Cooked

Driving home from work, I had plenty to think about. No dull moments being head chef of a restaurant. But the last several days had been crazy. I admit to bringing much of it upon myself.

Every day this week Socrates personally delivered flowers to me. Why would this bigshot restauranteur give me flowers? I’m nobody. No way he’s wooing me. We’re competitors, with restaurants in the same neighborhood. Admittedly, his is higher end.

Did he know what I did? If so, why the flowers? If not, why the flowers?

It made no sense.

Monday. That’s when it started. Well, before Monday, but that’s when he came to my door.

I wondered, ‘is he stalking me?’ I opened the door and he shoved a huge bouquet of flowers into my hands. That was weird enough. But why the huge smile? Had he intended to present me with flowers everyone knows I’m allergic to? Why?

While coughing, my second thought was, ‘Is he stupid?’ Then, ‘No. Of course not…’

My friend, Maisie saw the whole thing. She took the bouquet and disposed of it.

He stood there while I braced myself against the door frame. After I finished hacking, I asked him, “Why?”

He apologized for my discomfort. I had to accept. So, he humbled himself and I had to be the bigger person and forgive his disingenuous mistake.

What’s that smell? Are we in Denmark?

So, Tuesday came and he brought flowers again. Non-allergenic, thankfully. But again, why?

Wednesday, the same. And Thursday.

I said, “Thanks. But yesterday’s flowers are still on my table. Why are you bringing bouquets on top of bouquets to me? Planning a funeral?”

He smiled, an insidious sphinx. “I want you to know you’re valued. I appreciate you.”

No discernable sarcasm. No irony. No wink, wink, nudge, nudge. No rug pull. I don’t get the joke. What’s the catch?

Did he have no idea what I’d done? Was this part of a diabolical plan to gain my trust only to rain retribution down on me? What is his end game? Take over my restaurant and livelihood? Destroy my life? With flowers? Hmmm…

After he left, Maisie, who knew the whole story, laughed. “Hubba-hubba!”

“What?”

She sang, “Dagmar has a boyfriend…” She giggled behind her hand like a little girl. It was silly. And disgusting.

“Shut up!”

Then we both cracked up. It was too ridiculous to take seriously.

Traffic was light and I live close to the restaurant. I pulled up before my house and I admired its gingerbread style. I paid to have a figure placed at the foot of the walkway. Remember those old-fashioned valets? Only this valet looks like a gingerbread man. Like my house! Get it?

I told myself - anyone would have done it. Socrates would have. Opportunity is a mother. Or, so they say.

Stupid move? Of course. I first met Socrates last week when he gave local chefs a tour of his new, gourmet, Cajun style restaurant. We got to see it before opening day. It was impressive.

I hated it.

But Socrates would understand. He’s a businessman. There’s only so many discretionary dollars floating around. Add another restaurant… a fancy pants, ethnic sit-down, in a roof top view penthouse, no less… You’ve got less moolah to go around for our down-to-the-cobblestones eateries. No way around it.

I mean, know thyself, Socrates… Where does he get off with his high-toned etouffee, gumbo, jambalaya, slumgullion? Enough with the rarified, airified, sophisticated palettes spinning atop uplifted noses. No more lobster and escargot for you culinary snobs. We’ve got hogwash boiled crawfish for thee! Cute little guys…

It made me sick to my stomach. And not because of the food. That was delicious. Best ever! But because of what I knew his Cajun extravaganza would do to my shrinking bottom line.

So, his recipe notebook lay on a prep table in the kitchen. Lonely… it begged for attention. No one saw. Anyone could have filched it. Know what I mean? Almost without effort, it slipped into my purse.

I figured it was the price one pays for acceptance. Like a hazing. No big deal.

And if I added a delicious little gumbo to my menu, is that a crime? So, now he’s cornered the gumbo trade?

But then I thought of the flowers. Why the flowers? Does he know? Did he plant the recipe book to see who would take it? Were there cameras? Was I set up? Maybe it’s a fake! Spying on his guests...? Entrapment? What a jerk!

I sat in my car, me and my gingerbread valet, mulling over the last week. I needed to go in, take my shoes off, get a drink and chill.

Sheesh! Why does life have to be so complicated? Would he bring flowers today?

I opened the door.

A crowd of people were waiting in my living room. They yelled, “Surprise!”

I gasped and stepped back. I wanted to run. I thought, ‘No! Not tonight!’

My mind reeled. My birthday wasn’t for months. Why were all these people in my house screaming?

Then, ‘Socrates!’

He stood in the crowd with my parents. The three of them, grinning like banshees. Even Maisie stood there, smirking. And don’t forget flowers! Lots of them. Hope he got a discount.

I was surprised. Of course… nearly soiled myself. What an entrance that would be.

But I feigned joy… Happiness… Exhilaration… Yikes!

‘What’s his plan? How far will he go? Has he turned everyone against me? Even my parents?’ Though, I admit, they’ve always been on the fence with me.

The trio marched forward to greet me. My father beamed. More exuberant than ever.

My mother exclaimed, “Were you surprised?”

I said, “My…! How could I not…? Wha… What’s the occasion?”

