Fanning the Flames of Passion

The evening gets off to a rough start. My wife, Jan, and I have been bickering all day over matters large and small. Then Jan calls from work to say she has another meeting, that she will be late for our dinner date.

I petulantly suggest we cancel. Or, perhaps I should just go by myself. Jan sighs, is silent for a moment. “Let’s try and make this work,” she says. “I’ll be there by 7:30. Have a drink at the bar.”

*

For a Wednesday evening, Habana Restaurant, tucked into the back of the Lab in Costa Mesa, is bustling.

Beneath heating lamps on the patio, boisterous groups of young people--dress shirts rolled to the elbow, high heels kicked off beneath the table--huddle drinking Hatuey, a thick beer once made in Cuba. Inside, it’s louder.

Two performers--flamenco dancers--clap above their heads and stomp their heels, staccato, on a portable dance floor that juts into the room. The woman, in a ruffled, low-cut red gown, looks slyly at the man as she slowly circles him, spins quickly, flirtatiously throws out her skirt.

*

The bar is full. I find a stool next to a smooching couple and order a Manhattan because it seems decadent and provocative, like the sweating, sensual movements of the flamenco pair on stage.

The couple next to me are both aware and oblivious to the dancing and the music. They face, legs and arms tangled like tree branches, sipping martinis, whispering into each other’s ears, kissing.

They are not watching the dancing. But the music seems to have lured them into some sort of heated trance. Their breathing is even more rapid and irregular than the dancers’, though they are doing nothing more laborious than sipping cold gin.

*

Jan arrives, as promised, by 7:30. She takes a quick gulp of Manhattan, kisses me with bourbony lips, orders another. She stands mesmerized by the dancers, who stare long and hard at each other as they stomp around the stage in opposite directions, heads tilted down and sideways, like sleeping birds. “God, it’s like watching two people have sex, isn’t it?” she says.

*

Manager Bill Jahant is elegant in a gray suit. He takes our almost empty drinks and leads us to a small table directly in front of the stage. Sensing that perhaps with another drink our mutual truculence might diminish on its own, Jan and I leave the menus closed and concentrate on the dancers.

They are electric.

They look lost in their own world and smile the smile of the beatific.

Another Manhattan arrives along with a plate of bocaditos, still-warm pastries stuffed with meat and capers and raisins. We sip our drinks, nibble the bocaditos, stare transfixed at the dancers.

*

Siriy, the female dancer, sways alone beneath the hot lights as guitarist Jose Tanaka slows the beat. She smiles and walks out into the dining room. Without a word she extends her arm toward me, pulls me gently out of my chair.

Jan raises her eyebrows and smiles. “Go on, “ she says.

I have two choices, I know. I can frown and shake my head, or I can go with this woman and make a fool of myself.

What the hey.

I quickly down my Manhattan and let Siriy lead me to the stage.

Her dark, liquid eyes lock onto mine, and, without her saying so, I realize that--like in love--this is the most important part of flamenco dancing: You must get lost in your partner.

She puts one leg forward and tattoos a beat on the floor--dat de-de dat, de-de dat dat dat. I do the same, never taking my eyes off her face.

She spins, claps; I do the same. She hikes up her dress and pounds the floor with her black heels.

Hands on hips, I mimic her.

Never once do I dare look out at the audience. I stay in the flamenco bubble. Just me and the music and Siriy.

When the song is over, she gives me a long hug and asks me where I learned to dance like this.

“You taught me,” I tell her. “Just now.”

*

Back at the table, I am sweating and breathing heavily, perhaps from the dancing, perhaps from something else. I look at Jan’s surprised face and break into an embarrassed laugh.

“Did I look like an idiot up there?” I ask.

Jan leans over the table and gives me a kiss, holds her hands against the back of my head. “Not at all,” she says. “In fact, you looked very sexy. Maybe that’s your true calling. Maybe you should become a flamenco dancer.”

I smile sheepishly, nervously pick up the menu. “Do you want to order?” I ask.

“Not yet,” she says, still staring hard at me. “Not just yet.”

BE THERE

Habana Restaurant in the Lab, 2930 Bristol Blvd., Costa Mesa. Serving Cuban food daily for lunch and dinner. Reservations suggested. Flamenco dancing Mondays and Wednesdays, 7 and 8 p.m. (714) 556-0176.