"How come he's judging?"
"He and Dana are friends. Dana can convince anyone to do anything. She's very persuasive. All those Holbrooks are quite charismatic."
"So that's why Jack is judging," I remarked.
The food arrived, and it smelled divine. I picked up my fork.
"Wait!" Anastasia said. She took out her camera and proceeded to carefully photograph each dish.
"Are you—"
"Shh."
"Are you going to review them?" I asked when she was done photographing.
"Just a quick one," she said. "Not in depth. I need more content for my blog."
The scallops were buttery, and the bone marrow was meaty and creamy. I spread it on the little bits of crusty bread.
After I swallowed a mouthful of pasta, I said, "Can I pick your brain about the restaurant business? My dream is to be a pastry chef or open a chain of little bakeries."
Anastasia took a sip of wine. "It’s cutthroat. You'll need backers. Honestly, this whole business is pretty misogynistic. The banks and the big restaurateurs don't like to give women financing, though they'll make donations to sketchy nonprofits to make themselves look better."
"Oh," I said, feeling dejected. Maybe my dream was just that—a dream that would never be a reality.
"Don’t let it bring you down," Anastasia said. "Therearewomen who run successful restaurants. There's not a big dessert movement in New York right now, however. No one wants to spend money paying a pastry chef to create desserts unless they are aiming for another Michelin star. Instead they head down to Trader Mike's and buy tubs of ice cream and serve that."
"That's sad," I said, slowly running my finger through the condensation on the wine glass.
"I know you want to be the next Christina Tosi with her Milk Bar franchise," Anastasia said, "but remember that she had a major restaurateur as a backer, and she worked almost a decade in fine dining to pay her dues before she started her bakery."
"I know," I said.
"It's difficult, but not impossible," Anastasia said. "I don't want to discourage you. Sometimes all you need is a lucky break. People won't believe in you until you've proven yourself. Then they'll all act like they were your biggest fans the whole time."
I was slightly tipsy when I returned to the apartment. Hartleigh was in the living room taking selfies. She had on a skimpy outfit and a Santa hat.
"It's for Jack," she said in response to my disgusted look. "He won't be able to resist."
Nina was talking to her family in our bedroom, and I didn't want to sit in the living room with Hartleigh. I needed to think about my future. It was seeming less and less likely that I could make my dreams come true.
Only you can change your life. No one can do it for you.
That was what my oma would always tell me. She had made me believe that hard work and dreams would take me far. Anastasia had put a damper on those beliefs. But I had to try.
I checked my Instagram; I had gained more followers thanks to the bake-off show. At least that was something I could leverage. I looked out the window. It was snowing lightly outside, which would be perfect for more photos.
People were still out on the streets even though it was late. I took a few selfies in front of the building, but I already had several shots like that. I decided to go to the nearby park. It was too bad I didn't have another person to take the full-body shots I wanted of me wearing my red coat against the snow falling on the landscape.
"Don't you know it's late?" a man said. "Also, you need an escort."
"We have to stop meeting like this," I said, recognizing Jack's voice.
He smiled at me.
"Out in the snow without a coat on, I see," I said, poking his chest, trying to ignore the fact that it was a very well-muscled chest.
"Milo doesn’t have a coat," he said, smiling at me as if he knew exactly what I thought of him and his barely clad body. The husky did look happy to be out in the cold, though.
