Sidcup Spice
"Caterer Folake brings Nigerian flavor to Sidcup events. When event planner Marcus hires her for his biggest party, she gives him a private tasting that's not on any menu."
The corporate event needed something special—something that would make people talk. Marcus had heard whispers about Folake's catering.
Her kitchen was a converted garage in Sidcup, but what emerged from it was pure magic. She was Nigerian-British, thick curves under her chef's coat, and she moved through cooking like a dancer through choreography.
"You want to impress people," she said after hearing his needs. "But you don't understand what impresses. Sit. Eat. Learn."
Course after course appeared—suya that made him sweat, jollof that demanded seconds, chin chin that tasted like childhood even though he had no Nigerian childhood to remember.
"How do you do this?" he asked.
"Love. Everything I make, I love while making it." She sat across from him. "The question is—what do you love, Marcus? What would you put your soul into?"
"I don't know anymore."
"Then stay. Let me show you."
After hours, her kitchen transformed—low lights, music, a different kind of appetite building. She fed him dessert directly, her thick fingers pressing sweetness to his lips.
"Food is love made tangible," she said. "Want to know what other love feels like?"
She kissed him, and she tasted like everything she'd made—complex, warm, utterly satisfying.
She pushed him against her kitchen counter and took him right there—her chef's coat falling open to reveal curves that her cooking had nurtured.
"Yes... eat me up... consume me..."
Her thick body bounced against his as she rode, her voice mixing with the sizzle of something forgotten on a burner.
"Turn that off," she gasped. "Nothing's burning but us."
They made love among her pots and pans, adding new meanings to terms like "preparation" and "service." She came crying out like she was praying, and he followed.
"The event," she said afterward. "I'll make it perfect."
"It already is."
"The event, Marcus. The corporate thing." She laughed, feeding him cold jollof from the pan. "But this—this is something else. Something not for sale."
"What is this?"
"This is us. A recipe I'm just beginning to develop." She kissed him softly. "Come back tomorrow. Help me test some variations."
His Sidcup spice was the best thing he'd ever tasted. And Marcus was hungry for everything she could make.