“Drink, drink,” he tells us. For a change, I do as I’m told.
Around a dish of creamy uni doused with caviar and yuzu juice, I feel that familiar flare-up and covertly palm a couple chalky Pepto’s into my mouth. I’m shoveled into my only suit for the first time since Kate’s dad died and the cheap pants already feel like they could blow any second.
“Eat, eat,” he commands.
The crowd is in awe. They bow in their seats between dishes, orgasmic faces puckered around each spoonful. Everyone bookends their compliments with “chef.” There’s a pillow-lipped Kardashian knock-off with a young Arabic guy who looks like some kind of prince or silent movie star. A couple bros in monogrammed cuffs speaking Mandarin. I know these types—extreme foodies who will eat anything for bragging rights.
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