Chapter 10: The Dinner Service
1967 Words
(Amara’s POV)
I thought the cooking lesson was dangerous. I was wrong.
Dinner was worse.
It started with a card. Samuel, the waiter who acted as our personal messenger pigeon, dropped it on my counter on Wednesday afternoon.
It was a heavy cream-colored card with gold lettering.
Ms. Amara,
You have seen the kitchen. Now experience the dining room.
Dinner for two. 8:00 PM. Tonight.
Dress code: Something that makes you feel beautiful.
- Tunde.
I stared at the card. My heart did a slow heavy thud against my ribs.
"Dinner for two?" I muttered. "Who is the second person?"
I looked up at Samuel. He just grinned and shrugged before running back across the street.
I sat down on my stool. My hands were shaking slightly. I thought about yesterday. I thought about the heat of his kitchen. I thought about the way he stood behind me at the stove. He had been so humble. He had listened to me. For a few minutes in that steam-filled kitchen he wasn't the arrogant billionaire. He was just a man who loved food as much as I did.
I remembered the way his chest felt against my back when he reached for the spoon. The memory made my skin prickle.
Did I want to go? Yes.
Should I go? Probably not.
But I looked at the card again. Something that makes you feel beautiful.
I closed Baba’s Pot at 4:00 PM. I ignored the confused looks of a few customers.
"Emergency," I lied.
I took Danfo back to Surulere. The traffic on Eko Bridge was building up but I didn't care. My mind was already in my closet.
I got home and tore through my wardrobe. I owned jeans. I owned aprons. I owned hoodies. I did not own "dinner with a billionaire" clothes.
Finally I found it. It was a deep emerald green dress I had bought for a cousin’s wedding three years ago. It wrapped around my waist and had a slit that was just modest enough for church but high enough for... trouble.
Then I faced the mirror.
My hair.
My thick 4C hair was currently hidden under my bonnet in six large, rough cornrows. I had been meaning to go to the salon to braid it properly but I hadn't found the time.
I touched the rough lines of the cornrows. There was no time to wash and blow-dry and struggle with my natural hair. I would be late.
I reached for the mannequin head on my dresser. On it sat my "emergency" wig. It was a long bone-straight unit I had bought with my savings two years ago for special occasions. It was silky and expensive.
I put on my wig cap. I adjusted the wig carefully. I laid my edges with gel until they were swooped to perfection.
I applied my makeup. I put on my only pair of gold heels.
I looked in the mirror. The girl staring back didn't look like the struggling owner of a Buka. She looked like a woman who belonged in Victoria Island.
"Who are you?" I whispered to the reflection. "And what are you doing going on a date with the enemy?"
It wasn't a date. It was... research. That was what I told myself.
I called a taxi. I wasn't going to arrive at The Garnish sweating from a bus ride.
The taxi dropped me off in front of the restaurant at 7:55 PM.
I stepped out of the car. The night air was humid. Across the street Baba’s Pot was dark and locked up tight. But The Garnish was glowing like a jewel box.
I clutched my purse and crossed the road. My heels clicked on the pavement.
The doorman opened the glass door for me.
"Good evening Ma’am. He is waiting for you."
He led me through the dining room. It was full. There were couples whispering over candlelight. There were men in suits drinking wine that cost more than my rent. Soft jazz played from invisible speakers.
I felt heads turn as I walked by. I held my head high. The wig gave me confidence.
The doorman didn't take me to a table. He took me to the Chef’s Table.
It was a semi-private booth right next to the open kitchen. A glass wall separated the table from the action. I could see everything.
And I could see Tunde.
He was standing at the pass where the finished dishes were plated. He wasn't wearing the casual t-shirt from Monday. He was in his full chef whites again. He looked sharp. Commanding.
He looked up. His eyes locked onto mine through the glass.
He stopped moving. He stopped breathing.
He said something to his sous-chef and walked out of the kitchen door to my table.
He stopped in front of me. His eyes swept over the green dress. They lingered on my neck. They traveled down to my heels and back up to my face.
"Amara," he said. His voice was low and rough. "You look..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. The way he looked at me made my knees weak.
"You clean up nice too Neighbor," I managed to say.
He pulled out my chair. "Please. Sit."
"Where is the second person?" I asked. I gestured to the empty chair opposite me. "The card said dinner for two."
Tunde sat down in the empty chair. "I am the second person. Tonight I am not the chef. I am your date."
