The Lamb Affair
You know what pairs really well with lamb? Sex. Or so I thought…
We’d been on several dates by now, and he’d invited me to his place for home cooked lamb chops. We both understood the pretext, and I was looking forward to it. I arrived around 9 with a bottle of Bordeaux my wine guy said would compliment the lamb. I wore an effortlessly sexy blue jersey dress, but really I'd spent the better part of a day deciding on it.
He was tall, dark, and handsome, from London, and in advertising. In addition to the aroma of slowly roasting lamb, his place reeked of ad-man chic. Maybe it was due to the leather and musk Joe Malone candle burning in the bathroom, or perhaps the vintage London tube map hanging over his white leather couch. Stacks of New Yorkers sat next to his all white Apple products, and London Grammar played out of a perfectly integrated Bose stereo system (also in white). The little picture window framing a view of the Empire State Building was just so... Perfect.
He had set the table just off the kitchen and was finishing up the lamb chops just as I arrived. He let them rest and opened the red, poured us a glass. I don’t think we had really even said hello at this point, all smiles and tension. The oven timer dinged. The pita was ready. I took my place at the table, and his hand shook just a touch as he spooned the meaty morsels and their requisite juices on to my plate. Oh, man. It was good, really, really good. The wine and food worked their wonders, and we eased up. He regaled me with witty, well-rehearsed stories about his Oxford days, and having to please “bloody impossible American clients” spending millions on super bowl ads. I laughed heartily at his perfectly executed punch lines.
We cleared the plates, and as he was about to toss the bones, I asked if I could wrap them up for my dog. He seemed charmed at that and went in for a deep kiss. When we came back up for air, we decided to have a scotch and a smoke on the fire escape. We needed more pretext I guess so we bantered about London versus New York: better fashion (New York), better theater (toss up) better public transit (London). It was really just a futile exercise to show how urbane and well traveled we were. It finally fell flat. We extinguished our ‘fags,’ and it quickly turned into HBO-prime-time-hot-make-out sesh. I mean backs slamming against walls, clothes ripping off. I knocked over a scotch glass onto his faux sheepskin rug (typical move of mine, but at least it wasn’t the Bordeaux).
“Oh no! Let me get that!”
“Leave it, love,” he said dripping in English charm.
He lifted me in his arms, and fireman carried me into the bedroom. Yesssss. After so many dates holding out, I was finally in for a long night of passion…
But then something inexplicable happened. In less time than it took for the passing siren outside to finish its wail, this bloke let out the most garish, and guttural of grunts, and then he collapsed. Like, on top of me. Like, he FINISHED.
What just happened? I almost started laughing thinking this was some kind of British sex banter I was unfamiliar with. Like maybe soon he'd pop back up and declare, "Right, love! I had you fooled there didn't I? How about we give it another go, ya?"
I nudged him, but he literally was snoring in my ear and had cocooned me into his long spindly limbs. Did he have narcolepsy? I stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes perplexed, wondering what the technical equivalent to blue balls was for a girl. Even London Grammar had finished, and all I heard was the dripping of a faucet.
What a gyp. I mean I clearly hadn’t come for the lamb (pun intended), so how could he not deliver on the dessert? It felt like I’d fallen for one of his fancy ad campaigns, lured in by the packaging, but ultimately disappointed with the customer service. I had to get out of there. I pried his arm off of me. He barely stirred. I retraced our just-moments-before throws of passion to pick up my clothes and imagined what could have been. Oh well, truth be told, I prefer American. I re-dressed and headed out, but as I futzed with the lock he sheepishly called out from the bedroom.
“Where you off to, love? Aren’t you going to stay? I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.”
Sigh… food and sex, they’ve been going together since Bacchus. Too bad he hadn’t bothered to get up to make this last pitch, or I might have reconsidered.
“Uh, I have to… let my dog out, but thanks for dinner it was delicious!”
Oof… I exited to the hallway. “What a disaster,” I thought, shaking my head. But suddenly I stopped short (evidently a trend of the evening). Just before the self-locking door slammed behind me, I threw my heel in to catch it. I’d forgotten the lamb bones! I snuck back in and grabbed them off the counter. Between me and my dog, at least one of us would get her bone-in.
Find the recipe inspired by this tale HERE
