I’ll be on theEmerald Queennext month, and I’m equal parts excited and overwhelmed by all the dining options! I’ve heard the Norwegian specialties are amazing, but also that the formal dining room has some dishes that I should not miss. As someone currently cruising, what are your absolute must-try foods? And is it worth splurging on the specialty restaurants, or is the included dining just as good?
Foodie at Sea
Dear Foodie at Sea,
Don’t miss the gravlax with mustard-dill sauce in the main dining room—I’ve been eating it nightly. The Norwegian brown cheese at breakfast looks weird, but tastes like caramel! Trust me.
The Blue Crab specialty restaurant is worth every penny. Their king crab legs are enormous and delicious. I watched asoap star try to eat his without getting butter on his designer shirt. He failed spectacularly, but it made for great dinner theater.
Hidden gem: The “Chef’s Norwegian Table” progressive dinner. Aquavit tasting plus salmon three ways so good it left Bess and Nettie momentarily speechless. And that’s saying something.
XOXO Trixie
P.S. Avoid Victor Darkmore at the dessert buffet. He’s convinced the pastry chef is sabotaging his diet for a rival network. The man brings drama everywhere.
Day 8: At Sea
The Queen’sTheater sprawls across three decks of theEmerald Queen, a floating temple to theatrical excess with more gold leaf than Fort Knox and enough red velvet to outfit a Victorian brothel.
This afternoon, the stage has been transformed into what Boomer keeps calling an authentic confessional space, which appears to involve an ornate wingback chair, very dramatic lighting, and enough floral arrangements to suggest a celebrity funeral rather than a reality TV segment.
I spot sprays of white oleander among the botanical explosion with their innocent-looking star-shaped blooms that mask their deadly nature, and the sight sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with the theater’s aggressive air conditioning.
The theater is dimly lit, cold as an iceberg, and holds the scent of thick, cloying perfume and cologne, and more importantly, perhaps a killer.
Behind the scenes, Elodie and her staff buzz around the trophy wives like fashionable worker bees, making last-minute adjustments to hemlines and offering an impressive array of statement jewelry to make these divas sparkle and shine. The air practicallyhums with competitive energy—too many egos, not enough spotlight.
Meanwhile, Ransom is busy with decidedly less glamorous work—re-examining Madison’s cabin and running additional tests after yesterday’s bombshell revelation.
Oleandrin, a toxic compound found in oleander plants, has indeed shown up in Madison’s toxicology report. The same oleander I’m now staring at in these elaborate floral displays. Coincidence? I think not.
Bess, Nettie, and I are seated a few rows from the front, putting us in the prime position to witness the chaos about to unfold. And I’m scrolling through the photos on my phone, flicking back to the welcome party at the Golden Compass where Madison was last seen alive. Sure enough, there they are—white oleander blooms artfully arranged among roses and greenery, looking just as innocent as they are deadly.
Geez. How on earth did Madison ingest oleander? Did she mistake the floral arrangements for some exotic Norwegian salad? Was she secretly part goat, with a steady diet of inedible objects? Maybe she was one of those Insta Pictures influencers who photographed herself pretending to eat flowers for aesthetic purposes and accidentally got more than she bargained for?
At this point, anything seems possible.
“Do you think they’ll let me ask a question during the Q&A?” Nettie asks. “I’ve been practicing my Barbara Walters impression all morning.”
“I think that ship sailed when you asked Santino if his character’s resurrection from that Bulgarian prison involved necromancy,” Bess replies dryly.
They’re both seated to my left and beside them—or rather, between them—sits Marlie’s ghost, looking uncomfortable despite her incorporeal state.
“It’s like being trapped between two chatty bookends,” shecomplains, giving me a knowing look. “Nettie keeps passing through my left side every time she reaches for her candy stash.”
Nettie does take her candy seriously. I reach over and scoop up a handful of Swedish Fish because of it. Okay, so I take my candy seriously, too.
The theater is sparsely populated, mostly with contest winners who earned their seats by coughing up their encyclopedia-worthy knowledge of soap opera trivia. They’re all clutching complimentary popcorn buckets emblazoned with the Trophy Wives of Daytime logos, and their expressions hover somewhere between starstruck and carnivorous. Sort of like me.
Tinsley sits several rows back, tablet in hand, furiously typing what I suspect are notes on how to sabotage Elodie rather than anything related to her cruise director duties.
Speaking of my on-ship bestie. “Is this seat taken?” Elodie appears beside me and sinks into the chair to my right because if Elodie is anything, she’s accustomed to taking what she wants. She’s traded her usual ship uniform for a sleek black jumpsuit that makes her platinum blonde hair glow in this dim light.
“You know it’s all yours,” I say, though she’s already arranged herself comfortably. “Don’t you need to be backstage helping with the wardrobe changes?”
“My staff can handle it,” she waves dismissively. “I’ve been styling these women for far too many days. If I have to listen to Val complain about how Norwegian humidity affects her hair extensions one more time, I might push her overboard myself.”
“Ooh,hair extensions.” I bump my shoulder to hers. “Now there’s some fresh dirt.”
