Page 23 of Made to Love Ya
Izael’s response was to lift his beer in the air, and I watched as my brother clinked his bottle against the man’s bottle whom I loved.
I watched as they plopped down on the couch and turned up the volume on a basketball game. My heart dropped as I realized there would be no conversation between Izael and me tonight. I disappeared into my bedroom to make another phone call to Eve.
TALIA
Southern Seas has been callingme. The seafood market, café, and raw bar are located only steps away from the Atlantic. It’s surrounded by other restaurants like Ale’s Grill and Bar, Rooftop, Tahini, Sweet Milk, King’s Men, and Smoke ‘N’ Chill, and yet, it’s a separate entity that operates in a world of its own.
The restaurant attracts a mature, moneyed clientele and is a BYOB establishment. It was formerly a clothing boutique and has two levels with an outdoor patio on both floors. The concrete floors, red brick interior, and exposed pipes give it a warehouse look located on a shipping dock.
The rolling dock doors, which open in the front and back, allow patrons and bystanders to see from the front of the restaurant to its rear and the ocean beyond. The food left me with mixed reactions.
The barbecued oysters with smoky Uni butter were savory with a rich butter and smoky paprika flavor. The oysters were roasted to perfection, causing the mild, sweet taste to override the normal salty and briny taste. Chef G created a beautiful Neoclassic seafood salad that created individual layers of flavor that appealed to my palate with excellent execution using high-quality ingredients with an elaborate presentation.
The lobster thermidor was succulent, but the cremini mushroom and Sherry-laced cream sauce drowned out the natural sweetness. On the other hand, the scallops with potato pancakes melted in my mouth.
There was a long wait, and the restrooms weren’t as clean as they could have been. The servers were nice but extremely busy and not able to give the patrons the attention they deserved for the price they paid.
The saving grace for this restaurant is the excellent food and drink offerings minus the lobster thermidor. It gets three and a half chef’s spoons.
Chef’s Kiss,
T.
“I’m just waitingfor my rap career to take off, and then I’m out.”
I stared at the light-skinned cutie with the honey-brown eyes and tattoos on his neck. He was sexy and good-looking as hell. A Chris Brown wannabe maybe. There was only one problem. The brother lacked ambition, and I couldn’t do that.
“So, you said how long has it been since you moved back in with your mom?”
“Uhm…it’ll be two years this December. I lost my job two years ago this Thanksgiving and moved back in then. Yep.”
He nodded like that was the coolest shit in the world.
“Oh. Okay,” I muttered.
“And what do you do again?”
“I’m in the restaurant industry,” I stated, twirling my frosted glass between my fingers.
I already had two of these drinks, and I didn’t need another one. Damon or Daniel or whatever his name was thought he was getting the poonani, but that shit wasn’t happening. Yes, I was a horny bitch. Yes, it had been six months, but hell nah. I wasn’t giving it up to some random. I was many things, but a ho I was not.
“You make good money. I know you ain’t working at no place like Burger King or McDonald’s.”
I squinted at him.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean…I’m just saying. I figure you gotta have a good job because you rocking the hell out of that Kurt Geiger purse and sandals. What’s that? About five hundred total? And them Tory Burch jeans hugging you, ma. Got your fat ass looking good as hell,” he stated, licking his lips. “I know them jeans ain’t hitting for no less than three hunnid. And that top is a Tory Burch too. I see the emblem. That’s about another three or four hunnid. What’s that? You rocking a muthafuckin’ eleven-hundred-dollar outfit minimum, baby girl. You must be clocking some dollars. Don’t matter how many bands you spent on it. Your ass looks good as hell from head to toe, and I gotta say it again…Them jeans look good on that fat ass of yours.”
I knew this nigga was lying because everyone knew that I didn’t have an ass. My backside was as flat as an ironing board. I was always singing a damn SZA song lamenting about my non-existent ass. Well, pre-BBL SZA anyway.
I pulled my drink to my lips and took the last sip as I watched Damon or Daniel turn away from me and watch another woman walk by us.
“Glad you’re good at math,” I remarked, grabbed my Kurt Geiger purse, and stood.
“Where you going?”
I didn’t bother to respond, but I stormed out of the restaurant and left him with the bill. I drove home frustrated over a wasted night.
