23 NOAHWhat a public relations nightmare.
I’m at a charity event on behalf of Tate & Cane Enterprises. My new wife hasn’t been seen or heard from in two days; my best friend, Sterling, is slacking off—currently flirting with a waitress; and I’m standing here with a spatula in my hand, cursing them all a slow death under my breath.
We’re at a charity event at a soup kitchen. Supposedly, we’re doing good for the impoverished youths of our community, but it’s really just an excuse to empty the pockets of New York’s elite by serving them a very overpriced lunch. And considering I’m one of the cooks, I doubt it’ll taste like much. I enjoy cooking; I just rarely do it. I have one, maybe two recipes my mother used to make that I’ve mastered, and curried chicken salad isn’t one of them. The smel
