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There was a beautifully set table for two, surrounded by flowers. The Eiffel Tower glittered in the distance, adding to the enchantment of the scene.
"Duncan, this is just…as you Americans would say,wow," I whispered, feeling tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.
He squeezed my hand, guiding me to the table. "I wanted to do something special for you; to show you how much I love you."
No one had ever put in so much effort for me. It was charming, and though I knew Duncan was wealthy and could easily afford these things, it was the thought that mattered. Even if he had done something simple and cozy in my apartment, I would have been just as touched.
Once we were seated, he poured non-alcoholic pear cider for me, Champagne for himself, and we toasted.
"To my beautiful wife." Duncan touched his glass to mine.
"To my handsome husband," I countered.
"Now, I did my research about gestational diabetes. Chef Bettencourt has prepared—"
"The who?" I gasped, almost tipping my drink glass. Duncan grabbed and steadied it.
"Chef Bettencourt is a Michelin—"
"I know who he is," I screeched. "Has he cooked our meal tonight?"
And that's when I sawtheChef! The revered Chef Bettencourt, who had two Michelin stars to his name and an eponymous restaurant.
"Bonsoir, Elsa."
I gaped at the man, and Duncan laughed. "Ma douce, close your mouth. You're going to let some flies in."
I snapped my mouth shut."Chef, j'adore votre cuisine et je n'arrive pas à croire que vous soyez ici."Chef, I love your food and I can't believe you're here.
"It's my pleasure," the Chef said in English. "Duncan and I are old friends. He helped me find some art for Restaurant Bettencourtandmy private collection. So, when he told me about your glucose problems, I told him, I could make you a meal, and you won't even miss the bread or sugar."
He said it with arrogance, but he had the skill to back that up.
"Chef, I'll eat pretty much anything you'll serve." I put my hand on my belly. "This baby has no idea how lucky she is to eat your creations."
Chef looked at Duncan, nodding appreciatively. "I think you've won some points with your wife because of me,non?"
"I certainly have." Duncan looked pleased with himself, as he should. "She'd mentioned how the best meal in her life was at your restaurant, and I knew only one person who could top that…you."
Chef, who was in his late forties with a head full of hair under his bandana, chuffed with pride. "D'accord!"
"I can't wait, Chef," I said, bubbling with excitement.
A private dinner put together by Chef Bettencourt! Oh my God! Not even in my dreams could I have come up with a gift like this.
We began with a blue lobster and green bean salad, dressed in a coral vinaigrette. I confessed that I didn't miss the usual baguette I enjoyed with my salads because this dish was pure perfection. The freshest ingredients came together with fantastic balance, creating an unforgettable dish.
"You're enjoying yourself," Duncan remarked amusedly as I used my finger to scoop up the remaining dressing on my plate and, in a very unladylike manner, licked my finger.
"This is Chef Bettencourt," I exclaimed, "I must leave nothing on the plate."
"I'm sure the kitchen will be pleased. I don't think soiled plates have ever been returned to them this clean," Duncan teased.
For the fish course, the Chef served delicate oven-cooked turbot and tender fennel with a beurre blanc sauce.
"I wish I could drink wine," I griped as I picked up Duncan's glass of a Grand Cru Chassagne Montrachet and sniffed it.
"You can take a sip," Duncan assured me.
