Dinner at the Blue Moon Cafe Read online

  Surely, though, an animal couldn’t have been roaming around busy Capitol Hill on Friday night. The neighborhood, on weekend nights, was a blur of barhoppers and partiers, its hilly streets filled with people and cars jockeying for position. Loud and well lit, it was the kind of neighborhood that would scare the shit out of an animal, at least an animal with normal fears and inclinations. This had to be the work of a person, or people, right? And whoever was behind such a thing had to be majorly warped. Thad had a quick vision of pale gray eyes and enormous canine teeth until he banished the imagery to the back of his brain, grateful for another kind of canine distraction.

  That distraction had just sidled up beside Thad, her arrival signaled by a clicking of toenails on hardwood. Thad glanced down at his gray-and-white Chihuahua, Edith, staring up at him with her dark eyes. Her tongue stuck out one side of her mouth, giving her a both comical and wizened appearance. The dog was about a hundred years old, and Thad thought, for better or worse, she was his very best friend in the world. Edith got up on her hind legs to paw at Thad’s lap, indicating to him that he was not the only creature in the house that had to pee first thing in the morning.

  Thad got up and, with Edith following impatiently behind, slid into flip-flops and grabbed her leash. “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s take a little walk down to the lake, and then we’ll see about getting us both some breakfast.”

  SATURDAY PASSED much as Monday had, and Tuesday, and Wednesday, and so on. In other words, Thad cleaned his studio apartment that didn’t need cleaning; updated his Facebook status five times and his Twitter status three—stealing quotes from Lily Tomlin and Kathy Griffin to make himself sound more witty than he was; searched on Facebook for several hours for old friends, relatives, classmates, and boyfriends; made tuna salad for lunch—half the can of Chicken of the Sea went to Edith, who seduced him out of it with her eyes; and streamed three episodes of True Blood on his laptop.

  By six o’clock Thad was staring out the window and thinking about counting his freckles, just for something to do. Perhaps he could shave the hair between his eyebrows? Do another online crossword? Google himself again?

  “I gotta get out of here, money or no money.” He glanced down at Edith, who was lying at the opposite end of the couch. She looked up at him as if she understood and then glanced over at the door.

  “That’s right, sweetheart. Daddy needs to get out… at least for a little dinner.” Thad had just gotten a flyer in the mail the day before, describing a new place that had opened on Green Lake Way called the Blue Moon Café. He had gone by it several times during his runs around the lake and watched as the restaurant had slowly come together: one day kitchen equipment was delivered, another it was dark cherry tables and chairs, yet another a shipment of beer and wine. Yet he had no idea, really, what kind of cuisine they’d serve.

  But one thing Thad had loved about the Green Lake neighborhood when he moved in was its abundance of stores, restaurants, pubs, and cafés within walking distance. Thad had never owned a car and didn’t want one. So he liked to support the businesses there, even though many of them were more geared toward families and couples than the livelier—and gayer—Capitol Hill neighborhood, ten or fifteen minutes away depending on traffic.

  After serving Edith her dinner of Thad’s own special blend of brown rice, chicken, and peas and carrots, Thad hit the shower. He took a long time under the hot spray, washing and conditioning his hair, soaping every orifice, and shaving the hair on his balls and adjacent to his penis, revealing his manhood in its most flattering light. Even in Green Lake and even on an outing for a quiet meal, one never knew whom one would meet. Besides, Thad had all the time in the world.

  Don’t remind me, he thought, sliding his head under the shower to rinse the conditioner from his ginger hair.

  He dressed in a pair of black jeans, combat boots, and a vintage Cockney Rejects T-shirt he’d found a couple of weeks ago at Value Village. He worked a dollop of hair wax through his hair, making it stand on end fetchingly and giving him that just-out-of-bed look. Although he hadn’t made it to the gym that day, the black made him look thinner and made his shoulders, naturally broad, stand out. The thin cotton fabric also clung alluringly to his pecs.

  He thought briefly that he should head to Capitol Hill instead, or even the University District just east of him, but Thad was the kind of guy who, once he had made a plan, stuck to it.

