Susan Kornfeld  
THE CHANTERELLE QUEEN

         “I am the Queen of Chanterelle,” Janet announced at her turn in the introductions.  

         “My claim to fame is kelp,” the next and last guy said. “Kelp Kookies, with a ‘K’”  

         Introductions over, the host rang the bell, raised a toast to the season and to Freelance Food Providers everywhere, and signaled the waiters to resume circulating with their trays of hors d’oervres and champagne.

         “So do you like to eat the chanterelle, or cook them, or find them,” an older man with thick white hair asked Janet over a tray.

         “Find them, cook them, eat them,” she said, and reached for another champagne. This was number three, she reminded herself. Last one.

         He took her arm companionably and steered her toward the back of the banquet hall. “I found a great patch today. Just under the duff, barely visible.”

         “Where?”

         “Up by El Sobrante.”

         “Where the hell is El Sobranny?” Janet had lived in San Jose for three years. She had traveled maybe a two-hour radius from her house, but had never encountered whatever town that guy had said. Of course, two hours in the car only took her about 30 miles from San Jose, but traffic was like that. She thought the older guy was cute, too. Lean, shaggy, and a little stooped. She hoped he smoked. Nobody smoked anymore. She’d like a cigarette right now. But he was talking and she’d missed most of what he’d said.

         “...Berkeley. You know, Wildcat Canyon. I was practically walking on chanterelle. Scattered all through the leaves like stars. I didn’t have anything to carry them in, so I just stuffed my pockets till they bulged.” A waiter spied them from across the room and, seeing their glasses deplenishing and their cocktail napkins empty and limp, made a beeline their direction. Janet exchanged her empty glass for a full one—why not?— and picked up a deviled egg, squeezing it  between thumb and forefinger until the heaped yolk bulged over the edges. The man declined the champagne and took a couple of almond-stuffed green olives. Janet slowly took a bite of the egg, getting a bit of yolk on her upper lip. She turned her head to lick it discretely off, and then turned back brightly to the man.

         “What’s your name?” she asked and then took another bite, this time opening her mouth a little more widely around the egg.

         “Paul,” he said, with just a bit of pale-green olive between his lips. It seemed he liked to suck the almond out of the olive while the whole thing was in his mouth. It made Janet want to try one, but she was hesitant about asking for his last.

         “God, I’d love to have some chanterelle right now,” she said instead. “Would you believe I can smell them? When I’m in the woods, I can smell the chanterelle. That’s how I find them.” He really was good looking, she thought, running her hands quickly down the front of her tight green dress and smearing a bit of yolk.

         “I can smell them, too! Isn’t it incredible!” He put his arm around her and pulled her toward him impulsively. “I didn’t think anybody else could. Everyone thinks I’m faking it or something. But, you know, that luscious fruity fragrance--like apricots....”

         “Yes, with just a hint of vanilla! And the fragrance just curls up your nose, and with it the smell of the oak duff.....”

         “Especially if it’s been raining.” Paul had both his arms around Janet now, and his hands rested just below the small of her back where her buttocks began to round. Janet looked up and saw that his lips were moist. He was breathing lightly and she could smell the almonds, their sweetness just tinged with the acrid scent of olive. She wondered if her breath smelled like egg. She moved closer against him, so that he couldn’t see the yolk on the stomach of her dress. Her face, almost on its own, nuzzled his nubbly natural-fiber shirt. Down below, she felt him rising against her, and it was as if the porcini mushroom she had found yesterday had made its way into this banquet room, and into his trousers. She loved porcini, boletus edulis, maybe even more than she loved chanterelle. And his smell, not his breath, but his whole emanation, yes, it was rather like those firm plump mushrooms the Italians love so much.

         She had to feel. And as she did so, she looked up. He was looking down at her—or down her dress, she imagined. And in his glasses she could see the reflection of her breasts pushing out against the plunging neckline of her shiny green dress, as golden and firm as chanterelle. The door to the kitchen was not far behind them. And through it, the parking lot. And behind that, trees, and the sweet scent of the rain-damp duff that cushioned their fall.