“That’s it. No occasion. But to surprise you!”

“Okay. That’s done… Can I watch my show now?”

“No. Come eat. Socrates… You know Socrates…?”

He smiled as our eyes met. I couldn’t read him.

My mother continued. “He’s behind all this. He catered the most exquisite dinner… Come…”

‘Of course…’

She grabbed my hand and pulled me to the buffet table filled with Socrates’ most scrumptious fare. Piling my plate with innumerable delicacies, she raved on.

“This food is delicious!” Socrates approached. Mummy said, “You must give me the recipe…”

Grinning, he responded, “Or come by my restaurant. Then you won’t have dishes…”

Everyone laughed. How many knew about my theft? Anyone? Everyone?

Ever unconscious, she said, “You have one too? You and my daughter should get married. Build an empire!”

Socrates leaned and whispered. “All in time… good time…”

I thought my mother would swoon.

I understood everything. Socrates planned to lavish me with gifts and food. All the while, luring my friends and family into his alliance. He’d leave me destitute, with nothing but my gingerbread valet.

The sumptuous spread was delicious. Of course. Socrates is a top chef. He went all out. I felt defeated.

There must have been thirty people there. Employees, friends, family… He even invited DeMarco, who I stopped seeing months ago. But if you’re going to invite a bunch of people to my house, unannounced, why not DeMarco? Who cares about restraining orders? It’s a party!

Ah, DeMarco… Expecting to join the unemployment line at any moment, I decided I should devote my free time to writing a tell all. Try recouping my lost fortune. I needed to get my version, the truth, out before he told his. Watch for it.

My so-called friends approached, led by Maisie, with Maureen and Maxine in tow. Cooing and oohing, they waxed poetic about what a catch Socrates is.

“How did you do it?”

“What’s your secret?”

“You must get a ring. Set a date. Invite us. Make us your brides’ maids…”

Yada, effing yada… They were a veritable Greek chorus for my personalized tragedy. Had they no idea what was transpiring before us in real time?

The one with discernable intelligence, Maisie, took me aside. She said, “If you don’t want him, I’ll take him. Yum…”

I almost lost my delicious dinner. “Thanks, Maisie. I’ll keep you in mind…”

‘…In case I need help jumping from a bridge. Sheesh!’

Meanwhile, I kept my eye on DeMarco getting chummy with Socrates. Who knew what that pair might cook up? And I didn’t think it would be beignets.

I finished eating. Having barely set my napkin down, Socrates handed me a slice of beautifully decorated cake. The icing was all elegant swirls and scrolls. I hated to mar its perfection. All eyes were on me. To refuse it would be bad form and turn everyone against me.

‘What now?’

In a loud, clear voice, DeMarco said, “Watch out for the carbs, Dagmar… Have you seen your mother?”

I resisted having him wear the cake. Couldn’t decide whether to adorn his perfect haircut or his embroidered suit jacket.

Please tell me why this was happening to me. Was this all because I stole Socrates’ most popular recipes? Is this fair recompense? Hardly.

If that were it, why throw me a party?

I’d burn his house down if he did that to me.

But there we were. My folks raving about him. My girlfriends flirting with him. DeMarco becoming his BFF.

It occurred to me that his burning my house down would be a blessing compared to enduring this.

Then I got it. Socrates is a genius.

Any reaction but gratitude, to his killing me with kindness, would only make me look bad. I had to accept it. Eat the cake with gritted teeth and smile at his gracious acts of generosity.

Was it poisoned? No. Too obvious…

If I rejected it, I’d look like a bitch. If I kicked them all out, I’d look like a bitch. He was a hero in everyone’s eyes. A Greek god.

Cornered, I had to smile blandly, say nothing and watch him poach all my friends to be his customers.

Did anyone know what I’d done? Did everyone know? No matter. Either way, I was cooked. Doomed. Fricasseed.

Yes, I made an error in judgement. In a moment’s weakness I stole his recipes. I needed them. It wouldn’t hurt him. He still had copies. My customers liked my versions.

Big deal. No harm. No foul.

He deserved it. Socrates is such a putz. So smooth and sophisticated, with his vaguely Euro trash accent. Grinning like a baboon while my mother fawned on him…

I didn’t have a choice. I ate the cake. Nothing so bitter ever tasted so sweet.

The party wound down. Most everyone had left. I walked up to him. He smiled.

I said, “You win. You’re the best. Great party, by the way…”

He took a moment. “It’s said that ‘one should steal from the best.’ But no. You have it wrong.” He gestured to the party’s remnants. “How can you steal what is intended as a gift?”

I didn’t know what to say. I had so many questions. How did he know? Why was he doing this?

He continued. “Really. It’s not about winning. We… you and I, provide a service and do no one a favor if either of us fails. We win when our customers return.”

I thought, ‘Hang on. Here comes the lecture…’

Then he said, “We need to work together… Ally to provide quality to our customers. That’s what brings them back.”

My mouth moved but no words came out.

“You’re talented. Let’s put our heads together. We each have so much to offer.”

The room spun quietly. ‘Is this it? He wants cooperation? My trust? Does he know what I did?’

I nodded. “Like I said, ‘You win…’”

We bumped fists.