Speaker 1: Calorogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This
episode is titled The Grateful Game, Part two. Heat and Spice,
A properly tempered chocolate breaks with a clean snap, no bend,
no give, just pure, decisive fracture. The same could be
said for control. Tonight, as Marcus Reed sits at my
best table upstairs, I'm testing the temper of my own restraint.
Speaker 2: Chef. He's ordering the tasting menu. Sofia's voice carries a warning,
all seven courses, of course he is. The tasting menu
means I'll have to present each dish personally. Seven opportunities
to maintain my professional mask while pretending I don't know
how his fingers feel against my skin. Perfect, I say,
reaching for my knife. Let's give Chicago's most feared critic
something to write about. The regular dining room at Sweet
Heat is my public face, elegant, controlled, proper Tonight, It's packed.
Every table filled with guests pretending they're not watching Marcus
Reed hold court. At table seven. He sits alone, his
critics notebook open beside his water glass, his fingers wrapped
around a pen instead of my wrist. I begin his
first course Hamachi crudo with yuzukosho, pickled pear and shisso.
Each slice of fish must be perfect, thin enough to
be translucent, thick enough to hold its shape, like the
line between professional and personal, Like the boundaries I crossed
in that wine cellar. You're crushing the schiso, Sofia murmurs,
touching my arm, and you've got that look what look,
the one you get when you're plotting something, Dame, if
she only knew the first course goes out exactly at seven.
I approach his table with the practiced grace of a
chef who hasn't seen her critic naked. Good evening, mister
reed hamatchikrudo with Asian pair yuzukosho and hand torn shisso.
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I'm back
in that cellar, masks on inhibitions, gone beautiful presentation, Chef Chen.
His voice is professional, but his fingers brush mine as
I set down the plate. The knife work is precise.
I know what he's thinking. How I'd traced the edge
of his wolf mask with the same precision. How I'd
drawn my nails down his chest with surgical accuracy. The
secret is in the blade. I reply, too sharp and
you lose control. Too dull and you bruise the flesh.
He picks up his chopsticks, never breaking eye contact. And
which do you prefer, Chef? I believe in finding the
perfect balance. I step back, my pulse racing. Enjoy your
first course in the kitchen, Sofia hands me a glass
of water. Want to tell me what that was about?
What was about? That tension? Could have set off the
fire alarms? She crosses her arms. I've never seen you
like this with a critic, especially not one who destroyed
your father. I turned to the second course preparation, letting
the familiar motions calm my nerves. Just playing the game, Sophia,
you know how critics love a show. Speaking of your father,
she hesitates. He came by while you were at the table,
said he had information about Marcus Reid, something about an investigation.
My knife stills. What kind of investigation? He wouldn't say,
but maya, She lowers her voice. I did some digging
after the reservation came in. Read isn't just reviewing restaurants Lately.
He's been linked to several FBI investigations into restaurant industry corruption,
health code violations are just the surface. The pieces clicked together,
his presence at my underground dinner, his careful study of
my operation, the way he'd ask such specific questions between kisses.
Had any of it been real? The memory of that
night shifts takes on new shadows. One month earlier, tell
me about your father, he'd murmured, his lips at my neck.
We were still in the wine cellar, my back against
the cool stone, his hands everywhere. You already know about
my father, I'd arched into his touch. Everyone does I
know what everyone knows? His fingers slid lower, making me gasp.
I want to know what you know. Even lost in pleasure,
I'd registered something in his tone, a hunger deeper than desire.
Why he'd pulled back just enough to study my face
behind my fox mask. Because I think you're more than
James Chen's daughter. I think you're building something fascinating and dangerous, dangerous,
I'd laughed, but it caught in my throat as his
hand found bare skin. It's just dinner. Nothing is ever
just dinner with you, Maya. The way he'd said my
name like a secret, like a threat, like a promise.
Present day, the second course demands my attention. Duck breast
with five spice and burnt honey, pink inside skin, crackling
crisp as I plate, I layer in fresno chilis not
enough to overwhelm, just enough to make the back of
the throat burn, to make him remember how I taste. Chef.
My soux chef appears at my elbow. There's a woman
asking for you at the bar. She has information about
Tuesday's underground dinner, Tuesday, the night Marcus made his reservation
for description blonde designer. Everything says her name is Catherine Read.
The knife slips, nearly catching my finger. Marcus Read's ex wife,
the food critic turned restaurant developer who'd been buying up
failed restaurants all over Chicago, including my father's old properties.
I meet Sofia's eyes across the kitchen. She gives me
a subtle nod. She'll handle the pass while I deal
with this new player. Catherine Reid sits at my bar
like she owns it, and Martini untouched by her manicured hand.
She's exactly as Google images showed, elegant, expensive, dangerous chef chen.
She smiles with perfect teeth. That fox mask of Yours
is exquisite, custom made, isn't it? My blood runs cold?
She knows about the underground dinners, but how I don't
know what you're talking about. I keep my voice level now,
if you'll excuse me, I have a dining room to run,
including my ex husband's table. Her smile sharpens. Tell me,
does Marcus still have that scar on his left hip,
the one that looks like a crescent moon. He does.
