Page 141 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Accurate!” Oliver calls from the other end of the bar.

She turns away, grabbing another plate and placing it in my hand. “Try this one,” she says, her voice lighter. “And pretend you don’t hate joy.”

“I don’t hate joy.”

“Okay, pretend that you don’t schedule it into your calendar.”

And so it begins.

I taste what she gives me and I give her feedback. She argues with me about how I’m only this critical because I hate the concept of love and happiness. I argue back that she knows nothing about me. The players vote, and Oliver threatens to ban democracy.

By the time the tasting ends, the boxes are empty, the Vipers are full, and Marley has enough footage for both businesses to embarrass all of us for weeks on end.

Oliver leans on the bar, looking exhausted. “This is never happening again.”

Halston beams. “It’s happening every few weeks.”

“No.”

“The people have spoken.”

“The people are drunk.”

A player lifts his glass of beer. “To Victory Twists!”

The others cheer.

Oliver closes his eyes while Halston curtsies.

Later that night, after the Vipers leave and Halston has cleared the boxes, I stay to help clean.

No one asks me to, but Oliver doesn’t stop me either. Oliver tossing me a rag is the closest he’s come to gratitude.

Halston wipes down the far end of the bar, talking to my sister. “Late-night menu cards.Maybe Friday and Saturday only. Limited quantities so Oliver doesn’t panic.”

“I’m already panicking,” he says.

“Good. Then we’ve established your baseline.”

And it dawns on me that this is the closest I’ve felt to having a full family in a long time.

eleven

. . .

When Charm Curdles, Bring chocolate

HALSTON

The second reviewcomes at 7:12 a.m., between butter and panic. An inconvenient time for public humiliation.

Not that there’s aconvenienttime.

Not that there’s a convenient time for a respected food critic to publicly imply you are an emotionally unstable woman with access to cinnamon. But if Barrett Whitaker wanted to ruin my morning, he could have waited until after I laminated the croissant dough.

There are rules.

The first review had hurt. It had taken my bakery, my work, and my drinks, and my entire sugar-dusted little corner of Baltimore, and reduced it to a cautionary tale about charm curdling into gimmick. That had been bad enough.