Taste Of You

Catastrophe On A Plate

Chapter 4 – Catastrophe on a Plate

A month later…

“Congratulations, Hart.”

I looked up from my desk, and my editor Marla was leaning against the glass door chewing the end of a pen.

“For what?” I asked. I'd only gotten this job as a junior food reviewer—which mostly entailed reviewing restaurants and making articles about it—a month ago, after that horrible engagement party.

“On your first solo assignment, and it's a big one too.” She dropped a folder on my desk. “It's a scoop on Luca Deveraux's new Manhattan restaurant. It's named Deveraux. It's quite a sexy name, if you ask me.”

The pen in my hand nearly snapped. “You’re kidding.” ever since our one night stand, i haven't talked to my dad or his friend, and I liked it that way, until now.

Marla smirked. “Why would I kid about five-star food? The reservation’s booked for tomorrow night. Don’t screw it up.”

I stared at the folder like it might bite me. “You could have given this to someone else. How do you know I'm ready for this? I just started last month.”

“I could have.” She pushed off the doorframe. “But you’ve got teeth. The investors want honest reviews, not fluff. And you, so far…” she pointed her pen at me. “you don’t hold back, and that’s why I hired you.”

“Right,” I muttered, swallowing down the bile that rose up. “Thanks.”

She moved away and then came back, still pointing her pen at me. “Dress nice and smile. I hear he's handsome.” She winked and walked away.

I glanced at the folder and made a face. His name was printed across in bold red letters and it felt like I was being mocked.

Luca Devereaux…

*****

The restaurant was located in upper Manhattan. Waiters walked around in black uniforms carrying trays like they were balancing jewels. I sat at a corner table, with a notebook, trying not to draw any attention to myself.

But it was useless. My editor had told the restaurant that I would be coming.

The maître d’ approached me. “Welcome, Ms. Hart. Chef Devereaux sends his regards.”

Of course he did. I forced a smile back. “Tell him I’m honored.” Honored and still furious.

The first plate arrived. A delicious looking platter of oysters dressed with foam so delicate it looked like hair spray. I took a bite and closed my eyes. The salt hit perfectly, followed by the taste of citrus so sharp it almost stung. My pen hovered over the paper.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” my friend Clara whispered. She’d tagged along as my plus-one, eyes wide at the glittering room.

“Good isn’t the word,” I said. “It’s… flawless.”

“Then why do you look like you want to stab someone with your fork?”

I sighed in response. “Because I do.”

I scribbled in my notebook. There was no way in hell I would see an opportunity to take revenge on Luca and not use it.

So I wrote, ‘overstyled, and the plate screams for attention instead of wetting appetites.’

Clara, who'd been staring at my notebook, sighed “You’re insane. This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“Maybe,” I muttered, lifting the next bite to my mouth. It was actually the best thing I've ever eaten as well, but my taste for revenge was everything.

Dish after dish came, each one better than the last.

There was duck with lavender honey and the pasta was so thin that it melted on my tongue. For dessert we were sever chocolate spheres that when cracked open, revealed gold. My notes, however, didn't get better.

“Let me guess,” Clara said after dessert. “You’re going to rip him apart.”

I closed the notebook with a snap. “Absolutely.”

The next morning, Marla leaned over my desk, and wiggled her eyebrows. “Well?”

I pushed the notebook over to her. “Here.”

She browsed it quickly, and then the corners of her mouth pulled down into a frown. “‘A catastrophe of arrogance on a plate’? Damn, Isabelle.”

“Too much?” I asked, though my voice didn’t sound sorry.

“It’s brutal,” she said, grinning. “And brilliant. This’ll get people talking.”

I leaned back, arms crossed. “Good. Let them talk.”

“Are you very sure about this?” she asked.

“Completely.”

Marla looked at me a second longer and then shrugged. “Your funeral, or his. Either way, it’s going to blow up.”

It did.

Within twenty-four hours, my review was everywhere. Screenshots on Twitter. Quotes on food blogs. Investors pulled out of Devereaux’s new project before dinner service. A rival critic called it “the death blow to a chef who thought he was untouchable.”

At lunch, Clara dropped the paper on my desk. “You’ve started a war.”

I pretended to be calm, sipping coffee. “He’ll survive.”

“Will he?” She tapped the headline. “‘Hart Calls Devereaux a Catastrophe.’ People are saying you ended him.”

I swallowed. The word ended up scraping against something raw inside me.

Clara leaned closer. “I know you wanted to hurt him. Am I right?”

I set the cup down. “I wanted to be honest.”

“Belle.” she drawled…

I didn’t answer. I picked up my pen and underlined a sentence in my notes, as if that settled it.

The truth was, I hadn’t been honest. Not entirely. The food was extraordinary. I’d known that with every bite. But I couldn’t write extraordinary because try as I might, I could still hear Luca calling me a little girl…

So I’d written what I felt instead of what I tasted, and people believed me.

By the weekend, Luca disappeared. A rival chef told the Times he was “taking time to reflect.” and his investors scrambled to cover losses.

Marla burst into the office Monday morning, waving the latest magazine sales report. “You’re a star. Best-selling issue in six months. People love takedowns.”

I forced a smile. “Great.”

“Enjoy it,” she said. “This is your moment.”

My moment. The one I’d dreamed of. The one I thought would make me feel powerful.

Instead, all I felt was empty.

That night, Clara dragged me to a bar. “You should be celebrating,” she said, shoving a margarita into my hand.

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Too bad. You killed a giant. Cheers.”

I clinked my glass halfheartedly. “You sound like you admire him.”

“I do. And so did you, once.” She looked at me over her rim. “What happened?”

I sipped slowly, the salt cutting the sweetness. “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Drop it, Clara.”

She didn’t. “I saw the way you looked at him at that gala. Like you knew him.”

“I don’t,” I said sharply. “Not anymore.”

Her eyes softened. “So he broke your heart.”

I set the drink down too hard, liquid sloshing over the edge. “He didn’t break anything. He just… showed me what I already knew. I wrote the review because I wanted to remind him I’m not a child. I can destroy him if I want to.”

The words left a bitter taste, even stronger than the tequila. I remembered his laugh in the pool. The way his hand had steadied me when I stumbled. The warmth of his mouth against mine. And then I remembered his voice the next morning. She’s still a little girl.

“He deserved it.” I said aloud, even though the words felt hollow to me.