Speaker 1: Calaroga Shark Media.
Speaker 2: Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This episode is titled
The Grateful Game, Part one. Amuse Boosh.
Speaker 1: Sugar crystallizes at three hundred and twenty degrees fahrenheit. The
human body burns at three hundred and fifty. I know
these things because I've flirted with both temperatures, one professionally,
one personally. Tonight, as I prepare for my Underground supper
Club's most exclusive event of the year, I'm playing with
fire again. My name is Maya Chen, and I'm about
to serve a seven course Thanksgiving dinner to twelve of
Chicago's most powerful people. They don't know each other's names,
they don't show their faces, and if anyone asks, this
dinner never had happened. The basement kitchen of my restaurant,
Sweet Heat, is my sanctuary. Up above the regular dinner
service hums along tourists and locals enjoying my innovative Asian
fusion desserts as the critics call them. Down here in
my private lab, I create the kind of dishes that
would make those same critics clutch their pearls or beg
for more. The Underground Dinners started three years ago. After
I'd earned my first Michelin star success had felt hollow,
every dish perfect, every review glowing, every service exactly the same.
I was suffocating under the weight of expectations, of tradition,
of being James Chen's daughter. Then came the night I
served Chicago's most notorious food critic, wearing a blindfold. He'd
requested it, wanting to experience my food without visual bias,
watching him surrender to each bite, seeing the way vulnerability
enhanced his pleasure, Something awakened in me that night. The
next Underground dinner featured masks for all guests. By the
third I was wearing one too. Maya Sofia's voice cuts
through my concentration. He's made a reservation. I don't need
to ask who she means. Marcus Reid, the man whose
reviews have closed three Michelin starred restaurants this year alone,
The critic who single handedly destroyed chef James Chen's empire
five years ago, my father's empire. When I keep my
voice steady, the way I learned in culinary school, never
let them see you sweat. Thanksgiving Week Tuesday night, Sofia's
dark eyes narrow, you don't seem surprised, I turned back
to my work, carefully drizzling molten sugar into cold water,
creating delicate threads that will garnish tonight's dessert.
Speaker 2: Should I be.
Speaker 1: Maya Sofia's fingers brush my should? What aren't you telling me?
The sugar threads crystallize in the water, catching light like
frozen lightning. My mind drifts to last month's underground dinner,
to hands sliding across silk covered skin, to lips brushing
against my ear, whispering praise in a voice i'd know anywhere,
to a mask that couldn't hide the intensity in those
green gold eyes. I hadn't known then that the mysterious
guest in the wolf mask was Marcus Reed, but I'd
felt the danger in his touch, tasted the secrets on
his tongue. The memory of that night floods back, unbidden
and electric. One month earlier, the October dinner had been
themed seven deadly sins, each course designed to evoke a
different transgression. By the time I served the sixth course, lust,
a chell spiced dark chocolate bomb that melted under a
pore of warm vanilla cream, the energy in the room
was fever pitch He'd been watching me all night, the
man in the wolf mask, not just watching, studying the
way he held his wine glass, the precise manner he
handled his cutlery. Everything screamed professional. But it was his
response to each dish that captivated me. He didn't just taste,
He experienced every bite. Seemed to draw him deeper into
my web. I found him later in the wine cellar,
where I store special vintages for my underground guests. He
had his back to me, studying a bottle of Chateau
Lafitte Rothschild. This is an excellent vintage, he said, without turning,
nineteen eighty two, the year you were born. I believe
A chill ran down my spine. He'd done his research.
You seem to know a lot about me, mister wolf.
He turned then, and even in the dim light, those
eyes behind the mask burned. I know you're playing a
dangerous game, Chef Chen, These dinners they're not just about food,
are they. I stepped closer, drawn by the thread of
challenge in his voice. Nothing is ever just about food. No,
he set down the wine bottle, closing the distance between us.
Then what is this about power? The words slipped out
before I could stop it. Who has it? Who wants it?
