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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.