Saffron and Salt

He set the tablet down, his mind racing. What did she want? Was this just a professional courtesy, one food industry professional to another? Or was it something more?

“Chef?” Chloe said, her voice breaking into his thoughts. “What should I say?”

Kenji looked up, his face a mask of composure. “Tell her I’m busy,” he said, picking up his knife again. “Tell her I’ll look at it when I have time.”

But he found himself thinking about her email all through the rest of his prep, through the long hours of cooking and plating and presenting his dishes to the judges. It wasn’t until the competition was over, until he’d won the top prize and accepted the accolades of his peers, that he allowed himself to really think about what her email might mean.

Back in his apartment that night, exhausted but exhilarated, he opened his laptop and pulled up her message again. He read it more carefully this time, savoring the way her words brought back memories of their time together. The way she described the food, the flavors and textures and techniques, it was like hearing her voice again after all these years.

He hit reply, his fingers hesitating over the keys. What to say? How to begin?

In the end, he kept it simple. Congratulations on the new job, he wrote. I’ve been following your reviews. And then, because he couldn’t resist, because the memory of her was suddenly so vivid in his mind: Remember that izakaya on the Lower East Side? The one where we had our first date?

He paused, wondering if he’d gone too far. If he should just delete the whole thing and pretend he’d never seen her email at all.

But then he thought of her, sitting in some fancy London restaurant, thinking of him. And he hit send.

The next day, to his surprise, he got a reply. Not just a quick thank you, but a long, chatty email filled with details about her life in London, her work, her family. And at the end, a question: Do you remember that time we tried to make jollof rice in your tiny apartment kitchen? And nearly set the place on fire?

He laughed out loud when he read that, the memory coming back to him in vivid detail. They’d been so young then, so sure of themselves and their place in the world. So sure that love could conquer all.

He wrote back, and she replied again. And so it began, a tentative correspondence that quickly grew into something more. They exchanged emails almost daily, long missives filled with nostalgic references to their past and cautious hope for the future.

They talked about food, of course. About the restaurants they’d been to, the dishes they’d cooked, the flavors they couldn’t forget. But they also talked about other things. About their families, their friends, their hopes and dreams.

Kenji found himself looking forward to her emails, checking his phone constantly to see if she’d replied. He told himself it was just friendship, just two people who’d once been close reconnecting after years apart. But deep down, he knew it was more than that.

He knew he was falling for her again, just like he had all those years ago in New York.

It wasn’t long before emails gave way to video calls – late-night conversations that stretched across time zones, the blue glow of laptop screens illuminating our faces in the dark. We talked about everything and nothing, the easy flow of our conversations belying the years and the distance between us.

One night, I found myself walking him through my mother’s recipe for efo riro, the stewed greens dish that tasted like my childhood.

“You start with the palm oil,” I said, holding up a can of the vibrant red oil. “Heat it until it’s just starting to smoke, then add the iru.”

“Iru?” Kenji asked, leaning closer to the screen. “What’s that?”

“Fermented locust beans,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “They smell like old socks, but they add a deep, funky flavor to the dish.”

Kenji laughed. “Funky, huh? I’m not sure I’d be brave enough to try that.”

“Coward,” I teased, smiling as I added the iru to the pot. The pungent aroma filled my kitchen, transporting me back to my mother’s kitchen in Lagos.

We continued like that for weeks, exchanging recipes and cooking techniques, debating the merits of various ingredients and methods. He taught me the proper way to make dashi, the Japanese stock that formed the base of so many of his dishes. I showed him how to make puff puff, the sweet, airy dough balls that were a staple of West African cuisine.

But even as we grew closer, even as the attraction between us simmered just below the surface, the old tensions remained. The cultural differences that had driven us apart the first time around.

One night, after a particularly long and grueling day at work, I called him, hoping for a bit of comfort, a bit of connection. But he was distracted, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“Long day?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

“You could say that,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “One of my line cooks quit, and we’re short-staffed going into the weekend rush.”

“Oof,” I said, sympathizing. “That’s rough.”

He nodded, but he didn’t elaborate, didn’t ask about my day in return.

I tried again. “I had a pretty crazy day myself. One of the restaurants I reviewed last week sent me a nasty email, accusing me of being biased against French cuisine.”

“Sounds like you need a drink,” he said, but his voice was distant, his eyes flicking away from the screen.

I felt a familiar pang of frustration, of disappointment. This was supposed to be our time, our chance to reconnect after years apart. But he was still holding back, still keeping me at arm’s length.

“Kenji,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “Are you even listening to me?”

He looked up, surprised. “Of course I am.”

“Then why do I feel like you’re a million miles away?”

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I’m sorry, Amara. It’s just been a really long day.”

“I know,” I said, softening. “But I need to know that you’re here, that you’re present. That this isn’t just… I don’t know. A distraction for you.”

“Of course it’s not a distraction,” he said, frowning. “Why would you even say that?”

“Because,” I said, frustration bubbling up again. “This feels familiar, Kenji. You getting wrapped up in your work, me feeling like I’m always second best.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, his voice tight. “I’m doing my best here, Amara. I’m trying to build something, to make a name for myself.”

“And what about us?” I asked, my voice rising. “What about what we’re trying to build?”

He was silent for a long moment, his eyes searching mine through the screen.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “I don’t know what we’re doing, Amara. I don’t know if we’re just… prolonging the inevitable.”

His words hung in the air between us, heavy and painful.

“The inevitable?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded. “You’re there, I’m here. We’re both busy, both focused on our careers. Maybe this was never meant to be more than what it was. A moment in time.”

I shook my head, a lump forming in my throat. “I don’t believe that,” I said. “I can’t believe that.”

“Why not?” he asked, his voice gentle now, almost tender. “Why can’t you just let this be what it is? A nice distraction, a bit of fun?”

“Because it’s not just fun for me,” I said, my voice cracking. “It never was. I loved you, Kenji. I still love you.”

He looked away, his jaw tight. “Amara…”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Don’t ‘Amara’ me. I need to know how you feel. I need to know if this is real for you, or if I’m just fooling myself.”

He was silent for a long moment, his eyes closed. When he opened them again, they were filled with a pain that took my breath away.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice raw. “I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know what I want.”

I nodded, blinking back tears. “Okay,” I said, my voice flat. “Okay.”

We sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of his words hanging between us.

“I think I should go,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded. “Okay.”

I reached for the mouse, ready to end the call. But before I could, he spoke again.

“Amara, wait.”

I looked up, hope fluttering in my chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m sorry for being an idiot. For being scared.”

I bit my lip, not trusting myself to speak.