Page 70 of Before I Say I Don't
“I’ll go with The Closing Argument for the groom’s drink,” I suggested, casting a quick glance at Viangelo, a sly smile playing on my lips. “And the Midnight Garden is definitely my pick. Also, a spicy margarita as the late-night option at the after-party wouldn’t hurt.”
“Honestly, we don’t need so many spicy options,” Diane remarked, her voice tinged with annoyance. “Some of us appreciate a touch of elegance on the menu, rather than feeling like we’ve stepped into a cookout. Not everyone is looking to scorch their taste buds just to say they enjoyed the food.”
I shook my head, fully aware that ongoing debate would not end well for Diane.
Danica leaned forward, chin in hand. “We do. Trust me, a little spice never killed anybody. But bland food? That’s a homicide on tastebuds and that'll murder a receptionquick. And honestly, Mrs. Diane, this ain’t Sunday dinner. We’re not here toprotect your bridge club; we’re here to make sure people don’t sneak out to Popeyes after the vows and fall asleep during the reception.” Danica tilted her head, all polite. “I mean, eleganceiscute, but nobody remembers a salad; they remember shrimp withheat.”
The chef coughed to hide her laugh… so did I.
Viangelo leaned toward me, voice low, irritation in it. “You gon’ let her talk to my mama like that?”
I set my glass down and faced him with a calm smile.
“She’s my sister. The fuck? Besides, your mama came at her first,” I muttered, pointing out.
His jaw worked, trying to decide if he wanted to keep poking the bear.
“Let’s just get this shit out of the way,” he said finally, forcing casual back into his voice. “Pick what you wanna pick.”
“Thank you,” I voiced sweetly, and turned back to the chef like I hadn’t just gutted him in front of his mama. “Entrees, please?”
She inclined her head toward the servers as they gracefully approached, presenting tasting plates that resembled tiny culinary masterpieces. Each dish was a feast for the senses: braised short rib with abuttery parmesan polenta, drizzled with a rich red wine reduction that glistened like liquid velvet; herb-crusted salmon,accompanied by a luxurious dill beurre Blanc, tender fingerlings and a charred lemon, that exuded smoky citrus aroma; lemon-garlic roasted chicken, glistening with pan jus and embellished with fragrant sprigs of rosemary; and a tantalizing wild mushroom risotto, finished off with an earthy drizzle of truffle oil, thoughtfully crafted for the vegans at the table, who would’ve undoubtedly judged us the hardest.
As I cut into the short rib, the meat yielded effortlessly to my knife.
“Yes,” I approved, before it even hit my tongue. When I finally tasted it, I closed my eyes in pure bliss. “Double yes.”
Danica interjected, analyzing the polenta with a discerning expression.
"This needs just a whisper more of salt,” she mentioned, her tone affectionate yet critical. "I do appreciate you for not drowning it, though.”
Diane, ever the critic, frowned at the salmon’s skin. “It’s not crispy enough,” she grumbled, prodding at it with her fork in disdain.
“It’s not intended to be crispy when prepared in a hotel pan,” the chef explained, kind but firm. “We keep it silken to prevent it from overcooking for over 150 guests.”
“I personally enjoy it,” I chimed in, sampling the fish again. “However, the dill is rather overpowering... perhaps we could temper it by five percent.”
“That chicken tastes like it came from a cafeteria,” Danica said.
“It’s meant to be simple and classic,” Diane shot back defensively.
“Bland is more like it,” Danica countered with a smirk.
Viangelo perked up, like he’d found a place to contribute. “Chicken’s safe. Everybody eats chicken.”
“We aren’t doingsafe,” I said, still looking at my plate. “We’re doinggood.Our goal is to deliver a memorable experience. The short rib and salmon will shine as a duo, while the chicken should only be offered as a third option, specifically requested in RSVPs.”
Diane clicked her tongue in disapproval. “People enjoy having choices.”
“They’ll have choices,” Danica replied wittily. “Choices like which fork to use with their joy.”
As the side dishes made their entrance, I felt a sense of satisfaction because that meant we were nearing the end.
“Mashed potatoes are non-negotiable,” I stated decisively. “Green beans, yes. Carrots, yes. Salad, absolutely yes.”
“We can’t do both green beans and carrots,” Diane said. “Too many orange and green things.”
“Is that… a problem?” Danica inquired with a perfectly straight face.
