6. Drake
Drake
My doorbell rings, and I rush to open it, finding Olivia on the other side with six reusable tote bags hanging from her arms. I hold out my arms and she eagerly drops some of the bags in them. They're almost too heavy for me; I can't even imagine how she lugged everything from her car to my door.
“Are you sure you have enough stuff?” I ask, leading her toward the kitchen.
She looks around my house with wide, surprised eyes as she takes in the lavish interior.
My house is my sanctuary, and I’ve taken great care to make it nice.
The interior is modern but comfortable, with a lot of southern California-inspired decor and boho chic influence.
“Yeah, I made sure to get some extra stuff in case—” I turn around and look at her with a soft laugh, and she realizes it was a joke. “It's always better to have too much food than not enough.”
“They teach you that at your fancy culinary school?”
“No, just something my mom always said,” Olivia says with a soft smile as she starts unpacking the groceries. She takes a moment to ogle the equipment in the kitchen. “Did you know my mom?”
“I did. She and your dad met in college, so she hung out with us and some other friends a lot.” I offer her the warmest smile I can conjure as I think back to my college years and heading to frat parties with Leonard and Maria.
They were inseparable after they met junior year.
We used to say they were each other's shadows because where there was one, the other wasn't far behind.
When they decided to start a family, they moved to Cincinnati to be close to Maria's family, and I didn’t see either of them for almost fifteen years.
Years after Maria died, Leonard moved back to Los Angeles to open his gym.
His daughter went to school out here and wanted to stay, so nothing was anchoring him to the East Coast.
“I was very sorry to hear about what happened to your mom,” I say, realizing the mood had shifted a bit.
“Thank you. I barely remember all of it. I was so young when we lost her.” Olivia turns away from me and focuses on familiarizing herself with the kitchen, muttering astonished praise under her breath. “Do you use this a lot? The kitchen, I mean.”
I suppress a laugh and shake my head. “The microwave, yes. Everything else has probably been used a handful of times. I don't cook.”
She opens the fridge to see frozen meals and takeout containers and turns around, raising her eyebrows. “I can tell.”
“Walk me through the menu.” I'm sure she has an idea of what she's making, but as I look at the wide array of ingredients spread out on the counter, I have no idea what she's doing.
“It'll be a five-course meal with an amuse-bouche, an appetizer, a seafood entree, a main dish, and dessert,” she says, a smile growing on her lips. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a notebook filled with various recipes and menus, then flips to a page for me to look at.
Scallops, foie gras, lobster ravioli, wagyu steak with truffle oil and homemade pesto, and a hazelnut trifle for dessert.
It seems like a lot for one person to handle, especially one who only recently graduated from culinary school.
“Are you sure you can handle all this? Do you have anyone you can call to lend a hand?”
“Trust me, I've got it,” Olivia says, nodding and flashing me a confident smile. “Cooking is all about time management. As long as I stay on track, everything will go smoothly. You don't have to worry about me.”
Even if I have my doubts, I have no choice but to trust her. She doesn't know how much is potentially riding on this, and I don't feel that stressing her out by telling her will accomplish anything, so I just nod and leave the kitchen to finish my dinner preparations.
I run through the house, ignoring my growling stomach as the smell of freshly cooked scallops lingers in the air, tidying everything up and setting the table.
Every so often, I pop into the kitchen to check on Olivia, and the more I do it, the more frustrated she grows.
That's her domain, and I should trust her.
The fact that I'm not seems condescending and tiring, but I can't help myself.
The first guests ring the doorbell around five.
“Kiera, John! How are you?” I say as I take the jackets and lead my father’s lawyer and her husband inside.
“Can I get you a drink?” They both nod, and I hang their jackets in the entryway closet before running back into the kitchen.
Olivia is standing in front of the stove with pots and pans filled with food. “How are your wine skills?”
“Excellent,” she says confidently, pointing to several bottles on the counter. “I grabbed some wine pairings from the liquor store based on the menu.”
I walk to the counter where the wine bottles are and see myriad wine ranging from rich, red merlot to sweet, dry white. I see the years on the labels and know they're expensive. “Perfect. I don't want to know how much this put me back, though.”