  He took Edith out for a quick bathroom break, kissed the top of her head, and set off for the Blue Moon Café. His step was light, and he’d set his status on Facebook to “optimistic.”

  Who knew what the night would bring?

  Chapter 2

  FROM THE moment Thad stepped through the front door of the Blue Moon Café, the décor cleared up any mystery about what kind of food they served. The little café, with its mahogany bar along one wall, its grouping of maybe a dozen tables, and its faux-tin ceiling, could have been straight out of central casting for “Italian joint.” Thad saw the requisite checkered tablecloths, the oil paintings of Italian landmarks like the canals of Venice, the Coliseum, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and St. Peter’s Square. And yes, each table sported a candle plugged into the opening of an empty green-glass Chianti bottle. A TV sat above the bar, thankfully turned off.

  “Buona Sera” by Louis Prima played from the overhead speaker system. Thad was certain the rest of the evening would be peppered with the likes of Dean Martin, Jerry Vale, Rosemary Clooney, and of course, Sinatra. Underneath the music was the usual restaurant orchestra: conversation, laughter, the clink of glassware and the tinkle of silverware.

  The scents of garlic, oregano, basil, and tomatoes perfumed the air. Over a counter at the rear of the restaurant, Thad could see into the kitchen: a wood-burning oven, chefs busy at their stations, the occasional upsurge of flame as one of them poured alcohol into a pan and ignited it by tipping the pan. Thad’s mouth began to water.

  He already liked this place.

  And he liked it even more when he saw the bartender, who was busy drying wineglasses and reaching up to hang them upside down on a rack above the bar. He was a compact little guy, olive skin and shaved head. His muscles tested the endurance of the black T-shirt he wore, and even from his vantage near the hostess stand, Thad could make out the thick black five o’clock shadow that covered his jaw. He was just the kind of guy Thad fantasized about. One who would take him roughly and be in charge.

  Stop it, now! I’m in Green Lake, not Capitol Hill. This guy probably has a wife and two kids at home and would not appreciate how I’m imagining how he would look should the seams of that tight T-shirt burst and reveal a defined and hairy chest. He wouldn’t cotton at all to my thoughts of wondering how his asshole would taste, for cryin’ out loud.

  Or maybe he would….

  Thad grinned and bounced up and down a couple of times on his heels, feeling strangely energized and definitely a little smitten.

  Shut up, horndog. Behave yourself.

  As if the bartender had heard him, he looked up at Thad standing by the door. Thad realized he was looking at the guy in a way not all that different from the way Edith would eye a filet mignon. He couldn’t quite be sure, but if some telepathy had taken place, the guy was not flattered. He wasn’t smiling. In fact, there was something surly and challenging about the look he gave Thad that caused his buoyant mood to wither.

  “Someone will be right with you. Or if you wanna come over to the bar, I can make you somethin’.” His voice was gravelly deep and had a trace of an Italian accent. In spite of the bartender’s obvious lack of interest and perhaps even a touch of homophobia, Thad was, nevertheless, still charmed.

  He nodded at the bartender and shifted his gaze to a new object of adoration and lust, heading right toward him. What? Me, fickle? Thad grinned at his own hormones and wondered if they suffered from attention deficit disorder.

  But the man making his way across the small space, most likely the proprietor, head chef, whatever, made
Thad forget all about the bartender and his stubbly face. This man was even more Thad’s cup of T… and that T stood for testosterone.

  Clad in a crisp white shirt and black pants, the man wore an apron sashed around his middle and the most welcoming smile Thad had ever laid eyes on. He was a big bear of a man, not so much in height—Thad estimated him at about five foot ten—but in sheer bulk and mass. He was not fat by any means, but his shoulders were broad, and his arms looked like tree trunks, straining against even the loose white cotton of his shirt. He had rolled up his sleeves, probably to work, but to Thad he had rolled them up to show off the thick coat of coarse black hair that covered his forearms. Curly black hair peeked out from his collar. And his face! There was no mistaking; this guy was from southern Italy. He had the big nose and full lips and the rich olive complexion. He sported a thick black beard, well trimmed. When his eyes met Thad’s, Thad all but melted into the floor. They were the darkest irises Thad had probably ever seen, so brown they were almost black. The guy’s pupils all but disappeared in them. Thad could think only of dark chocolate. Well, actually he could think of a lot of other things.

