The “real event” was a reservation at Lumière.
Lumière was the city’s crown jewel. A three-Michelin-star establishment known for its exclusivity, its astronomical prices, and a waiting list that stretched for six months. The Prescotts had managed to secure a table for “Drinks and Dessert” at 8:00 PM, a feat they had been bragging about since July.
“Exactly,” my husband, David, chimed in. He didn’t look at me. He was busy adjusting his cufflinks. “Elena, just bring it out. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” I wanted to say. Cooking is chemistry. It’s respect. But I stayed silent. I was just the unemployed wife. The failure. The woman who “dabbled” in food but couldn’t seem to hold down a job at the local diner—or so they thought.
I went to the kitchen and carved the bird. The meat was succulent, the skin crackling like glass. I arranged it on the platter with roasted figs and thyme. I poured the gravy—a rich, velvety reduction of roasted bones, port wine, and black truffle—into the silver boat.
I carried it out.
