Pumpernickel

The thing – whatever it is – is dark, square, and moist looking. It contrasts vividly against the white plate and the pink flourish of smoked salmon atop it. He tells me that it's bread, but to me it just looks bizarre and foreign and infinitely more desirable than my omelette. He cuts into it, and as his even white teeth close over it I wonder once again at how richly dark it is.

"Mmmmh." He moans softly as a near orgasmic smile spreads across his face, rich and slow like caramel. The pant-suited lady on the next table – with the eggs Benedict and the severe bun – looks up from her phone in surprise. 

"My god, Avery," he whispers reverently. "That is a pumpernickel. I mean, really a damn fine loaf of bread. You really ought to try some." He playfully points his loaded fork at me, swishing it in front of my face and making little whooshing noises. As always, I can't help but smile at his unconcerned playfulness. This started happening around our fourth date. He insisted that we should both taste each others' food, and decided that he was going to feed it to me. He was so nervous about it the first time that he missed my mouth entirely and splodged spaghetti sauce across my cheek and nose. He jumped over and started licking it off, and before I knew it we were frenching in the middle of Antonio's. As I recall, by the time we were finished his pasta had gotten cold. My salad was just fine. He crows in triumph as I open my mouth, squarely depositing the square of bread on my tongue. It's coarse and heavy, sour and slightly sweet with a hint of chocolate. It's not like the bread I know at all, and I suddenly feel that all the bread I've eaten until this point has been rather wimpy. He watches me silently until I finish the bite, a small smile playing around his lips. It's a quirk of his, one that I seem to have absorbed. To him, the first taste of something new is sacred, to be revered and celebrated. 

"So? That, my dear, is a proper German pumpernickel. Not like that American crap, which is basically just a darker coloured rye loaf pumped full of colours and additives. No, this is the real deal. Did you know," he pauses briefly to take another bite. "each of these loaves is baked in a steam oven for up to twenty hours? That's what gives it the consistency and the dark colour." He's always got a fact or two like this up his sleeve. I can’t even begin to imagine where he finds them all. He talks animatedly, one hand waving in the air, occasionally making our waitress dodge around him. His conversation always flows so easily, as he goes off on tangent after random tangent. It’s one of the reasons I fell for him.

"Funny story about the name. It's not really known where it comes from. See, some words we know the origin of quite clearly, from Latin or French or wherever. Take the word ‘confluence’, for example. A meeting of two bodies of water, from the Latin 'confluere' meaning to flow together. 'Con' being together. Then move onto ‘conspire’, from the 'con' - together, and 'spirare' – to breathe, which makes sense when you think about it. Moving on again, we have  ‘per-spire’ - breathe through, and ‘re-spire’ - breathe again. We know all the parts of the words and where they come from, which by the way I personally find fascinating." He notices me smiling at him and blushes slightly.

"Getting to the point, though, there are some words we really don't know about that well. For example, the word fuck." The waitress jumps as she brings our coffees, making the saucers rattle.

"It's probably from  Germanic words meaning ‘to strike’ or ‘to plough’, but it could be from Latin or French words about intercourse. There's no way to know which one is correct. Same thing for pumpernickel. The two theories we have are that it's from German words that translate roughly to "devil's fart", or that it's from French, when Napoleon said the bread is only "bon pour Nicole" – “good for Nicole”, the name of his horse. I mean, which would you prefer, eating farts or eating horse food?" He smiles, the weird crinkly smile he gets when he's laughing at himself and wants you to join in.  I can't help but love him. He's always so silly, constantly haring off on his whimsical flights of fancy and bringing everyone around along for the ride. 

"So, how is yours? You've already tasted the fart." I feed him a slice of my omelette, giving the first taste the space and silence it deserves. He shrugs at me.
"Eh. It's not bad, but yours are better." Warmth flushes through me. The waitress returns with our cheque, and he takes her hand in both of his, smiling his devastating smile. I know that smile all too well, with perfect teeth and gorgeous lips. He used it on me to get our first date, and every morning when he wakes up beside me. 

"Thank you," he says to her. His face is altogether serious, though I can see the twinkle in his eye. "That was delightful, delectable, simply divine. I have never tasted such a luscious loaf, nor had it served so deftly nor diligently. Thank you." She blushes and smiles, her other hand smoothing her black tee over her stomach. Sorry honey, he doesn't play for your team. He's mine, all mine. I look at the effect he's having on her, and on the people around us. She's smiling, they're smiling, and I'm smiling too, all because of his sheer ridiculousness. I love his relaxed confidence, the way he can talk to anyone, anywhere, about anything. I love his nearly sexual relationship with food, and his more than sexual relationship with me. I love that just looking at him makes my heart race, and I love that I get to spend every night in his arms. It never ceases to amaze and humble me to know that he loves me too. 

He tips generously, as he always does. 

~

Written for a friend. Seed: Pumpernickel.