24991119 | 2015

  The Lumen | The Fullerton By the Bay | People’s Republic of Singapore

  1° 17′ 06.0000″ N

  103° 51′ 06.1200″ E

  The butler approached with silent grace.

  A single clap.

  The prelude to the evening.

  He spoke eloquently of the esteemed company the Lumen have the pleasure to host this night.

  The attendants emerged as if conjured by the soft ambient light.

  Their footsteps soundless over the polished stone.

  They each carried a single lacquered tray.

  One dish, two spoons.

  The butler inclined his head, voice smooth as satin.

  “To begin the evening,” he said, “Chef Orlov presents an amuse-bouche. A small taste, expressive of the culinary and philosophy he spent a lifetime distilling.”

  “I have taken the liberty to curate a selection for you,” Damian said as the attendant’s approach, “I hope it fits your refined palate.”

  “I’m easy,” Shirley smiled, “my palate is not as refined as you imagined.”

  The attendants laid the porcelain plate before Shirley with gloved precision.

  The dish gleamed like a jewel.

  Upon a bed of crushed ice.

  a single Belon oyster nestled in its half-shell.

  Crowned with a drop of yuzu gel.

  A sliver of gold-leaf pressed thin as breath.

  Cold.

  Briny.

  Alive.

  Balanced immaculately upon a droplet of aged soy reduction

  For Damian.

  Foie gras torchon.

  Chilled to the point of velvet

  Paired with a winter plum gelée

  Finished with a delicate dusting of crushed pink pepper.

  “The amuse-bouche,” he said, “is designed to awaken the senses.”

  He stepped back with a one brisk step, and waited expectantly.

  The course sat before them like an offering.

  “Well, we should not insult the chef,” Damian said lightly.

  Shirley smiled, without taking her eyes off his, she gently lifted the oyster upon her lips.

  She took it whole, let it slide, savoring it.

  He watched her intently.

  “Delicious,” she said.

  The next dish arrived with a faint perfume of herbs.

  “Verdant leaves, madame. Handpicked from Sapa Reserved Terraces. Olive oil off the Athenian Coast, pressed from pre-Fall stock, aged in limestone.”

  Her salad was delicate, crisp, fresh.

  His plate was richer.

  “For monsieur. A handpicked selection of heirloom tomatoes with buffalo mozzarella from the Veneto Enclave.”

  She picked at her greens.

  He barely glanced at his as he finished.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she replied as she took another bite, “they taste different.”

  “Organic, soiled-grown.” He replied, “the texture distinct from hydroponically-grown or nutrient-farmed.”

  “Really?” Shirley said, a tint of disinterest, ““So, the rich, earthy flavors.”

  “Perhaps your palate is more refined than you claim,” Damian said, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin.

  “No,” she smiled, sweetly. “I’m here, am I not?”

  The silence lingered between them.

  Warm, taut, intentional.

  Then he grinned.

  “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  “You are enjoying it already.”

  Shirley finished her greens.

  Their glasses clinked as the attendants cleared the remains.

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  The next course.

  The chef’s signature touch.

  The attendants returned in perfect synchrony,

  Each bearing a wooden geta-style serving board upon two small lacquered legs.

  A platform of polished hinoki wood.

  The grain catching the candlelight like pale silk.

  For her, pristine Glacier Salmon.

  Laid across the platform in three immaculate ribbons.

  Coral-pink, slice with a master’s blade, edges so clean they gleamed.

  Each slice was crowned with a single orb of Beluga caviar,

  Black as a moonless sea.

  A faint curl of cold vapor rose from beneath the board.

  The chilled wood exhaling the last of its stored frost.

  The butler bowed slightly.

  “Madame, glacier salmon, cured in Svalbard brine.

  A touch of white soy.

  Finished with Beluga.”

  Shirley let her chopsticks hover.

  Slow, fluid, predatory.

  The second board was laid before Damian.

  Aged Bluefin Otoro.

  Three thick cuts, marbled as ivory veined in rose.

  The fat glistened under the lantern glow,

  each slice scored with a single diagonal mark.

  The chef’s signature flourish,

  A streak of black garlic shoyu cut across the wooden board like ink.

  “Otoro, monsieur,” the butler intoned. “Aged twenty-four hours in cedar. Brushed with black garlic reduction.”

  Damian picked up the first slice and casually popped it into his mouth.

  “So,” he asked, almost offhand,

  “Why are you really here?”

  Shirley didn’t look at him.

  Her chopsticks hovered over the salmon.

  Then she glanced up.

  “Are these real?” she asked.

  He blinked. “…What?”

  “The caviar.”

  “Oh. Yes, the caviar,” he recovered smoothly.

  “Let’s just say I know someone who runs a farm across the Causeway.”

  “My, my…”

  Shirley lifted a slice, set it delicately on her tongue,

  Her eyes fluttering shut as the salt and cold bloomed against her palate.

  “Exquisite,” she murmured, fingertips brushing her lips, “these.”

  The butler materialized like a shadow stepping into light.

  “The madame has exquisite taste,” he said.

  “Norwegian salmon. Old-world breed.

  Beluga caviar procured personally by Mr. Wei-Clarke.”

  “Did he now?” Shirley said, wry amusement curling through the words.

  She took another slice.

  Slow and deliberate.

  “Airflown from the Polars,” the butler continued.

  “Arrived the same hour as the madame.

  Mr. Wei-Clarke explicitly instructed it be included.”

  “I’m impressed,” Shirley said, dabbing her lips with a linen cloth.

  “Mr. Wei-Clarke strives to impress,” the butler replied evenly as attendants glided forward and cleared the boards with silent precision.

  When they were alone again.

  “Business,” she said. “Of a sort.”

  “What sort?” he asked.

