Nov. 14, 2024

The Grateful Game: (Episode 2 of 4) - "Heat and Spice"

The Grateful Game: (Episode 2 of 4) - "Heat and Spice"

During Marcus Reid's official review dinner at Sweet/Heat, Maya must maintain her professional facade while serving seven intimate courses to the man she shared a passionate night with in her wine cellar. But when Marcus's ex-wife Katherine appears at...

During Marcus Reid's official review dinner at Sweet/Heat, Maya must maintain her professional facade while serving seven intimate courses to the man she shared a passionate night with in her wine cellar. But when Marcus's ex-wife Katherine appears at the bar with warnings about Tuesday's upcoming underground dinner, and disturbing revelations about her father's scandal come to light, Maya realizes she's caught in a web of corruption larger than she imagined. As each course builds in intensity, Maya discovers that her elaborate game of masked desires might have deadly stakes, and the man she's falling for could be investigating more than just her kitchen. With her father missing and dangerous players revealing themselves, Maya must decide who's hunting whom in this complex dance of power, passion, and revenge.

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Calorogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This

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episode is titled The Grateful Game, Part two. Heat and Spice,

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A properly tempered chocolate breaks with a clean snap, no bend,

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no give, just pure, decisive fracture. The same could be

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said for control. Tonight, as Marcus Reed sits at my

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best table upstairs, I'm testing the temper of my own restraint.

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Chef. He's ordering the tasting menu. Sofia's voice carries a warning,

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all seven courses, of course he is. The tasting menu

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means I'll have to present each dish personally. Seven opportunities

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to maintain my professional mask while pretending I don't know

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how his fingers feel against my skin. Perfect, I say,

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reaching for my knife. Let's give Chicago's most feared critic

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something to write about. The regular dining room at Sweet

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Heat is my public face, elegant, controlled, proper Tonight, It's packed.

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Every table filled with guests pretending they're not watching Marcus

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Reed hold court. At table seven. He sits alone, his

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critics notebook open beside his water glass, his fingers wrapped

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around a pen instead of my wrist. I begin his

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first course Hamachi crudo with yuzukosho, pickled pear and shisso.

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Each slice of fish must be perfect, thin enough to

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be translucent, thick enough to hold its shape, like the

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line between professional and personal, Like the boundaries I crossed

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in that wine cellar. You're crushing the schiso, Sofia murmurs,

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touching my arm, and you've got that look what look,

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the one you get when you're plotting something, Dame, if

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she only knew the first course goes out exactly at seven.

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I approach his table with the practiced grace of a

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chef who hasn't seen her critic naked. Good evening, mister

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reed hamatchikrudo with Asian pair yuzukosho and hand torn shisso.

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His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I'm back

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in that cellar, masks on inhibitions, gone beautiful presentation, Chef Chen.

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His voice is professional, but his fingers brush mine as

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I set down the plate. The knife work is precise.

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I know what he's thinking. How I'd traced the edge

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of his wolf mask with the same precision. How I'd

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drawn my nails down his chest with surgical accuracy. The

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secret is in the blade. I reply, too sharp and

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you lose control. Too dull and you bruise the flesh.

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He picks up his chopsticks, never breaking eye contact. And

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which do you prefer, Chef? I believe in finding the

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perfect balance. I step back, my pulse racing. Enjoy your

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first course in the kitchen, Sofia hands me a glass

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of water. Want to tell me what that was about?

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What was about? That tension? Could have set off the

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fire alarms? She crosses her arms. I've never seen you

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like this with a critic, especially not one who destroyed

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your father. I turned to the second course preparation, letting

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the familiar motions calm my nerves. Just playing the game, Sophia,

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you know how critics love a show. Speaking of your father,

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she hesitates. He came by while you were at the table,

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said he had information about Marcus Reid, something about an investigation.

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My knife stills. What kind of investigation? He wouldn't say,

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but maya, She lowers her voice. I did some digging

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after the reservation came in. Read isn't just reviewing restaurants Lately.