I'd traced it with my tongue while he tangled his
hands in my hair. I wouldn't know. My voice stays
steady even as my mind races. Mister Reed is here
as a critic, nothing more. Catherine laughs softly. Oh, honey,
Marcus hasn't been just a critic in years. But you
knew that, didn't you, Just like you know what really
happened to your father's restaurants. Before I can respond, Sofia appears, Chef.
The second course is ready saved by service. I turn
away from Catherine's knowing smile, but her words follow me.
Think carefully about Tuesday, Chef, chen. Some games are more
dangerous than others. The duck breast steams gently on its
bed of charred scallions. As I approach Marcus's table, his
note book is full of neat scribblings. His first course
plate cleaned precisely, professional, methodical, just like his touch had been.
Five spiced duck, breast, burnt honey, gastric fresno chilis. I announce,
setting down the plate. The heat builds slowly, best to
let it develop on the tongue. He looks up, and
for a split second I see recognition flash in his eyes.
He remembers the way the wine cellar's temperature had risen
with each kiss, How the heat between us had built
just as slowly, just as inevitably. Interesting choice, using fresh
chilies instead of dried, he says, his voice carrying to
nearby tables, then softer, meant only for me. I've always
appreciated how you play with fire. Chef Chen two can
play at this game. I lean in, adjusting his napkin
with practiced efficiency. The secret is knowing when to fan
the flames, I murmur, and when to let them smolder.
Back in the kitchen, my phone a text from an
unknown number. Your father's been asking questions dangerous ones, signed
with just the letter K. Catherine Read is playing her
own game, but what's her angle? I think of my father,
of his weekly drunken calls, of the questions he asks
about my underground dinners. How much does he know? How
much does she MAYA? Sophia appears at my side, her
face grave. You need to see this. She leads me
to her office computer, turns the screen toward me. It's
an article from five years ago, buried in the Tribune's archives.
Health inspector found dead after restaurant investigation. The inspector who'd
been investigating my father's restaurants two days before Marcus's review
was published. Keep reading, Sophia, says. My eyes scan the text.
Suspicious circumstances, possible connection to larger industry investigation, FBI involvement,
And there in the final paragraph, sources say the deceased
had been working with food critic Marcus read on an
expose of restaurant industry corruption. The pieces start shifting, forming
a new picture. Marcus's review hadn't just been about bad
health codes. He'd been hunting something bigger, someone bigger, and
now he's hunting again. The third course is already in motion.
Lobster dumplings in a ginger scallion broth, delicate as secrets.
As I fold each wrapper, I think about masks, about games,
about the thin line between hunter and hunted. My phone
buzzes again. This time it's my father taking a meeting
about the old restaurants. Possible buyer will call you after Dad.
A chill runs through me. Catherine read buys failed restaurants.
Marcus investigates corruption. My father takes mysterious meetings, and I'm
in the middle, serving seven courses of what suddenly feels
like revenge. The dining room hums with conversation. As I
approach Marcus's table with the third course, he's writing in
his notebook again, but his eyes find me the moment
I step into view lobster dumplings, I say, setting down
the bowl, the wrapper is thin enough to see what's inside,
if you know what to look for. He picks up
his spoon studies the translucent dumplings. Transparency can be deceiving, Chefchen.
Sometimes what you think you see isn't the whole picture.
And sometimes I lean close, adjusting the bowl's position. What's
hidden is exactly what you expect. His hand brushes mine deliberately,
this time Tuesday's dinner, he says softly, do you know
who else is on the guest list? You know, I
don't reveal that information, mister Reid, not even to save
someone's life. Our eyes lock. The dining room fades away,
leaving only this moment, this revelation, this choice.
Speaker 1: Maya.
Speaker 2: Sophia's voice cuts through the tension phone call. It's urgent
in the office. Sophia hands me her cell. The caller
ID shows a number I don't recognize, miss chen. A
man's voice, official sounding. This is Detective Reeve's Chicago p D.
We're trying to reach your father. He missed a meeting
with us this afternoon, a meeting about what a pause.
I'm not at liberty to discuss the details, but it's
related to an ongoing investigation. If you hear from him,
please have him contact us immediately. The call ends. Sophia
watches me with worried eyes. Maya, what's going on? I
think of Catherine's warning, of Marcus's question about saving lives,
of my father's cryptic text. The game has changed. This
isn't just about a review anymore. It's not even about revenge.
Speaker 1: I need you to.
Speaker 2: Do something for me. Tell Sophia, find out everything you
can about Catherine Reid's restaurant acquisitions, especially the ones that
failed after Marcus's reviews, Maya and I need to make
a change to Tuesday's menu. I head back to the kitchen,
my mind racing something special for mister Wolf. The fourth
course awaits outside. The November wind picks up, rattling the
windows like sheets of steel. A storm is coming to
Chicago in more ways than one. Let them all play
their games. I've got four more courses to serve. Each
one a move in this dangerous dance, and by the
time desert arrives, I'll know exactly who's wearing what mask.
After all, some fires are meant to burn out of control.
Speaker 1: Romance Weekly is a production of Calaroga Shark Media executive
produce users Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this
podcast may have been created with the assistance of Ai
Speaker 2: Calaruga Shark Media.