“Trust me, you don’t,” she laughs, turning back to the stove to stir something.
Within the hour, everybody shows up, and I bring them to the living room to share a drink while we wait for the first course to be served. My father is the last to arrive, and as I play the gracious host role as well as I can, I occasionally see him nodding at me proudly.
At 7 p.m. sharp, just as I requested, Olivia appears in the living room and smiles with her hands behind her back. “The first course is ready if you would like to join me in the dining room.”
The group follows Olivia, who walks assuredly through my house as if she's the one paying the mortgage. In my earlier preparations, I put place cards on the table for everyone. I take a seat at the head of it with my father at the other end.
Starting with my father, Olivia brings plates to each person, and they all gush over how elegant the dish is plated.
A small forest-green plate with a perfectly seared scallop rests over a bed of white puree.
I hate seafood, and if I weren't in front of my father and others who he holds in very high regard, I would prefer not to eat it. But even I think it smells amazing.
“Excuse me, Chef, would you be kind enough to tell us what the dishes are?” my father asks, watching Olivia excitedly.
“Of course,” she says, holding a bottle of Pinot Grigio in her hands as she prepares to pour it into long-stemmed glasses.
“We begin with an amuse-bouche, which is a French term for a small bite that will awaken your senses for the rest of the meal. It’s an oven-seared scallop delicately placed over a bed of pureed cauliflower and lemon juice, topped with a light, airy black truffle foam.
This will be paired with a 1918 Pinot Grigio. ”
Olivia makes her rounds, pouring our drinks before bowing and taking her leave to prepare the next dish. When she's gone, we bite into our scallops, making sure to taste the cauliflower puree. Everyone is silent for the first time as they savor the delicate flavors.
“Wow,” Kiera finally says, causing everyone else to break out of their stupors and offer their praise. I'm so amazed to find it palatable that I'm speechless.
Not long after, Olivia brings out the appetizer, which is an expertly plated round foie gras with soft, savory brie chunks splattered on the plates and a vibrant red sauce smeared above it all. Once again, we're impressed by the perfect balance of flavors.
“I've never been a fan of foie gras until now,” my father says as he slowly indulges.
The next dish is brought out, and everyone is stunned to silence at seeing three surprisingly green ravioli over a bed of sauce.
“For your entrée, I have prepared a homemade lobster ravioli.
The pasta is homemade from scratch with a mixture of greens in the dough, but don't let it scare you; it tastes just like any regular pasta. The ravioli is served over a garlic butter and lemon emulsion.”
Unsurprisingly, everybody is amazed by the dish.
I was originally excited to see ravioli on the menu because it's a dish I enjoy but learning there was lobster inside was a disappointment.
However, Olivia has made it so delicate and appetizing that I could eat this every day for the rest of my life.
If I were on death row and could have one last meal, I would choose this lobster ravioli.
The next dish is a wagyu beef steak with a pesto sauce on the side. The truffle sauce on the steak enhances the tenderness, and it practically melts in my mouth.
“Drake, you have to tell us where you found her,” John says after sipping the heady merlot Olivia paired with this.
“She's the private chef at the firm,” I say with pride.
“If the state of your business hasn't encouraged me to invest, the promise of going to your office for more of this will,” he says with a hearty laugh. “I read an article in Forbes about your business last week. You're breaking into the medical field now?”
“I figure if I can’t use my business to invest in things that matter, I'm doing business wrong,” I say, setting down my fork and knife to sip the wine.
I'm peppered with questions from everyone about my business plans and where I see it down the line.
Suddenly, this friendly dinner has turned into a business meeting, and I do my best to put on a professional face.
While I've had conversations with everyone here about the company countless times before, none have entertained the idea of working with me professionally until now.
Olivia brings out dessert, and it's the perfect end to the meal. Everyone around the table raves over the dish, and we chat about recent events in each other's lives, turning the subject away from business.
After the meal wraps up, everybody is full and happy, dopamine rushing through our bodies after the impeccable meal. I had many doubts about Olivia before tonight, and she squashed all of them. I couldn't be more impressed.