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He's been linked to several FBI investigations into restaurant industry corruption,

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health code violations are just the surface. The pieces clicked together,

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his presence at my underground dinner, his careful study of

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my operation, the way he'd ask such specific questions between kisses.

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Had any of it been real? The memory of that

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night shifts takes on new shadows. One month earlier, tell

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me about your father, he'd murmured, his lips at my neck.

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We were still in the wine cellar, my back against

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the cool stone, his hands everywhere. You already know about

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my father, I'd arched into his touch. Everyone does I

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know what everyone knows? His fingers slid lower, making me gasp.

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I want to know what you know. Even lost in pleasure,

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I'd registered something in his tone, a hunger deeper than desire.

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Why he'd pulled back just enough to study my face

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behind my fox mask. Because I think you're more than

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James Chen's daughter. I think you're building something fascinating and dangerous, dangerous,

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I'd laughed, but it caught in my throat as his

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hand found bare skin. It's just dinner. Nothing is ever

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just dinner with you, Maya. The way he'd said my

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name like a secret, like a threat, like a promise.

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Present day, the second course demands my attention. Duck breast

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with five spice and burnt honey, pink inside skin, crackling

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crisp as I plate, I layer in fresno chilis not

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enough to overwhelm, just enough to make the back of

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the throat burn, to make him remember how I taste. Chef.

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My soux chef appears at my elbow. There's a woman

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asking for you at the bar. She has information about

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Tuesday's underground dinner, Tuesday, the night Marcus made his reservation

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for description blonde designer. Everything says her name is Catherine Read.

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The knife slips, nearly catching my finger. Marcus Read's ex wife,

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the food critic turned restaurant developer who'd been buying up

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failed restaurants all over Chicago, including my father's old properties.

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I meet Sofia's eyes across the kitchen. She gives me

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a subtle nod. She'll handle the pass while I deal

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with this new player. Catherine Reid sits at my bar

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like she owns it, and Martini untouched by her manicured hand.

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She's exactly as Google images showed, elegant, expensive, dangerous chef chen.

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She smiles with perfect teeth. That fox mask of Yours

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is exquisite, custom made, isn't it? My blood runs cold?

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She knows about the underground dinners, but how I don't

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know what you're talking about. I keep my voice level now,

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if you'll excuse me, I have a dining room to run,

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including my ex husband's table. Her smile sharpens. Tell me,

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does Marcus still have that scar on his left hip,

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the one that looks like a crescent moon. He does.

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I'd traced it with my tongue while he tangled his

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hands in my hair. I wouldn't know. My voice stays

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steady even as my mind races. Mister Reed is here

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as a critic, nothing more. Catherine laughs softly. Oh, honey,

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Marcus hasn't been just a critic in years. But you

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knew that, didn't you, Just like you know what really

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happened to your father's restaurants. Before I can respond, Sofia appears, Chef.

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The second course is ready saved by service. I turn

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away from Catherine's knowing smile, but her words follow me.

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Think carefully about Tuesday, Chef, chen. Some games are more

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dangerous than others. The duck breast steams gently on its

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bed of charred scallions. As I approach Marcus's table, his

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note book is full of neat scribblings. His first course

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plate cleaned precisely, professional, methodical, just like his touch had been.

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Five spiced duck, breast, burnt honey, gastric fresno chilis. I announce,

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setting down the plate. The heat builds slowly, best to

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let it develop on the tongue. He looks up, and

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for a split second I see recognition flash in his eyes.

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He remembers the way the wine cellar's temperature had risen

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with each kiss, How the heat between us had built

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just as slowly, just as inevitably. Interesting choice, using fresh

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chilies instead of dried, he says, his voice carrying to

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nearby tables, then softer, meant only for me. I've always

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appreciated how you play with fire. Chef Chen two can

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play at this game. I lean in, adjusting his napkin

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with practiced efficiency. The secret is knowing when to fan

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the flames, I murmur, and when to let them smolder.

