Page 10 of The Wedding Menu

Hewas in my corner.

He stayed in my corner, protecting it with everything he had, until I forced him away.

Ian.

Mayfield, Here I Come

— TODAY—

I get off my bike and park behind La Brasserie, the scent of garlic and onions telling me dinner service has begun. Unclipping my helmet, I follow the voices I can hear around the corner and find Jeremy, Thomas, and David smoking at the back entrance, their black chef coats on.

“Gentlemen,” I say as I approach my former colleagues. “How are we doing?”

“Good, uh… we’re just—we’re…” David trails off as they all glance in different directions.

So they’ve read the article.

I’m not surprised. It’s been almost a week, and pretty much anyone in the business has read it. It’s everywhere.

After standing awkwardly for a few seconds, David throws his cigarette away and enters La Brasserie. Thomas and Jeremy follow, and with a deep breath I enter the kitchen too.

Immediately, I’m welcomed by the familiar clinking noise of pots and pans, by the butter sizzling on the stoves and the kitchen staff moving around like soldiers. My father’s restaurant has had the same menu for as long as I’ve worked here, and the stainlesssteel kitchen has never changed. It feels more homey to me than most places I’ve actually lived in.

“Ames!” Barb calls out from the other end of the long kitchen. Everybody’s eyes meet mine before they look away and whisper words into each other’s ears.

My body temperature rises so quickly, it feels like my skin is steaming.

They’ve all read it. They all know.

Barbara steps closer and plops her oven mitts on the counter by my side, a wary expression taking over her face. “What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting at five.”

“My dad wants to talk.” Unfortunately, this is only one of two very unpleasant tasks today, because Martha also texted on the group chat and asked to meet us for a coffee at Beans, our usual café. “We can leave together.”

Sasha, one of the latest waitresses to join the staff, walks beside me with an entrecôte and a bowl of onion soup. My gaze follows the tray until she disappears around the corner, my hands itching to stop her, because the meat looked a little overdone.

“Would you like to cook something?” Barb asks with a soft voice. “For old times’ sake?”

With a glance at the black chef’s coats hanging on the entrance wall, I wave her off. “I’ll just go see what the man of the hour wants. Where is he?”

“Dining room,” she says, patting my hand twice before stalking toward the fryer, then turning back and pointing a finger at me. “Don’t spoil the customers’ dinner with murder.”

“I’ll make sure the only red stains are left by the sauvignon,” I call before entering the dining room.

Though the sun is beaming outside, the tinted windows absorb most of the natural light. A dim yellow glow comes from thechandelier and provides a soft ambience for the small groups sitting at beige linen–covered tables across the room.

My father, in his chef’s coat and hat, is talking to the people sitting by the front window. There’s an affable smile on his face as the soft strains of “Non, je ne regrette rien” by Édith Piaf accompany us.

I wish I could say I’m surprised to find him at the front of the house, but these days, he spends more time talking to customers in the dining room than cooking. The rest of the time, he travels from one location to another for an interview, a cooking show, a competition he’ll judge—whatever it may be. Three seasons onThe Silver Spoon, and everybody has come to know his less-than-amicable working attitude, earning him the nickname of “Le Dictateur.” He loves the name so much, some days I think he might have a golden plaque engraved with it hung at the entrance.

As soon as he sees me across the room, his expression falls, and he excuses himself and walks closer. Taking off his black chef’s hat, he passes a hand over his balding head. Once he reaches me, his dark brown sunken eyes—the same color as mine—scan me with a disappointed look. “Ma fille.”

“You wanted to see me?”

“You’re working the dinner service tomorrow,” he says in his usual cold voice. He gestures at me to follow him, then struts into the kitchen, all eyes on us as he approaches the serving counter.

“I don’t work here, Dad.”

“You don’t work anywhere.” He pierces me with a cold gaze. “After that article, you’ll never work again.”

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