The Catering Confession

The quiches slid again on the turn. Third red light in a row. I gripped the wheel and prayed to the god of mini pastry.

My name's Eli Davis. I'm twenty-nine, I drive a box truck for a living, and on weekends I'm the free labor for my girlfriend's catering company. Tina Moss, twenty-eight, brilliant, terrifying in an apron. We've been together two years. I met her at Tilly's thirtieth birthday, she made me carry a folding table, and that was the end of it.

This Saturday was a big deal. A tasting for a wedding client. High-end venue, real chandeliers, the works. If the bride and her people liked the food, Tina's company basically got launched.

So yeah. I was stressed about the quiches.

The loading dock at the back of the venue was wide open. I backed the truck in on the second try, which for me is basically a perfect ten. Alfred Potter, the head chef, was standing there in whites as if he never sweats.

"Trays of mini quiches," I said. "For Moss Events."

"Tina's crew. Kitchen's through there, tasting room beyond that. Don't touch my station."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He checked a tray. "Decent looking quiche."

High praise. I decided I liked Alfred.

Then this woman came out of the venue like weather. Early fifties, sharp blazer, clipboard that she held like a weapon. Pearl earrings. The kind of walk that parts crowds.

"You," she said, pointing at me. "Finally."

"Uh."

"Where have you been? The tasting is in forty minutes and I have questions. Dozens of them."

"Ma'am, I think you've got me mixed up with somebody else. I'm the truck guy."

She did a little laugh. A ha. Like I'd told a joke at a funeral. "Sure you are. Where's the napkin order confirmation, hmm? Dasha said you'd handle it."

I want to note something here, and you can judge me later. I did not know who Dasha was. I did not know there was a napkin order. But the woman had a clipboard, and this whole tasting was riding on me not making waves.

"Tina," I said. "Tina Moss. The caterer?"

"Obviously I know who the caterer is. I hired her." She looked me up and down. "The muscles finally make sense. They said you were sturdy."

They said. Who said? I was starting to sweat.

"Look, I really should..."

"No. Listen. This is important." She stepped closer and lowered her voice, which somehow made it worse. "I need your eye. Your trained eye. Privately."

"Trained eye."

"On something delicate. Something my daughter cannot know I'm handling." She glanced over her shoulder. "It's about her wedding night. Follow me."

And let me be clear in my defense here, that sentence should have been a fire alarm. A loud one. But my brain heard wedding night and just blue-screened. Somewhere in my skull a little voice said, this is a client's mother, client's mother is basically Tina's boss, do not anger the clipboard.

So I said, "Okay?"

"Just okay? Good. Come along." She marched off and I followed, holding a tray of quiches like an idiot, because I still hadn't put them down.

* * *

The supply closet was off the corridor behind the tasting room. Shelves of tablecloths, stacked chairs, a mop sink. And one full-length mirror leaning against the wall, which should have been my second fire alarm.

She shut the door.

"Okay," she said, all business. "She wants the boudoir shots done before the rehearsal dinner. You know that, obviously."

"Boudoir. Shots."

"Of my daughter. For the groom. Tasteful. Dasha does the styling, and Dasha's assistant does the... evaluating. That's you, dear."

"That is not me."

She was already digging on the shelf. Out came a garment bag. She unzipped it like a magician. A satin robe. Ivory. Short.

"Now. Be honest. Is this too much satin? Because I told the boutique, more matte, and the girl just smiled at me."

"Ma'am. Mrs. Hall." I'd read the clipboard while walking. Married twenty-eight years. Daughter getting married. Name, Alisa. "Mrs. Hall, I'm not the stylist's assistant. I'm not any kind of assistant. I drive a truck. I'm here with the quiches."

"Quiches. Yes. Later." She held the robe against her own front, which, no. "Feel this. Go on. Is it the right weight for photographs?"

"I'm not feeling the robe."

"You don't have to be shy about it. You're a professional."

"I'm really, really not."

She bulldozed right on. "The issue is the lighting. Alfred's kitchen has that hideous fluorescent glare, so I thought the closet, but the closet has no windows, which is a problem, which is why I need your opinion on portable lighting. Do you travel with a ring light or not? Dasha said you do."

"Dasha has never met me in her life!"

"Then how do you know her name?" She raised an eyebrow. Checkmate, apparently.

"You just said it. Sixty seconds ago."

Alisa squinted at me. For one beautiful second I thought I'd won. Then she shook her head. "Evasive. Typical. That's exactly what Dasha said about you, by the way. That you're evasive."

"Mrs. Hall. I am going to say this slowly." I set the quiche tray on a stack of chairs. "My name is Eli. Eli Davis. I am the caterer's boyfriend. I carried food in on my shoulder twenty minutes ago. My hands smell like pastry."

"They do smell like butter," she admitted. Then, triumphantly: "That's because you've been handling the tasting! Dasha always says touch the food first, it warms up your judgment for textiles."

"That's not a saying."

"It is in the industry."

"Which industry? There is no industry where that's a saying."

She ignored that completely and held up the robe again. "Black or ivory. For the boudoir session. My daughter has olive skin, so I'm thinking ivory, but I want a professional's word before I spend three hundred dollars."

"Mrs. Hall, your daughter's wedding night lingerie is between your daughter and her fiancé. I'm a stranger. In a closet. Holding quiches."

"You're not holding quiches anymore."

"Mrs. Hall!"

"Oh, stop with the Mrs. Hall, you're making me feel ancient. Alisa." She hung the robe back up, muttering. "Fine. Fine. We'll table the lighting question. But the robe. Ivory or black. One word. I need one word from you and then I can sleep tonight."

She had that look. The look of a woman who would stand in that closet until the sun died.

"...Ivory," I said. "Olive skin, ivory pops. My mom did wedding alterations for twenty years, she'd say the same."

THERE. That's real, by the way. My mom really did alterations. It's the one true thing I said in that whole closet.

Alisa lit up. "Ivory. I knew it. Oh, this is why Dasha raves about you." She wrote on the clipboard. "Now, one more thing, and then I'll release you to your butter."

"Please."

"The groom's mother wants a gift basket at the rehearsal. What says 'welcome to the family' to you, personally? Candles? Jam?"

"Jam," I said. "Jam says that."

"Wonderful. See? This is why you're paid the big fees."

I am paid nothing. I am paid in leftover quiche.

And that's when it got worse. Because through the door I heard the tasting room doors swing, and I heard a voice I know better than my own.

"Eli? Eli. Has anyone seen my truck guy?"

Tina.

Alisa perked up. "Oh, is that the caterer? Let's go say hello, I have questions about the..."

"No. Nope. Wait." I grabbed the door handle and held it like my life depended on it, because it kind of did. "Give me