Today's Special: Wanton Delight, Served In Three Way

Smirking at the typo on the sign outside the China Curry Palace, I decided to try the restaurant anyway. A cloud of pungent spices made me cough as I opened the door. Inside, a horseshoe of stools ringed an open kitchen where a slim Asian man in chef’s whites orchestrated the motion of pans, food, and assistants with barked orders in Cantonese.

I took a place at the counter and wondered where they kept the menus. The patron beside me put a forkful of fragrant basmati rice and gold sauce to his lips and moaned appreciation, his eyes half-closed in bliss. The woman three stools down banged her palm on the counter, hissing, “Yes,” in surrender. She slid off her stool into the arms of two dark-eyed men who moved her gently to a fainting couch near the wall. One stayed behind and stroked her arm until she opened her eyes, gave him a smile that made me tingle under my panties, and caressed his moon-shaped face.

“What is your difficulty?”

I jumped. I was so wrapped up in watching the woman that I didn’t notice the male attendant before me. His voice was like a tropical breeze that caressed my legs before nuzzling under my skirt. I didn’t know where to look: his thick black wave of hair, chocolate-brown eyes fringed by lush lashes, inviting golden skin, further down… Jeeze the restaurant was warm.

He reached for my hand while he repeated his question.

“Do you mean, like, what do I want to order?” I asked.

Hearing me, the Chef snorted disdain. “Does the patient tell the doctor what medicine to prescribe? No!”

I flinched as he slammed a fry pan down onto the flames.

The man before me raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Our Chef, he learned from Indian gurus how to combine herbs and spices like medicines. He cures your ills, but he must know about you.”

My mouth opened, mouth closed, opened. Nothing came out.

“Why are you here,” my attendant asked.

“For the Daily Special, I guess.”

“I would enjoy serving that to you.” His fingers brushed my arm.

The Chef spun around, his eyes blazing. “Special dish, not for just anyone. You must have the predisposition to enjoy to the fullest. What do you want? Tell me!”

Squirming under his fierce gaze, I explained, “It’s lunchtime. I’m hungry.”

He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, muttered something that had to be an insult, and turned back to his stovetop. My eyes slid right to left and wondered what the other diners thought of his outburst. They were too absorbed in their food, emitting occasional guttural moans, to pay attention.

I saw the muscles along the Chef’s back tense. He chopped vegetables as if he held a grudge against them. My nostrils flared to draw in the fragrant steam as he heated chilies in oil and between my legs, my clit buzzed.

My attendant stroked at the pulse-point on my wrist. I gazed at his wide, high cheekbones and very kissable lips, and decided that he was the prettiest man I’d ever seen. I spread my thighs a bit to get more comfortable on the stool. “I want to give you what you need, but you must tell me what that is.” He kissed the tip of each of my fingers.

Anyone with such meltingly sweet eyes could be trusted. I spoke in a gush, telling him personal things, emotional things, wanting things, my need for a fresh start, and--.”

“Enough!” The Chef bellowed. “I’m not a miracle worker, woman.” He slammed a plate in front of me. “Eat.”

The attendant stroked my hair. “This is your first time?”