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The server brings out a platter, and all I can do is stare. On a long, flat piece of toast, Robby has lined up several ingredients: a shrimp, a cherry tomato, three green beans, one tiny roasted potato, and half a hard-boiled egg. I’m too confused to react, and by the look on her face, Jenn is too.
Robby leaps out from behind the server and says, proudly, “Voila! Deconstructed Niçoise. Reaction?”
“Shrimp,” Jenn squeaks out. “Fascinating. I thought a Niçoise had tuna.”
The chef whirls his hands like a magician. “That special Robby touch. Mr. Banks?”
“I… I’ve never seen anything like it before,” I conclude. Jenn is coughing into her water glass. It’s a miracle we haven’t burst out laughing.
“Excellent,” Robby says. “I’ll leave you to your savoring.”
Once we’re alone, Jenn finally lets out her laughter
“So, let me get this straight,” Jenn chokes, examining the dish. “We pick up an enormous toast with like it’s a foot-long sub? And then eat each ingredient of a Salade Niçoise in totally separate bites?”
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, with a pang of guilt. “Honestly. I thought I was taking you to a delicious meal. I wouldn’t have dragged you along if—”
“Oh, please,” Jenn grins, moving her hands toward the dish. “You think I’d miss my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to try salad ingredients spread out on some bread? Not a chance.
She lifts the toast in both hands, angling it toward her mouth. She takes an enormous bite, trying to keep a straight face, and she chews thoughtfully.
“Well?” I prompt.
She swallows and takes a drink of water. “Tastes like… shrimp on toast.”
I take the next bite because fair’s fair. The tomato is the best—essentially bruschetta—and the green beans are the worst.
The server comes out to refill out waters and wait for requests, so we can’t fully react to the next courses in his presence. The buckwheat noodles are tolerable, and the side dish is made of mostly pea tendrils.
Robby sticks his head out of the kitchen. “We ready for the dessert course?”
“Didn’t know we were doing one,” I say. It wasn’t on the menu.
“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Jenn calls. Then, in a whisper to me, “I bet you ten dollars that there’s a green vegetable in it.”
“You’re on,” I whisper back. “My money’s on it being completely sugar-free. Not even coconut sugar or some shit.”
Robby appears through the door, hands raised in a flourish. “And for the final course, we tempt your senses with a spa classic—the smoothie—and we elevate it.”
The server whips the cover off the tray.
It’s a piece of angel food cake with a big glug of strawberry-banana-spinach smoothie on top. The color is a pale brownish pink.
“Wow,” Jenn says, drawing out the word.
“I know,” Robby says proudly.
“I feel like… I’ve won something.” Jenn knocks her knee against mine. Sure enough, there’s a green vegetable, but the cake has sugar. “Can’t wait to try.”
We dig in after Robby leaves.
“Is this not bad?” I ask, poking the remaining cake with a spoon. “Or were the earlier course so awful that my standards have dropped?”
“This is not good.” Jenn makes a face. “Trust me. Not to brag, but I’ve eaten about six types of cake in the past month. I’m an expert, and this, my friend, does a disservice to the good name of cake.”
I shake my head, smiling, but as we thank Robby politely for his meal and head back upstairs to the office, I’m adding yet another task to my overflowing to-do list. We still need a chef and culinary team, the final decorating finished, the launch week prep…
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Hakeem.
