It’s the dinner that has to shine.
Once I’m dressed and ready to go, I give Amelia a quick text and tell her I’m about to head out. She offers to send a car, and normally, I’d probably say thanks but no thanks, but thunder cracks loudly outside, and I take it as a sign that I probably shouldn’t try to carry a gourmet meal across Paris in the middle of a thunderstorm. So I quickly accept.
It takes me quite a while to get everything loaded into the very expensive insulated bag I purchased for this occasion. They offered to let me cook in their kitchen, and for the event itself, I definitely would.
But today I needed to focus. I need my dingy Converse and my loud psychedelic rock and my very messy kitchen to make this magic. Maybe someday I’ll learn how to makemydishes in a bigger, better kitchen. That is the dream after all.
“Oh, Freya, this is delicious.”
Amelia’s mom wraps her lips around her fork, a bite of the gratin dauphinois in her mouth, and I gnaw on the inside corner of my lip as I await her judgment.
“You made these?” Amelia’s father asks, looking impressed.
“Yes, sir,” I reply. “It’s beef Wellington, but instead of mushroom duxelles, I’ve used spinach and paneer with garam masala.”
“Freya, I’ve told you already. Please, call me Ronan,” he replies kindly just before he puts the bite into his mouth. He hums with delight, and I have to control the bouncing of my knee as I watch them taste each dish.
Amelia wraps an arm around my shoulder and squeezes me tight. “Isn’t she brilliant?”
“And I can do any menu, really,” I say, trying not to come across as too eager. “If you prefer less spice, I can do savory canapés with whipped ricotta and prosciutto or Japanese-style gyoza or a duck confit with a citrus glaze and herb-infused polenta.”
Amelia’s mother smiles warmly at me, and I get the feeling that I’m rambling, so I quickly shut my mouth.
“You are very talented, Freya,” she says. “And you have no problem cooking for thirty people?”
“No, ma’am—I mean, Mrs. Kade…Daisy, ma’am,” I stammer. “I have been a sous-chef for hundreds of events and in restaurants. I have experience, and I can bring in a team to help.”
There’s a twinkle of pride in her eyes, and I see so much of my best friend in her. I felt myself drawn to Amelia’s family as soon as she and I became friends. Whereas her family immigrated to France from America, mine immigrated to America from India. Granted the experiences were far different, but there is something genuine and down-to-earth about her parents. They don’t act better than anyone else or like their wealth stations them above me somehow.
Amelia and I met in Los Angeles while she was studying there in her design program. We were in a bar, and when she got ditched by some uptight friends, I convinced her to come sit with me and mine. I figured she was just another Hollywood starlet wannabe. Imagine my surprise when I found out she was an ultrawealthy sex club heiress.
The moment I mentioned wanting to work in restaurants in Paris, she convinced me to move here. That was one year ago, and I’ve barely kept my head above water since.
Her parents offered to let me stay here when I arrived, and I know it gave my parents peace of mind. I ended up getting a flat on my own instead because I needed to feel the independence. Still, they treat me like one of their own, constantly checking onme and offering help when I need it, like my own personal safety net as I embark on this wild endeavor.
“Well,” her mom says as she wipes her hands on the towel. “I don’t know about you, honey, but I think Freya is exactly who we’re looking for to cater the party.”
I silently suck in a breath and hold it. Amelia’s much older father folds his napkin and places it on the table. “Without a doubt.”
My best friend squeals at my side, clapping her hands in excitement, but I can hardly move. Keeping my shoulders back, I start to feel the crippling weight of expectation.
Her mom seems to notice the deer-in-headlights state of my expression. “Freya, will this be your first time as lead in the kitchen?”
I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
This only makes her smile brighter. “Congratulations. You’ll do great.”
“Thank you.”
With that, Amelia’s parents stand from the table and leave the room. The moment they’re gone, I turn toward my best friend and feel the air come out of my lungs all at once. Grabbing her hands in mine, I squeal along with her, and before I know it, we’re both dancing around her dining room like a couple of kids.
“You did it, Freya,” she cries, wrapping her arms around me and pulling me in for a hug.
“Thank you so much for getting me this menu tasting.”
Immediately, she pulls away and squeezes me hard on my shoulders. “Yougot this tasting, Freya!Yougot the whole freaking job!”
Rolling my eyes, I wave her off. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But still…thank you.”