  “The private type,” she said softly.

  The pacing slowed. Warmth entered the room.

  Two attendants arrived at once, moving in mirrored choreography.

  The first carried a narrow porcelain bowl before Shirley.

  The second, a silver carafe steaming faintly for Damian.

  The butler stepped aside and allowed the scents to bloom in the warm air.

  “Madame,” he said, “a classic bisque of Breton lobster.

  Reduced over slow flame, enriched with cognac,

  finished with a whisper of saffron and coral oil.”

  The bowl was a sunset of color.

  Deep orange, edged with gold, smooth as poured silk.

  A single lobster medallion bobbed within the cream.

  Rich, delicate, decadent.

  “Are we sampling extinction tonight?” Shirley remarked as a smile curled her lips.

  “The ones only money can buy,” Damian replied, mirroring her smile.

  She lifted the spoon.

  The steam curled across her bare skin

  A ghost of warmth in the cool night.

  “For monsieur,” the butler continued,

  “A velouté of white truffle, Tuber magnatum, sourced from the Alba Vault, poured over a barley nest and shaved black trumpet mushroom.”

  The butler lifted the carafe with ritual precision and poured.

  The cream flowed like molten ivory, blooming aroma as it hit the bowl.

  Earth.

  Fungus.

  Time.

  A linger scent older than the cities.

  “This business of yours,” Damian asked as they souped, “perhaps I can be of some assist?

  I have… connections.”

  Shirley looked at him then.

  “Perhaps,” she allowed, and returned to her meal.

  The butler moved to refill their glasses, but Damian forestalled him with an upraised hand.

  He stood, took the bottle from the ice bucket, and filled her glass himself.

  “You would not have come all the way here,” he said, voice low, “if you didn’t need something.”

  “What can you offer?” Shirley asked softly. “Maybe I merely fancied dinner.”

  “We’ve known each other long enough to know that’s not true,” Damian said, smiling thinly.

  “The glass is overflowing, dear,” she said with a soft, dangerous smile.

  He ceased the pour, and returned to his seat.

  Crystal cups arrived, each catching the candlelight.

  “Yuzu ice,” the butler explained. “To refresh the senses.”

  She let it melt slowly.

  He swallowed the cold in one practiced motion.

  They arrived together, perfectly synchronized plating.

  Her plate, light and ethereal.

  “For madame. Halibut, poached in saffron broth. Finished with edible flowers.”

  “For monsieur. A5 wagyu from the Kensei Preserve. Charred on white-oak smoke.”

  A board of seared marbled beef, fat rendered as molten gold.

  “Farm to plate,” he said.

  He cut the first slice without hesitation.

  “My compliments to the chef,” Shirley remarked, looking at the butler. “He does not disappoint.”

  They ate in silence.

  When they were finished, the butler presented the final offering with reverence.

  “Dark chocolate sphere. Pre-Fall couverture. Salted caramel within.”

  A tap of the spoon cracked it open,

  spilling molten gold across the porcelain.

  She took one bite.

  He finished his.

  She grabbed her glass, raised it in a toast.

  She lifted her glass in a soft toast.

  “The most magnificent finery of food I’ve ever tasted.”

  “I’m glad you liked it,” he replied.

  Their glasses touched.

  Sharp, crystalline.

  Silence curled around them:

  The cascading pool, the quiet music, the distant horns over Marina Bay.

  She smiled and ran a fingertip around the rim.

  The soft ring folded into the night.

  “I love this city,” she said lightly. “So beautiful.”

  Her grip faltered.

  Just slightly.

  The wine sloshed, she caught it, almost spilled.

  “Careful,” Damian said, reaching instinctively to steady the glass.

  Their hands touched.

  She chuckled under her breath.

  Soft, a little too loose.

  Her fingertips lingered against his.

  “How many glasses have we had?” she murmured, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded.

  “Not that much,” he said. “I watched you go through a cask of champagne in Monaco.”

  She laughed again, breathier now.

  “My tolerance isn’t what it used to be,” she whispered. “Too much travel. Not enough… good company.”

  He watched her.

  His eyes sharpening.

  “Shirley,” he said gently, “you might have had a bit too much. Come, Let me send you back.”

  She didn’t pull her hand away.

  “You’re sending me back?” she breathed, turning her wrist so his fingers slid against the inside of it.

  Skin to skin.

  Her pulse soft under his touch.

  “How do we discuss business then?” she asked.

  Soft.

  Husky.

  He froze.

  The silence stretched.

  “You want to talk shop,” Damian said slowly, “in this state?”

  She leaned in.

  And pressed her lips to his.

  Damian rose then.

  “My driver is downstairs,” he said. “I know a place, we can talk there.”

  She rose slower, tilted.

  He caught her.

  He offered his arm. She took it.

  “Are you always this rough?” she said.

  He chuckled. “Says the woman who walked into my evening dressed like sin.”

  The butler met them by the elevator, bowing slightly.

  He slipped him a wad of cash.

  Outside, a long black sedan waited at the curb.

  The night had deepened; the city was a halo of light around the bay.

  The driver in a dark suit opened the rear door, posture straight, eyes respectfully lowered.

  Damian paused, turning to her as the humid night folded around them.

  “Last chance to change your mind,” he said.

  Shirley looked at the open door. She saw the reflection of herself in the darkened glass.

  Red silk.

  Diamonds.

  Bare shoulders.

  Gossamer scarf whispering in the breeze off the bay.

  She smiled, slow and languid.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “I bet you are hungry.”

  She slid into the car.

  He followed.

  The door thudded shut, soft and final.

  The Fullerton’s facade slipped away behind them.

  The smooth glide of city lights over tinted glass.

  They drove into the night.

  Back atop the Lumen.

  The last glass sat ignored between them.