Page 12 of The Secret Dinner
“Yeah. These kinds of sites are booming in Europe and the US, especially in New York. Feedback seems mostly positive, from both the diners and the ones hosting.”
“Do you think we could host a dinner like that here?”
Hugo walked over to the mini fridge in the living room and placed his glass on top of it. He took a rubber band from his wrist and tied back his long hair into a bun.
“Why not?” he said with a smile. “Most of the people on these sites probably got their recipes off Instagram. But we’ve got an edge: I can actually fucking cook! I didn’t spend six months in France working at a three-Michelin-star restaurant for nothing. Plus, we’ve got this huge apartment and there are four of us, so we can divide up tasks. It’s perfect.”
“I’m pretty busy at the hospital,” said Miguel. As a general rule, Miguel disliked any sort of change. “What do you think, Dante?”
“It might work. How much could we make?”
Hugo reached into his pocket and took out a pen and the notepad he used to write out the recipes he developed. He made a few quick calculations and tore out the page, holding it up.
“All right. So, the dining room table seats ten. If we charge five hundred per person, that means we earn five thousand in one night. I’d estimate our expenses at around eight hundred, for ingredients and wine. There’s no cutting corners on that. It’s a fundamental tenet of fine dining,” he explained. “The site takes a cut, but it’s not much. I think we could probably pocket about four thousand per dinner, more or less. So with seven dinner parties, we’d easily make enough.”
“But we’ve only got two weeks!”
“We’ll have the first dinner. I’ll put together a killer menu, only stuff I can do with my eyes closed. If we manage to fill up four dinners, we can pay most of what we owe and then ask for more time for the rest.”
“I vote no,” Miguel said, standing up and walking over to Hugo. Miguel was taller but thinner than him. “This is crazy! Having ten strangers over for dinner!”
“It’s our only option.”
“And we need it,” I said. “It won’t hurt to try and see how it goes.”
Miguel put his glass down and walked to the window, looking out at the treetops and the people on the street. I could see in his eyes the moment he changed his mind. He respected us and knew that fighting wasn’t going to help. He let out a sigh.
“What do you want me to do? I don’t even know how to fry an egg!”
“Everybody chips in one way or another,” Hugo said, sounding like he’d already thought of everything. “Miguel, since you’re always taking Bukowski to go to the hospital, you’ll do the shopping. I’ll tell you where to find each ingredient on the list. You’ll have to go to the truck markets in Magé, the fish market all the way in Niterói, and the municipal market. Buy from exactly who I tell you—that’s essential. It’ll take some work, but it’s worth it.”
“No problem.”
“Dante, you’re quick on your feet. You can welcome guests, serve wine, that kind of thing.”
“And Piglet?”
“That motherfucker stays in his room, out of the way. He’s done enough,” Hugo shot back. “Anyone want more wine?”
I nodded and Hugo opened a new bottle. He filled our three glasses with the smooth motions of a sommelier.
“There’s just one problem,” Miguel said. “If we leave out Piglet, he might get worse. He needs to be a part of this; he can’t feel excluded.”
Hugo quickly came up with a solution. “He’ll set up our account on the website. They make you fill out a bunch of boring information, upload a résumé, your bank details, and all that. Since Piglet’s good with computers, he can design a banner, something to catch people’s attention. Good marketing is key.”
We agreed on a date for the first dinner party: April 21, the following Friday. Later that night when Piglet woke up, still a little woozy and with his head bandaged up, we told him about the idea. He was in; he was a fan of anything that involved partying and food. He promised to come up with a cool graphic by the next day and create an account on SecretDinner.co. He suggested writing and posting some fake reviews, to make it look like there were people who’d already attended one of our dinners and loved it. It was wrong, but it was a great idea. I apologized for what I’d said earlier, and he apologized, too. He seemed genuinely sorry for having spent all our money on a hooker.
Hugo locked himself inside his room and only came out hours later, with the menu and the shopping list. My mouth began to water just reading his scribbles.
AMUSE-BOUCHE
Verrine of cured Manchego cheese with pink peppercorn foam and crispy pancetta
STARTER
Pupunha and shrimp mille-feuille in citrus sauce
MAIN COURSE
