"I do!" Alistair shouts, his eyes misting over with a fond, distant memory. "I spent a weekend there with a delightful sculptor named Helmut. He worked in leather. Exclusively leather. We spent three days in a basement in Kreuzberg discussing...structural tension."
The table goes silent. Jax chokes on his water. Preston’s pen stops moving.
"He had a very firm grip on his materials," Alistair continues, oblivious to the silence. "Helmut believed that true art required... submission to the form. We didn't sleep. We just drank schnapps and... collaborated. It was a very intense cultural exchange. I still have the harness he made me."
"Harness?" Luke squeaks.
"For the orchids!" Alistair clarifies quickly, though he winks at Preston. "To hang the pots! Obviously! But looking at this cake? It reminds me of the wall before Helmut and I... dismantled some barriers. I hate it. It is repressive. Next!"
Mother looks like she has swallowed a lemon. "Alistair. Please. Stop talking about Helmut."
"You never liked Helmut," Alistair sighs. "He was too free for you. Too tactile. Too liberating."
Concept 2: The Ethereal.
Pierre quickly unveils the second option. It is a series of floating white spheres held together by spun sugar.
"Lychee and rose water foam," Pierre explains. "It vanishes on the tongue. It is a memory of a cake."
"Foam," Rosa says. She doesn't shout. She just says the word like a curse.
"It is elegant," Mother says. "Light. Airy. No crumbs."
"It’s air!" Alistair bangs the table. "Where is the cake, Pierre? I want cake! I want crumbs! I want to need a nap after I eat it! This is... this is a ghost! It has no soul, Catherine. Just like this conversation."
Mother stiffens. She turns slowly to look at him.
"If you want 'soul', Alistair, perhaps you should go back to your greenhouse. Or wherever it is you spend your weekends. I hear the climate in Costa Rica is lovely this time of year."
The air leaves the room.
I freeze. Preston freezes. Even Pierre looks uncomfortable. She knows. Or she suspects. The "M. Santos" line item.
Alistair doesn't flinch. He smiles, but the warmth doesn't reach his eyes.
"It is lovely, Catherine. The soil is fertile. Things actuallygrowthere. Unlike here, where everything is paved over and frozen."
He turns to Pierre.
"Show me something real," Alistair commands. "Or I am leaving to call Helmut."
Pierre, looking terrified, signals for thethird platter.
Concept 3: The Inferno.
It is a chocolate cake. Dark, rich, and spiked with chili and gold leaf.
"Valrhona chocolate with a smoked chili ganache," Pierre whispers.
Jax sits up. "Hello, beautiful."
"Finally!" Alistair roars. "Chocolate! Passion! Fire!"
"It is messy," Mother sneers. "Chocolate stains the teeth. It is common."
"It is delicious!" Alistair counters. "It is the food of the gods! Why must everything be white and sterile with you, Catherine? Why must everything be aperformance? Can we not, for one moment, just enjoy the taste of something?"
"Because we are Yorks!" Mother snaps, slamming her hand on the table. "We do not 'enjoy'! We 'present'! We uphold a standard! And that standard does not include tropical shirts, leather harnesses, or chili powder!"