  He barely had the breath to croak out, “Table for one?”

  “Prego!” The man said, nearing him and smiling even more broadly. “Of course. You will follow me, okay?”

  Anywhere. Thad walked behind his host and was not too proud to check out how his black pants gripped his high-riding ass. An ass that could probably be used to set a tray of cocktails on, should the need arise.

  Thad was all bottom, but he could appreciate a nice culo. He was grateful he knew a little Italian. He hoped to learn a lot more… and soon.

  The man led him toward a small two-top in the back of the restaurant and pulled out a chair. Their eyes met, and Thad, a firm believer in the language of the eyes, was completely taken aback when he detected that the interest he felt in this man was mutual. Thad grinned and knew he probably looked as stupid as Edith with her tongue lolling out one side of her little mouth.

  He didn’t care.

  “Grazie.” Thad sat down. “That’s right, isn’t it? That’s Italian for ‘thank you,’ huh?”

  “You are right, sir. But we like our customers to speak English here, okay? Keeps them—and us—out of trouble later on, like when they order something not on the menu but on a woman, by mistake.” He grinned. The man’s velvety voice penetrated Thad and made his nerve endings quiver.

  And it gave him a hard-on. He blushed.

  “You never been to the Blue Moon before, no?”

  “No. You guys just opened, right? I run around the lake a few times a week, and I watched as you got set up.”

  “So this is your first time?”

  Thad wanted to laugh but instead reined in his stupid, lustful grin just a bit and nodded. “Yes, but I’ve been dying to try what you have to offer.” Jesus! You can call me Blanche Devereaux!

  “Will you permit me to, eh, try something a little different with you?”

  Thad couldn’t help but smile, and his thoughts shifted to about a hundred “different” things the host would be more than welcome to try with him. The funny thing was, none of them involved food.

  “I see by your smile you like my idea.”

  Thad nodded. He felt like an idiot. When had his capacity to form words disappeared?

  “I just give you a little taste of where I’m from, okay? I came over from Sicily a bit more than a year ago and just moved to Seattle a couple of months ago. But I think you’re gonna love my food. It’s not the typical stuff you get at these Italian restaurants around here. You ain’t gonna find no spaghetti and meatballs here! No sir! I make good Sicilian food, the kind country people eat.” The guy winked at Thad. “The kind that satisfies, you know?”

  “Oh, I know.” Thad grinned. He was charmed by this big, overflowing lump of Italian masculinity, his black hair, his warm eyes, the way he made such a game attempt at speaking English.

  “So you just sit back, relax, and let Sam take care of you, okay?”

  “Okay, Sam.” Their eyes met, and Thad thought, now that he knew his host’s name, he should offer his own. Before Sam could leave the table, Thad stuck out a paw. “Hey, by the way, I’m Thad. I just live a couple blocks over. You treat me right and I’ll be back for more.”

  Sam raised one bushy eyebrow. He might not have been an expert English speaker yet, but Thad could tell from the gazes they exchanged that the man was fluent in the language of innuendo.

  Sam grasped Thad’s hand warmly and firmly, and the pair shook hands just a beat longer than two straight guys would do it. And two straight males would have never made eye contact the way the two of them did: intense and held for the entire duration of the handshake.

  Once again, Thad felt a paradoxically delicious yet uncomfortable tightening in his jeans.

  Rosemary Clooney was belting out “Mambo Italiano” when Sam brought over the first course. “We start with something special. In Sicily, this is street food, but I think that here… it’s something, um, a little different?” Sam set a plate before him. “This is arancini di riso con ricott’.” Thad noticed how Sam dropped the last vowel off “ricotta” and wondered if that was part of his dialect. Sam gestured with open hands toward the plate, upon which sat three golden balls of deep fried rice on a bed of fresh basil leaves. “I make these just for you. You tell me how you like, and if you think they’re good, I add them to the menu.”