My heart hammered. "But... your kitchen. It is busy."
"They can survive without me for an hour. Marcus knows the drill." He leaned forward. The candlelight reflected in his dark eyes. "I wanted to watch you eat."
And he did.
He didn't order from the menu. The waiters just brought food. Endless plates of food.
There was a tiny tart filled with something that tasted like caramelized onions and heaven. There was a soup that was poured from a silver jug. There was a piece of fish so tender I didn't even have to chew it.
But I could barely taste it.
Because Tunde was watching me.
He wasn't eating much. He was just drinking wine and watching my reaction to every bite.
"Do you like it?" he asked after I tasted the lamb.
"It melts," I whispered. "How do you do that?"
"Low heat. Patience. And a lot of butter." He smiled. "I'm glad you like it. I made the sauce myself before you arrived."
He poured more wine into my glass. We talked. We didn't talk about generators or wiring or Jollof wars. We talked about travel. He told me about learning to cook in Italy. He told me about how lonely it was living in hotels.
I told him about my father. I told him about how Baba’s Pot was the only thing I had left of him.
"He would be proud of you," Tunde said softly. "You have his fire."
"And his stubbornness," I added.
"I like the stubbornness," Tunde said. He reached across the table. His fingers brushed against my hand. "It keeps me on my toes."
The air between us changed. It became thick. Electric. The sounds of the restaurant faded away.
I looked at his hand covering mine. His fingers were long and elegant. These were the hands that created art on a plate. These were the hands that fixed my generator. These were the hands that held mine over the stove yesterday.
I looked up at his face. He was looking at my lips.
He leaned in. I leaned in.
The glass wall of the kitchen was right there. His staff could see us. The customers could see us.
I didn't care.
I wanted to know what he tasted like. I wanted to know if he tasted like chocolate or red wine or trouble.
"Chef!"
A waiter appeared at the table. He looked panicked. "Chef, I am so sorry. The VIP table sent back the risotto. They say it is too salty."
The moment shattered.
Tunde pulled back. He looked at the waiter. His eyes turned cold and professional instantly.
"Excuse me Amara," he said. He stood up. "I have to handle this."
He walked back into the kitchen. I watched him through the glass. I saw him taste the risotto. I saw him say something sharp to the line cook. I saw him grab a pan and start cooking himself.
He moved with such power. Such authority. He was in his element.
And I was sitting there in a dress I couldn't afford watching a billionaire fix a mistake that cost more than my weekly earnings.
I suddenly felt very small. The magic of the wig and the dress evaporated. I wasn't part of this world.
I stood up. I couldn't be the girl waiting for the rich man to finish his work.
I opened my purse to see if I had a pen and luckily I did, took it out and wrote a note on a napkin. ‘Thank you for the meal. It was magic’.
I left it on the table and slipped out the side door before he could look up again.
I got home to my empty apartment in Surulere and it felt colder than usual. I kicked off my heels, took off the wig and placed it back on the mannequin. I was just Amara again with my rough cornrows.
I sat on the edge of my bed.
I felt guilty.
I had almost kissed him, I had almost kissed Tunde.
But what about ChefX?
ChefX was the one who listened to me when I was sick, he was the one who knew my fears, was the one I texted before I went to sleep and the first one I checked on in the morning.
I felt like I was cheating. I was falling for the physical man in front of me but my heart belonged to the one in my phone.
I grabbed my phone. I needed to confess. I needed to tell someone.
Me (SpiceGirl): I made a mistake tonight Chef.
I waited. It was late. Tunde was definitely still at the restaurant dealing with the risotto crisis. ChefX was my safe space.
Me (SpiceGirl): I went to dinner with him. The neighbor. And I almost let him kiss me.
The reply didn't come for a long time. When it finally buzzed my heart jumped.
User77 (ChefX): Why was that a mistake?
Me (SpiceGirl): Because he isn't you.
I stared at the words I had just typed. I had said it. I had admitted it.
Me (SpiceGirl): I like him, Chef. He is charming and handsome and he cooks like a god. But he scares me. You don't scare me. I feel like... I feel like I'm betraying you by liking him.
I waited for his reply. I needed him to tell me it was okay. I needed him to tell me to follow my heart.
But he didn't reply.
He just read it.
Read at 11:45 PM.
I turned off the light and lay in the dark feeling like I had just broken something fragile.
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