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hand and had to refrain from squealing in shock at Dora. She had a forehead with the telltale tautness of too-frequent visits to doctors’ offices for Botox injections. I suspected she’d had piles of other work done and guessed that any fat liposuctioned from her had been injected straight into Oliver’s enormous stomach. The rest of him wasn’t all that huge, but his gut made him look as if he’d deliver triplets at any moment. Everything about him was round; round face, round eyes, and round head.
    I busied myself filling a plate and eavesdropped on the Full Moon Group. Barry had tight brown curls that clung to his head and deep brown eyes that exactly matched his suit. He was absorbed in commenting on the artwork hung in the gallery. “The artist’s use of color in this one indicates his attempt to...”
    Oh, blah, blah, pretentious blah, I thought.
    Oliver burst out with a deep, raspy chortle. “Oh, shut it, Barry. What are you, some goddamn art collector now? You’re not fooling anyone.”
    Barry’s face reddened. “I know, I know. You don’t care about art, but I really enjoy these galleries.”
    Oliver softened a bit and said, “Well, keep the business moving, and you can collect all the art you want, right? I know you’re a food nut. What do think of what the cook has here?” With another chortle, he led Dora off into the crowd.
    Cook? There is nothing more insulting to a chef than being referred to as a cook. In the culinary world, it’s a slur, a derogatory term that devalues the professionalism of chefs. An executive chef has earned that title and expects to be called “Chef” by the kitchen staff. Sous chefs, second in line to the executive chef, are often called “Chef,” too, although, depending on the restaurant, they’re sometimes called by their first names. But even those outside the restaurant world should know that there is an important difference between the words chef and cook. Although the Full Moon Group’s establishments offered nothing even remotely like fine dining, Oliver should have understood and respected the distinction. Indeed, maybe he understood it perfectly and was just a prick. I was glad that Josh hadn’t overheard him.
    Josh leaned into my ear and whispered, “Hello, my little snooper.”
    “I know. I can’t help myself,” I whispered back.
    “So, Josh,” Barry began, “you’re going to be the executive chef at Simmer? What are your plans for the menu?”
    Josh filled Barry in on some of his ideas. Meanwhile, I sank my teeth into the beef medallions. Oh, destemming the herbs had been well worth the work! The flavor was rich and complicated and amazing.
    “Tell me, what inspires your cooking? Where do you get ideas from?” Barry helped himself to another appetizer. “These are wonderful, aren’t they, Sarka?”
    “Hm? Oh, yes. Wonderful,” she murmured unenthusiastically. Her food was untouched, and she couldn’t have looked less interested, and she was so thin that she probably never ate anything anyway. Sarka had a natural beauty that would have made even my beautiful friend Adrianna jealous. Her dark hair was slicked back into a simple ponytail. The severe style highlighted her gorgeous cheekbones and wide hazel eyes. It was impossible to stand next to someone like this and not feel horrendously unattractive. I yanked at my red hair, willing it to not succumb to the unseasonable humidity and frizz up.
    In an effort at friendliness, I said, “Sarka! What a pretty name. And so unusual.”
    “Check,” she said, as if we were going through some sort of to-do list together. Rather, that’s what I heard her say.
    Responding to what must have been my baffled look, she said in a flat tone, “As in the Czech Republic.” Her face was as expressionless as her voice.
    Feeling like a dope, I listened in as Josh and Barry continued to talk. It became apparent that Barry truly appreciated wonderful food. In view of the forgettable and, in fact, forgotten