  “What are they, exactly?” Whatever the answer to that question, Thad knew they were going to be spectacular.

  “They’re balls I make from rice, filled with ricott and spinach. Then we roll in fresh breadcrumbs, parmigiano, and deep fry. Delizioso!”

  And they were. As was the rest of the meal… pastina—tiny pasta—simmered in chicken broth with parmesan and roasted butternut squash, flavored with onion and thyme; then a simple roasted chicken half and new potatoes dressed with olive oil, garlic, and fresh basil, with a side of broccoli; and finally, a simple olive oil cake with marionberries and powdered sugar. “We’re not too big on dessert in Sicily,” Sam explained, “but when I moved here to Washington, I tried the marionberries and fell in love.”

  The strong espresso that came with dessert set Thad’s nerve endings to tingling but gave him the staying power to remain at his table until closing. He was a man with a plan. And Sam didn’t seem to mind him whiling away the hours at his little table, stopping by to bring him a grappa, then another, then another, explaining that he made the fermented brandy himself, just like “his Papa used to.”

  By the end of the evening, Thad was feeling giddy and drunk, and not just because of the grappa. If Sam had not been flirting with him all night, then Thad had the intuition of an armchair.

  Finally the parade of Italy’s greatest hits came to a close, to be replaced by softer strains of a Verdi opera, turned low. The restaurant emptied, and the overhead lights came on, casting a brighter glare on the room, yet it still managed to look homespun and comfortable. Thad wondered if this was all some sort of interior designer plan or if it just happened, based on Sam’s memories of his homeland. Thad had the feeling he was being accorded even more special treatment, because the place was officially closed, signaled by the busboy turning the little sign in the window around so that now “Open” faced the restaurant interior.

  Where would the night go? Outside, the foot traffic along Green Lake Way had slowed. Certainly, throughout the evening, Sam had made his interest clear with lingering gazes, a firm touch on Thad’s hand or a squeeze of his shoulder as he passed by, and comments like how Sam had a weakness for red hair.

  Thad was pretty certain that if he invited Sam home with him, he would accept. But Thad wasn’t sure he wanted to taint the magic of this night by cheapening it into a one-night stand. Wouldn’t it be better to wait for sex, to build the anticipation, to let it happen after they had gotten to know each other better? His hormones and his sentimental side were at continual war throughout the
evening, once Thad knew for sure that Sam reciprocated his feelings of nearly overwhelming attraction.

  At age twenty-four, Thad wasn’t surprised that his hormones were beating his more romantic side to a pulp.

  In the end, Thad knew there was no contest. He just hoped that if Sam followed him home, it would mean the kindling of a flame that would only continue to burn more brightly. He wanted to see him again. Never before had Thad felt himself so powerfully drawn to not only to a guy’s looks, which were smoldering, but to his warmth, kindness, and sense of humor. And the fact that his cooking was on a plane akin to art didn’t hurt either. A man who could satisfy all his appetites wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?

  Thad began to worry when Sam didn’t join him at his table after a half hour or so had passed. In fact, Sam had vanished into the kitchen, and it was clear that the grappa had been cut off.

  Thad, in spite of his youth and bad-little-boy good looks, wrestled with feelings of inadequacy and self-esteem, just like almost everyone else. And when he wanted something as badly as he wanted Sam, the paranoia within him rose in direct proportion to his desire.

  So he was greatly relieved, after he watched the bartender exit, locking the door behind him, that Sam finally reemerged from the kitchen with a glass of red wine and stood next to Thad’s table, looking down at him. Or should that be leering down at him? Sam wore a lopsided grin that was almost feral. Thad loved it.

  “I’m off duty. I’m just me now…Sam. Do you mind if I join you?”

  Thad noticed that, although Sam’s Italian accent was still there, it was diminished… and he didn’t speak quite like the guy just off the boat anymore. As if reading his mind, Sam smiled and said, “I play up the Italian a bit when I’m in owner mode. I hope you don’t think I was being deceitful.”