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“You’re aware you shouldn’t be afraid of your own employee, right?” I follow her through the inn to the dining room.
“I’m not afraid. It just makes it easier if everyone calls him Francois.”
We follow him into the kitchen, where he stands in front of a sheet of paper on the counter with Mandi’s handwriting on it. He slides the paper over to us and I see that the top reads “Wedding Menu” in her girly handwriting. The woman is organized.
“I didn’t know we made a menu.”
Mandi looks back at me. “I didn’t think you cared.”
Frank blows out a breath and slides the menu in front of her. “This is all… ew. Mostaccioli , fried chicken. It’s not a barbeque, Amanda, this is your wedding.”
She sighs. “We were doing it family style, and those dishes are the easiest. Why would we have you go to so much trouble when it’s just going to be a small event?” She slides the menu back to him.
“Because you only get married once. And your food should speak to you both. It should be dishes you love. The entire dining experience should say amour. I cannot do that with noodles and sauce. And what are these pigs in a blanket?”
“I do love pigs in a blanket,” I say behind her, and she looks over her shoulder and smiles at me.
“I was just trying to make it easier on you. Feel free to make whatever you want.” Mandi turns to leave, but Frank pulls her back by her elbow.
“Again, this is the bride and groom’s decision, not the chef’s.”
Mandi looks at me. “What’s your favorite food?”
“You do not know your groom’s favorite food?” Frank asks in that annoying French accent.
“Favorite fancy food then,” she says.
“I love steak.”
Mandi nods and turns to Frank. “Steak then. A potato and a vegetable. We’ll do soup and salad to start.”
“So now we’ve gone from a barbeque to home-on-the-range cowboy dinner.”
She throws her arms in the air. “You’re the chef. What do you want to prepare?”
I’ve never seen Mandi raise her voice at anyone. I wonder if all the pressure and lying about the wedding is getting to her.
Frank looks at the ceiling as if he’s praying for help. Either that or patience. “How about filet mignon with garlic butter melted on top. A puff pastry filled with chicken wrapped with spinach, cream cheese, and herbs. Not just mashed potatoes but twice-baked potatoes. Asparagus wrapped with bacon. We’ll do our most popular soup of chicken and wild rice, followed up with a garden salad with a homemade dressing. Not much I can do there.”
“Substitute the dressing with one of my mom’s and that all sounds great,” Mandi says with a nod as though it’s decided.
“Sounds amazing. My stomach wants a trial right now.” I rub my belly.
Frank laughs and pats my stomach. “In good time, big man.”
“And cake for dessert,” Mandi adds.
“No cake for dessert. No one wants cake for dessert. I make chocolate soufflés and a tray of macarons for each table.”
“That’s a lot of work.”
“For a wedding? No. You need to demand more. This is your special day, Amanda.”
She grins. Frank is right—we can’t be doing everything half-ass because this isn’t a real wedding. We need to make this wedding like the one we’d want if this was for real.
“And we can have pigs in a blanket for an appetizer?” I ask.
“Little sausages wrapped in pastry?” His nose wrinkles.
