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“It feels like Christmas out here. I love it,” she gushed.
“Bon appétit!Or as you Americans say, dig in!” When Frannie took the first bite, she was overwhelmed. Flavors of morels and asparagus washed over her. She’d never had a lasagna so delicious.
“This white sauce is fantastic. You must give me your recipe.”
“Ha-ha. You are such a comedienne. I never give away my recipes,” he said, smiling.
“Seriously?”
“Yes. I am very serious about this. My recipes are like my children. I nurture them and watch them grow. The bad ones I burn.” Frannie looked worried. “That was a joke.” J. B. laughed.
“Consider it professional courtesy,” she said. J. B. laughed again. But he was confused. What did she mean? “I’m not just the co-owner of Shepherd Winery. I’m also the chef for the farm-to-table restaurant called—” And before Frannie could say the name of her restaurant, J. B. interrupted her.
“Shepherd’s Cafe! I read about it online. I’ve been meaning to go there.”
“Really?” Now it was her turn to sound incredulous.
“Whenever I go on location, I always like to check out the hot local restaurants. It was fortuitous that I met you at the market,” J. B. said exuberantly. “So, tell me about your restaurant.”
There was nothing Frannie loved more than to talk about Shepherd’s Cafe. J. B. only had eyes for her. He didn’t notice the art department dismantling the Christmas tree and taking apart the set behind him. Frannie didn’t notice either. Both their eyes were filled with excitement.
“It’s farm-to-table. We source all our produce and meat locally. And, of course, we pair our wines with the meals.”
“Of course.” J. B. listened closely.
“I try to rotate the menus, but my favorite thing is to have a chef’s surprise each night.”
“Fantastique,” J. B. exclaimed as he clapped his hands together.
“When the guest orders the chef’s surprise, they take a leap of faith as they have absolutely no idea what I’m going to make for them.”
“That’s a brilliant idea. I love it. One day when I own a farm-to-table restaurant I am going to put the chef’s surprise on my menu too.” J. B.’s eyes were shining.
“How long have you been a caterer for movies?” Frannie wondered.
“Too long. It’s really not what I set out to do. After the CIA—”
“The Culinary Institute?”
“Of course.”
“Good, because I was worried that you might be a spy or something.” Frannie and J. B. laughed. “But please, continue.”
“After culinary school, my plan was to open a restaurant where I could be the chef. But I couldn’t find any investors, so I heard about a quick way to make some money working as a movie caterer. My plan was to earn and save for two years and then open my own restaurant. That was twenty-five years ago,” J. B. admitted with chagrin.
“Life doesn’t always turn out the way you plan.” Frannie knew that she was also talking about herself. J. B. nodded in agreement.
Frannie never thought it would be possible to go on a date again, much less really enjoy it. She’d heard the term “movie magic” and felt that it now applied to her. Without the movie, she would never be sitting with J. B. Who knew what was going to happen next? She looked forward to finding out.
