Fed up

customers’ plates at the restaurant, okay?” He managed a little smile.
    Until he tasted the lamb.
    “Oh, my God.” He wrinkled his face and quickly spat out the offending meat.
    “Oh, stop! It can’t be that bad.“ Curious, I sampled a tiny slice. Bitter, I realized, was a gross understatement. Gagging, I turned and spat the meat out into the sink, which was, thank goodness, equipped with a garbage disposal, exactly where the vile piece of lamb belonged. I filled glasses of water for us both and did my best to wash out the taste. Francie was, after all, right. The taste was worse than awful. It was hideously and inexplicably dreadful.
    “I didn’t do that,” Josh said softly. “I did not do anything that would make the lamb taste like that. Did I?” He tasted the vegetables from the roasting pan. “These are pretty good. Although it’s hard to tell right now with that flavor still in my mouth. How the hell did this happen?”
    Here’s proof of my love for Josh: in a noble act of self-sacrifice, I risked having that revolting bitterness invade my mouth again. In other words, I tasted the gnocchi with pesto. And again, ahem, used the sink. When I was done, I said, “Oh, hon! The gnocchi with the arugula pesto has the same problem the lamb does. Francie was right. It’s that same bitterness.” I shook my head. “Not from the arugula or the olives, either. At least, I don t think so. I ve had * arugula that’s turned bitter, but it’s not like this. And olives» can be bitter, but this is something different, something much, much worse. Josh, what can do this?”
    Before he answered, Robin called to him from the dining room. “Josh, we’re ready for the next course.”
    Josh took a deep breath and carried the tomato salad and i cheese plate to Francie and Leo. Francie looked hesitant to eat anything that Josh put in front of her, but she did help herself to tomatoes, tasted them, smiled, and offered unmistakably genuine praise. “The flavor and seasoning of the dressing is perfect.”
    One piece of good footage.
    Nelson kept filming as a morose Josh presented the dessert cobbler. Leo again dug in with pleasure and oohed and aahed, but Francie did nothing more than move her spoon toward her dessert plate. The hot peach and raspberry concoction smelled fantastic. Wasn’t she tempted to try it? And couldn’t she see how miserable Josh looked? Didn’t she want to make amends to him for her harsh criticism of the lamb and gnocchi? Not that I could really blame her—the bitterness lingered on my own tongue—but out of love for Josh, I sent telepathic messages to encourage her to speak kind words and help Josh to save face.
    “I have to go to the bathroom,” Francie announced curtly. So much for my telepathic abilities.
    “Please, can you just finish dessert? And then we’ll wrap this up.” Robin looked desperate to bolt, but she was probably no more desperate than the rest of us were. Every single one of us, I thought, had had more than enough of this episode of Chefly Yours.
    “We’re almost done. I promise,” Josh pleaded. He looked: ready to sprint out of the house in shame.
    “I feel sick.” Francie rose from her seat and walked unsteadily from the table.
    Join the club! After the whole fiasco, I wasn’t feeling too well myself.
    Francie staggered out of the dining room into a large front hallway. From where I was standing, I could see her head toward a staircase. Gripping the handrail, she slowly began to make her way up the steps.
    “Christ, we’re never going to get through this.” Digger looked at his watch. “This is like a never-ending day. This blows for Josh, man.”
    “Yup, but at least it’s been interesting,” Marlee added.
    Robin drew Josh aside and was gracious enough to put her hand on his arm as she spoke softly to him. I hoped she was saying something reassuring. Maybe that the TV station would never in a million years air this horrible episode?
    Appalled by everyone’s seeming lack of compassion for Francie, who clearly was not just feigning illness, I decided to check on her. I made my way to the front hall and up the stairs. By the time I reached the landing at the top, I could hear gagging and groaning. Following the sounds, I rounded a corner and on the floor ahead of me saw Francie’s feet projecting from what was clearly a bathroom. Bright yellow towels hung on towel racks fastened inside the open door. Even before I entered the bathroom, I realized