Page 9 of Meant to be Mine

Drew took a bite and chewed. “And the Blackwell Couture line.”

“Exactly.”

He looked down at the plate. I could see him actually thinking about it, listening to my opinion.

“The flavor’s right,” he said finally. “Presentation is right. It’s just not a practical choice.”

“We could make it bite-sized, maybe? On a cracker or something. Something that doesn’t require a fork?”

“Or we keep it at seated tables only. Not on the circulating trays.”

I nodded. “That could work.”

I pulled out my phone and made a little note of that, knowing Drew wouldn’t do it and he might totally forget it. Then I picked up my fork again and had another bite. It was delicious and there was no reason to waste it.

The second plate arrived before we’d fully finished the first. Chef Dominic returned with it himself, setting the dishes down with quiet ceremony.

“Burrata crostini,” he said. “Stone-baked sourdough, house-made burrata, heirloom tomato, fresh basil, a finish of aged balsamic.” He smiled with the quiet pride of someone presenting a child’s school portrait. “One of our most requested items. And all locally sourced.”

He left again. I bit into it and had to actively prevent myself from making a noise. I was going to embarrass myself like Drew had done with the muffins.

“Son of a bitch,” I said quietly.

Drew snorted a laugh, not letting interrupt his chewing. He was already halfway through his burrata crostini.

“Okay, this one they can serve on circulating trays,” I said, trying not to drool. “You can eat this standing up. You can eat this in a ballgown. You can eat this in a car.”

He grinned and shook his head. “So this one’s a yes, Mrs. Seuss? You can eat this in a car. You can eat it near or far.”

I was unable to stifle my laughter. “Whatever. All I’m saying is it’s good. Will it match the main course?”

“There’s no real food. Just appetizers and desserts. It’s a cocktail party, not a dinner.”

“Then this is perfect. Light, impressive, easy to eat. It checks everything.” I glanced at the empty plate. “I want another one.”

“You can’t have another one, this is a tasting.”

“Party pooper.”

The third plate was a miniature crab cake, golden on the outside, sitting in a shallow pool of some kind of remoulade. Chef Dominic came back out for this one too, explaining the Dungeness crab, the Old Bay, the house-made sauce. He was clearly proud of all his dishes. His hands moved when he talked about them, his passion coming through.

I took a careful bite.

“What do you think?” Drew asked, wiping his mouth.

“The sauce,” I said. “I don’t like it. Love the crabcake, hate the sauce. Can they serve it without it?”

“They can do anything I want them to.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course, they can.”

“I mean, I’m the customer. And technically it’ll be cheaper.”

Chef Dominic nodded once, no argument, no wounded pride. “Of course. The crab cake can stand on its own. You’re right that sauces are for cowards.”

I tapped a few notes into my phone again.

“What are you doing?” Drew asked.