours to complement the appetisers... Listening to Alex was like listening to a love poem about food. Despite my rudimentary understanding of the world he loved so much there was no patronising comments, no condescending tone when I queried an ingredient I didn't know. He selected the wine based on what I'd told him I liked following my ABC rule: Anything But Chardonnay.

Our second date was to a Japanese restaurant he'd told me he'd been wanting to try, but either hadn't had the time or hadn't had the right person to go with.

"You're a blank canvas," he said, referring to my very basic palette.

We spent this evening making our way through a 10-course tasting menu designed by a chef who moved to England from Japan with the specific purpose of creating London's finest Japanese place, after visiting a few years before and being disappointed with what was on offer. Alex spent the journey over there with me reading reviews from his favourite critics, and telling me the chef's story. He was as much as interested in the people as he was in the food they created.

Alex's job often took him away for long periods, so when the family he worked for booked a private villa in the south of France for two weeks with a moment's notice, he travelled with them and our third date was put on hold. When he returned he had a few days off, so he booked himself to cater for a family in Yorkshire for two nights running, and left me back in London. I'd almost given up hope of a third date by the time he finally texted me.

"Are you free tomorrow night? I was thinking of grabbing a takeout and hanging out at mine, if you like?" He'd asked. I agreed.

One of Alex's quirks was that he was rarely at home to eat, so he'd equipped himself with a frying pan, one pot, two plates and two sets of cutlery. He lived alone in a small studio flat so the bed was next to the sofa which was practically in the kitchen, but he liked it that way.

"I'm never here, so it doesn't bother me," he'd shrugged. It was still a better option than my flat, with the filthy kitchen the boys refused to clean and a never-ending stream of flatmates, girlfriends, boyfriends, other friends and friends of friends who had just popped round to sit in our living room and add to the mess.