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Back in the kitchen, my phone a text from an

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unknown number. Your father's been asking questions dangerous ones, signed

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with just the letter K. Catherine Read is playing her

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own game, but what's her angle? I think of my father,

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of his weekly drunken calls, of the questions he asks

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about my underground dinners. How much does he know? How

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much does she MAYA? Sophia appears at my side, her

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face grave. You need to see this. She leads me

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to her office computer, turns the screen toward me. It's

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an article from five years ago, buried in the Tribune's archives.

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Health inspector found dead after restaurant investigation. The inspector who'd

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been investigating my father's restaurants two days before Marcus's review

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was published. Keep reading, Sophia, says. My eyes scan the text.

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Suspicious circumstances, possible connection to larger industry investigation, FBI involvement,

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And there in the final paragraph, sources say the deceased

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had been working with food critic Marcus read on an

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expose of restaurant industry corruption. The pieces start shifting, forming

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a new picture. Marcus's review hadn't just been about bad

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health codes. He'd been hunting something bigger, someone bigger, and

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now he's hunting again. The third course is already in motion.

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Lobster dumplings in a ginger scallion broth, delicate as secrets.

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As I fold each wrapper, I think about masks, about games,

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about the thin line between hunter and hunted. My phone

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buzzes again. This time it's my father taking a meeting

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about the old restaurants. Possible buyer will call you after Dad.

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A chill runs through me. Catherine read buys failed restaurants.

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Marcus investigates corruption. My father takes mysterious meetings, and I'm

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in the middle, serving seven courses of what suddenly feels

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like revenge. The dining room hums with conversation. As I

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approach Marcus's table with the third course, he's writing in

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his notebook again, but his eyes find me the moment

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I step into view lobster dumplings, I say, setting down

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the bowl, the wrapper is thin enough to see what's inside,

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if you know what to look for. He picks up

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his spoon studies the translucent dumplings. Transparency can be deceiving, Chefchen.

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Sometimes what you think you see isn't the whole picture.

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And sometimes I lean close, adjusting the bowl's position. What's

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hidden is exactly what you expect. His hand brushes mine deliberately,

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this time Tuesday's dinner, he says softly, do you know

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who else is on the guest list? You know, I

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don't reveal that information, mister Reid, not even to save

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someone's life. Our eyes lock. The dining room fades away,

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leaving only this moment, this revelation, this choice.

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Maya.

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Sophia's voice cuts through the tension phone call. It's urgent

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in the office. Sophia hands me her cell. The caller

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ID shows a number I don't recognize, miss chen. A

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man's voice, official sounding. This is Detective Reeve's Chicago p D.

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We're trying to reach your father. He missed a meeting

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with us this afternoon, a meeting about what a pause.

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I'm not at liberty to discuss the details, but it's

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related to an ongoing investigation. If you hear from him,

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please have him contact us immediately. The call ends. Sophia

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watches me with worried eyes. Maya, what's going on? I

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think of Catherine's warning, of Marcus's question about saving lives,

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of my father's cryptic text. The game has changed. This

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isn't just about a review anymore. It's not even about revenge.

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I need you to.

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Do something for me. Tell Sophia, find out everything you

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can about Catherine Reid's restaurant acquisitions, especially the ones that

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failed after Marcus's reviews, Maya and I need to make

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a change to Tuesday's menu. I head back to the kitchen,

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my mind racing something special for mister Wolf. The fourth

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course awaits outside. The November wind picks up, rattling the

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windows like sheets of steel. A storm is coming to

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Chicago in more ways than one. Let them all play

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their games. I've got four more courses to serve. Each

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one a move in this dangerous dance, and by the

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time desert arrives, I'll know exactly who's wearing what mask.

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After all, some fires are meant to burn out of control.

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Romance Weekly is a production of Calaroga Shark Media executive

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produce users Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this

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podcast may have been created with the assistance of Ai

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Calaruga Shark Media.