“More wine?” I pour the rest of the bottle into their glasses the way Chester taught me, rotating the bottle so none of it spills out. “How were your appetizers?”
“Delicious,” Julia says, before either of our parents can get a word in. “The scallops were cooked perfectly.”
“And the duck was quite clever,” Mom says. “The plum sauce was delicious.”
“Amazing,” says Caroline. “And Poppy, it’s absolutely stunning in here.”
I beam at the praise, lacing my fingers behind my back. “Dad?”
“Very impressive so far.” He takes a sip of wine. “I know what thisrestaurant looked like before. Caroline’s right, it’s quite the transformation. And the crowd here—you’ve garnered a lot of attention. Bret and I are planning to compare notes after the meal.”
“I knew it would have to be beautiful to lure down the New York crowd.”
He considers that with a nod. “The appetizers were superb. Are you picking our entrées, as well?”
“You’ll love everything,” I promise. I glance at Julia, who has her head cocked to the side as she looks at me. “What?”
“Nothing,” she declares. “I just like this version of you.”
After I put in their main course orders, I sweep around the dining room again, thanking guests for giving us a chance, smoothing out the odd complaint, and recommending different dishes from the menu. It feels a little like when I was an influencer—the same smile, the same friendliness—but none of it is put on like it was when I knew I had to present myself as @itspoppywinfield.
I keep track of the timing, heading to the kitchen when it’s time to serve my family their entrées. Jack startles when I enter, losing his rhythm for half a second before regaining it; he’s collected, unhurried in his movements, tweezers in hand as he plates.
“How is it going?”
“They’re loving it so far. Everyone is.”
“A woman didn’t like the cook on her steak.”
“I handled it.” I smile at him. “For my family?”
“The guests of honor.” He slides the plates across to me, one at a time. “How does your father seem?”
“He said the appetizers were superb.” I carefully take two of the plates in hand; I don’t trust my balance with all four at once. “Maybe you can get away for a second to say hi? I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to leave the guys in the weeds here without me.”
“Over dessert, then.” I wish I could kiss him, but the pass is between us, and anyway, he’ll shoo me out himself if I linger too long. When he calls for hands, he means hands now.
I set the plates down in front of my parents, Julia, and Caroline carefully, making sure they’re rotated the right way—because there is a right way, when the food is composed like art—before steppingback and allowing them to pick up their utensils. I chose the pasta for my mother, who loves mushrooms; grouper with burst tomatoes in a coconut milk sauce for Caroline—that’s one of Sal’s recipes, updated by Jack for Fable; and an upscale take on shrimp and grits for Julia.
She looks up at me, eyes dancing. “Is this an apology for what happened at my wedding?”
“From who, me or Jack?”
“Maybe both of you together,” she teases.
I hope my blush isn’t showing. “And Dad, I definitely wanted you to try this one. It’s the first concept we came up with for the menu. It was my idea, actually.”
“You had an idea for the menu?”
“I contributed to more than half of what’s on the menu. This particular dish is meant to remind you that sometimes the best food memories are simple.” I gesture to the foil packet, which Jack somehow managed to arrange artfully amid the potatoes and asparagus. The fragrant smell of fish escapes along with the curl of steam over the plate. “Jack has been teaching me how to cook. He’s been doing that since the beginning.”
“Really?” Julia says. “That’s amazing, Pops.”
Somehow, Dad doesn’t seem all that surprised, but he smiles. “I wouldn’t take Hartman for a very patient teacher.”
“Nope,” I say cheerfully. “He dragged his feet every step of the way.”
