Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Not just princess treatment. Royal princess treatment. Care and luxury beyond what any woman, other than Cleopatra, or the Czarinas have ever known.
I wanted her life to be the stuff of fairytales. She was beyond the realm of reality. I wanted her life to reflect that.
And I wanted to be there to watch it unfold. I wanted to read every page of her story. I wanted to be her hero.
No matter what it took, I vowed. Meanwhile, my little bird was looking around in wonder. The staff was waiting at attention. I heard the soft click of my guards locking the door behind us. For a moment, no one spoke.
“What is this?”
“I thought we might hear a bit more music before we left for California. Though I cannot guarantee they will be as good as you.”
“Oh,” she said simply, a faint blush lighting up her cheeks. I was dying to know what she was thinking. Would I ever understand the complexities of her mysterious little heart and soul?
“I already know you do not mind sleeping on a plane,” I teased gently.
We were offered a drink menu, I simply said ‘whatever Chef Masa recommends’. Then sat back, and watched the beautiful woman across from me take in her surroundings.
She wasn’t green, per say. Not after spending so much time in my company. She grew up in Moscow, after all. It was a city of extravagance, for those who had the means. And even if you did not, you certainly walked by the upper and upper upper classes as they dined in restaurants and got in and out of their limos and luxury sports cars.
Certainly, she had been exposed to the best in music. Her life had been modest but she had trained at the Petersburg Conservatory, formerly the Moscow Imperial Conservatory. She had been exposed to wealth and luxury, if only peripherally.
But that was nothing compared to what I could provide for my Mishka. I would thoroughly enjoy blowing her mind. And Masayoshi Takayama was just the man to help me do it. She sipped the first round of drinks appreciatively. It was a tequila-based drink, as far as I could tell, though the flavor profile was completely original, neither sweet or salty, but somewhere delicious in between.
The first course arrived, and with it, the man himself.
Masayoshi Takayama was unassuming and straightforward, even simple, as was his food. But that first impression was not the case. The subtle layers of flavor and a wicked sense of humor danced behind the man’s intelligent eyes and in every bite of his food. Even with the exorbitant price tag, the restaurant was not exceptionally fancy. But he was an artist of the highest caliber, of that there was no doubt.
And each time I came, the food was beyond anything I had ever experienced. It was always different. It was always uniquely special.
I had a suspicion that he went out of his way to delight and surprise his repeat customers. That he enjoyed playing with our hearts and our taste buds. I did not know the man well, but we had spoken each time I had visited, and even drank whiskey together on several occasions. I liked to think of him as a friend, if not a close one.
I watched Mishka carefully as each course arrived. It was not a heavy meal, by any stretch of the imagination. It was primarily sushi, with a bit of rice, vegetables, and seaweed. There was a salad and a soup. But it was mostly fish. So fresh, that I imagined it had come out of the sea moments before.
It reminded me of Greece. There was a restaurant I loved that was right off the beach. I had watched fishermen pull up their nets, and carry fish to the chef, who had served it within the half an hour, if not sooner. The quality of the fish was similar, but that food had been fresh and simple. Delicious and hearty, not an epic journey for your senses. Here everything was so balanced, so nuanced, that it did not compare.
I loved food. I loved fine food. Eating was a pleasure. But eating at Masa was like a museum for your mouth. Each bite felt like you were tasting a Picasso, or a Rembrandt, or even a symphony.
“What do you think?” I asked towards the end of the meal. We had eaten mostly in reverent silence. There was an element of worship to the meal, with the quiet classical music playing in the backdrop. The chef had come out to describe each course to us. I was slightly amused to see that he was clearly taken with my dinner companion.
I was even more amused by her response to the humble but brilliant chef.
Mishka was speechless.
She looked at me and shook her head, still at a loss for words. I smiled and glanced at my watch. We barely had time for dessert. I waved over my men, letting them know we would be moving quickly when the meal was over. He brought me a briefcase. I peeled out twenty thousand dollars, the price of the meal, plus a hefty tip, handing it to one of the restaurant’s staff.