The Salad and the Duck

After the toasts, Hyerim slips out of her seat and into the adjoining kitchen. The door, opened only for a brief moment, releases some delicious aromas that has my stomach grumbling. I offer some bread to Father and then Tiffany, taking a chunk for myself afterwards, and then pass on the loaf to Salome.

“Is Hyerim cooking up one of the dishes tonight?” I ask the curvy Colombian supermodel—my ex-step-mother, if I’m being precise, since Father is technically no longer married to her.

“She’s just doing a final check of the dishes before they’re served,” Salome replies, graciously accepting the bread. “She’s made it a habit after the chefs served up something she didn’t like too many times.”

“Well, if it’s anything to go by, the smell from the kitchen was incredible. Your family must have high culinary standards,” I remark, though inside, I am a little confused. I don’t remember the chefs ever messing up a dish back when I was growing up. We’ve always hired the best.

“We eat decently here,” Kara says, swirling the champagne in her glass. She glances down at it and smiles, taking a brief sip. “But we do like to pull out the stops for our guests of honour.”

The door to the kitchen opens up just then, Hyerim leading a line of waiters balancing delicate platters. There’s one waiter for the each of us, and the first proper course of the night is a salad featuring a morsel of two dozen different ingredients, leafy greens and berries and nuts and three dressings that I’ve never seen before. I dig in as the others do, savouring the tanginess of the mandarin paired with the faint crunch of almond on the back of my tongue, and then more flavours still as I have another mouthful and then another.

“Complements to the chef,” Madeleine says a minute later, somehow the first to clear her plate, though I hardly noticed her eating at all. “This is Gerard’s work? Let him know the touch of kurrajong seed was exquisite. It perfectly balanced out the acids, striking on the palate but not overwhelming.”

“I’ll convey your gratitude,” the waiter standing a few paces behind Maddie’s seat says.

“And this is how you lose your election,” Claire laughs. “Could you be more pretentious?”

“I know how to code switch,” Maddie protests, smoothly shifting into an Appalachian accent. “Not to discomfit you, but can I get a fixin’ of them sauce and slaw with that?” There’s a burst of laughter around the table, and then Maddie sets her fork on the plate, letting the waiter clear it off.

“At any rate,” she says, in her regular voice, “the Dems somehow picked a person more stuck-up than me for their race. I’m not going to lose to Herbert Vanderbilt for my pretentiousness.”

“You’re going to lose because he strings you up on healthcare,” Kara says, polishing off her own plate. “Did you see how he handled that press conferences this afternoon? He went right after our insurance division. It wasn’t much substance, but we’ve heard no response from your team.”

“I’m aware of what my challenger is doing, yes,” Maddie says. “But I’m not going to bother responding to him. We’re still six months out from the general election. Giving him attention now is what will make his press conference into an actual news cycle; it’ll die on its own this way.”

Father nods, apparently liking what he’s heard, and seconds later, the next course is served, a perfectly plated duck confit, and the conversation pauses as we savour the next course together.

“This should have had more thyme, added when the duck was cured,” Hyerim says, after taking a few bites. “There was only so much I could do in the kitchen earlier.”

“I’ll pass your comments on to the chef,” the waiter standing a few paces behind Hyerim says.

I, for my part, taste nothing wrong with the duck. It’s fucking delicious.

“I’m impressed with the confit,” I say, feeling bad for the chef who will doubtlessly receive a dressing down after this meal. “And I don’t say that as a total amateur to this kind of high dining. I’ve been invited to one or two other households of… comparable prestige to yours, to present my work, which I’m sure some of you are familiar with, and—”

I hear Holly Najbreit scoffing from the other side of the table. I turn to glance at her, and then hold the gaze when she doesn’t immediately speak up.

“Oh, it’s nothing that should be said to our guest tonight,” Holly says, as I continue regarding her.

The tension across the table instantly ratchets up a notch. So Holly’s got something to say about me?

“Speak freely, I’m not one to be offended,” I say.

“As the person at this table most qualified at the table to comment on the matter, your work is, both literally and figuratively, complete trash. Although I suppose you shouldn’t be offended by this, since you’re here tonight on the merits of your business acumen, and not on the basis of any artistic talent that you might possess.”