Who's willing to surrender it? His laugh was low, dark,
and which are you? I didn't answer. Instead, I took
his hand and pressed it against the silk of my dress,
just over my thundering heart. What do you think? What
happened next was inevitable. His hands, my mouth, the cool
stone wall against my back. We kept our masks on,
that was the rule. But rules blurred when he whispered
my name, my real name, against my throat. They shattered
completely when I came apart under his touch, gasping a
name I sh shouldn't have known. Marcus present day, nothing
to tell I lie now pulling the sugar threads from
the water. He's a critic, he made a reservation. We'll
be ready. Sophia makes that sound in her throat, the
one that says she knows I'm full of shit but
loves me anyway. Okay, chef, but remember what he did
to your father. As if I could forget. The review
that brought down James Chen's restaurants had been brutal, methodical,
and absolutely true. Every health code violation, every cutting corner,
every compromise standard laid bare for all of Chicago to see.
Dad lost everything, his reputation, his legacy, his pride. I'd
lost my hero, but I'd gained something else. Freedom, freedom
from expectations, from tradition, from being the dutiful daughter. I
built sweet heat from nothing, earned my own reputation. The
Underground Dinners became my rebellion, my release, my realm where
I made the rules. The prep for Tonight's Underground Dinner
keeps my hands busy, if not my mind. Each course
is a story, a seduction, a secret shared between chef
and dinah. But the dessert that's where I pour my soul.
Tonight's finale is a study in contradictions. Dark chocolate cake,
bitter and dense, paired with passion fruit curd that explodes
on the tongue, tellicherry pepper for heat, vanilla for sweetness,
and those delicate sugar threads that shatter like glass between
your teeth. I call it masked intentions. The name comes
from a conversation I had with my first Underground Dinner guest,
a woman who never removed her butterfly mask.
Speaker 2: Food.
Speaker 1: She'd said, is the only socially acceptable way to put
something in someone else's mouth. The thought had stayed with me,
shaped these dinners into something more intimate than mere meals. Chef,
one of my line cooks, appears at the stairs. Your
father's on the phone, speaking of masked intentions. Dad calls
every week, usually after his second scotch. He'll reminisce about
the glory days, rail against the critics who destroyed him,
then try to wheedle information about my little underground project.
He knows about the supper club, the whole industry does,
but he doesn't know the guest list. Doesn't know that
some of his old enemies have sat at my table
wearing masks, tasting my food. Doesn't know that tonight's dinner
might change everything. Tell him I'll call back tomorrow, I say,
checking my watch. Two hours until service. I retreat to
my private office to change the Chef's whites come off,
replaced by a black silk dress that feels like a
shadow against my skin. My fingers traced the edge of
the mask on my vanity, a fox crafted from copper wire,
and autumn leaves. The mask is my power. It lets
me be someone else, someone bolder, darker, more dangerous, someone
who would seduce a critic in a wine cellar, someone
who might use that seduction for revenge, or someone who
might fall for the enemy. Last month, when Marcus pressed
me against the wine cellar wall, his hands knew exactly
where to touch, how to tease, when to take. He'd
tasted like the whiskey I'd pared with dessert, and his
growl of pleasure against my throat had made me forget
every rule I'd made about keeping business and pleasure separate.
You're playing a dangerous game, he'd whispered, fingers tracing patterns
on my inner thigh. I'm not playing, I'd answered, and
meant it now. As I secure my mask and climb
the stairs to greet my guests, I wonder if Marcus
Reed will be wearing his wolf mask again tonight, if
he'll remember the way I gasped his name, his real name,
when he made me come, If he knows that I
recognized his voice the moment he made that reservation. My
underground Dinners have always been about power, about control, about
the delicious tension between trust and surrender. But tonight feels different.
Tonight the game has higher stakes. Sophia meets me at
the hidden entrance, clipboard in hand. Everyone's arrived except mister Wolf,
she says, using our code name system. Should we be worried?
The main door opens, letting in a gust of November wind,
and there he is, tall, broad shouldered, dangerous in a
perfectly tailored suit, the wolf mask gleamed silver in the
low light. No need to worry, I say, my pulse
quickening as he approaches. The game is just beginning. His
cologne reaches me first cedar and smoke, just like I
remember then, his voice smooth as aged bourbon. Good evening,
Chef Chen. I trust I'm not too late for the
first course. In the candlelights, his eyes behind the mask
are hungry, not just for food. I smile all teeth.
You're right on time, mister Wolf. Tonight's menu is all
about gratitude. Let the feast begin.
Speaker 2: Romance Weekly is a production of Caloroga Shark Media executive
producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast
may have been created with the assistance of AI
Speaker 1: Caloroga Shark Media