Eveline is a candid French woman with a commanding presence, despite her short stature. She’s also the personal chef assigned to Nicha and Miyeon by the Yontararak matriarch. 

“It’s been so long since I’ve served a guest,” Eveline tacks on at the end of her introduction. With a broad smile and smooch to each cheek, she ushers Soojin to the open chair that remains at the circular glass table, “Do you have any allergies?”

Taking her seat, Soojin shakes her head. 

“Intolerances?”

Another head shake.

“What about dislikes?”

Midway through shaking her head for a third time, Shuhua pipes up, “She likes meat.” Miyeon grimaces while Shuhua rattles on, recounting three additional eating preferences on Soojin’s behalf. 

“Magnifique! We can accommodate that on such short notice,” the award-winning smile Eveline gifts Soojin dissipates the moment she turns to Nicha, “And you. Forewarning would be polite.” The voice is stern, yet unsurprised. Like it’s a conversation they’ve had at least once before. 

Nicha nods bashfully, “It slipped my mind,” she admits, itching at her cheek nervously. The apology that follows is long winded and entirely in French. 

“Nicha’s in trouble,” Shuhua waits until Eveline returns to the kitchen to lean over and whisper to Soojin. It’s hardly a whisper and if secrecy is Shuhua’s aim, she fails miserably, “Nini-“

“Yes, I forgot to advise Eveline of our guest,” Nicha reaches for the cloth napkin intricately folded on the table before her, “It was inconsiderate and short sighted of me. But let us not forget about the cut of wagyu Eveline waited months to receive. Should we tell her where it really went?” Nicha challenges as she settles the cloth over her lap with a flair of elegance. 

“You wouldn’t.” Shuhua shoots back, pivoting in her seat in disbelief. 

“Oh, I-“

Miyeon coughs, “Shuhua, your napkin.” With the flick of her wrist, she unravels her own cloth with a snap. It’s excessive and entirely unnecessary. But it’s also the signal for Eveline’s return as the woman bustles through the double swinging door, tray in hand, a second later. 

“Soojin dear, have you had Miang Kham?” Eveline asks curiously.

“I-“ Soojin pauses. There’s nothing remotely distinguishing or memorable about the name or the bowls of vegetables and pastes Eveline sets on the table.  “Have I?” Her question is directed at Shuhua who is fumbling with her dinner cloth. 

“A few times,” The response comes after a few moments pause, “But tatie’s is the best.”

The French woman glows, pinching Shuhua’s cheek affectionately, “Oh, mon petit enfant.” As she sets out the remaining dishes, Eveline laughs, “Always buttering me up for extras. Soojin, dear, you be careful of this one. She’s a charmer.” 

“Yes, a charmer who- Oww,” Nicha hisses through her teeth, “Love, did you pinch me?” She turns to Miyeon with a pout on her lips and hand on her wounded side. 

“I’m sorry dear, my hand slipped.” Eyes dripping with honey, Miyeon waxes on, “Would you like me to kiss it better?” The red that stains Nicha’s cheeks is a mirror to the heat rolling off Soojin’s. 

Thankfully Eveline, immune to the squabbles, captures Soojin’s attention with an explanation of the ingredients that make up Miang Kham, the name of the ingredients in Thai, and a brief history on the significance of the dish. It’s all overwhelming, but truly heartwarming. 

“Pinch her again,” Shuhua eggs Miyeon on, hissing at Nicha as the door swings shut behind Eveline, “You were with me. You agreed.” The debacle of the wagyu beef renews. 

Extending a cha plu leaf to Miyeon, Nicha shrugs, her side miraculously healed, “To feed Haku and Mata a piece,” she agrees, extending a leaf to Soojin then Shuhua. It’s unconscious, her eyes downcast and thoughts clearly elsewhere. “You fed them the entire cut, Shu.”

“They were hungry!”

The banter continues back and forth. While it does, Miyeon scoops chilies onto Nicha’s cha plu leaf and, in turn, is given a helping of shredded coconut. Shuhua pokes the bowl of red paste out of Soojin’s reach and Miyeon accepts it with a discernible nod. 

It’s reflexive; natural. 

“Here,” Shuhua whispers during an interlude of her conversation with Nicha, filling Soojin’s empty leaf with a mixture of toppings, “You don’t like the fish paste.” She motions to the red paste Nicha now has. 

Soojin smiles graciously. 

The rest of the conversation is light. Filled with ‘pass the-' and ‘stop hogging the-'. There’s nothing fancy about it. No elaborate plans that less than one percent of the population will ever have the privilege to experience. No snide comments or status flaunting. It’s just bland. Mundane. Like they aren’t eating in a penthouse suite in downtown New York, cooked for them by one of six personal chefs employed by the Yontararak family, with personal armed escorts, and dogs who eat wagyu beef on occasion. 

When the Miang Kham is done, Eveline serves the main course: homemade egg noodles with minced pork. It’s the dish that won Shuhua’s initial adoration for her cooking nearly a decade ago. Eveline also reveals that Nicha prefers this dish with a side of bird’s eye chilis while Miyeon prefers double the serving of vegetable garnish. 

When Eveline serves Soojin, her dish comes with an extra side of minced pork. “For endurance,” the older woman whispers conspiratorially. 

The attention to detail is outstanding. And to eat it without the woman who created it all is bizarre, like some dining experience at an upscale restaurant, but in the comfort of home. It’s odd. But then again, so are the occupants seated at the table who have shifted from banal banter to potential, physical warfare. 

“They’re always like this.” Miyeon whispers behind her hand like a secret shared between giddy teenage girls. Across the table, Shuhua and Nicha are heatedly arguing with chopsticks raised en garde, in a language that isn’t English or French. “Aren’t they cute?”

“Sure?” Soojin warily agrees. Is that the etiquette for upscale table battles involving cutlery and not sickly sweet, sharp-witted jabs? Or maybe the sickly sweet, sharp-witted jabs are reserved for tables full of cut throat lawyers and gajillionaires merely brandish chopsticks engraved with their names at one another. 

“Believe it or not, they’re talking about what movie we should watch tomorrow evening.”

Given how angry it sounds and how many hand motions are involved, it must be a lie. But Soojin only knows English and when a German exchange student once asked her to borrow a pen, it sounded outright murderous. “Right.”

There’s a curl to Miyeon’s lips, one of untold secrets and double entendres. “You have adorable cheeks.” There’s no delay between the comment and the fingers that pinch Soojin’s cheek. 

“Miyeon!” The table shakes as Shuhua jumps to her feet, flat palms sla