A Dish Best Served Cold Novel Novels & Stories

Liam countered. Cecilia scanned the room again, still puzzled. "What kind of food makes people act like this?" "Your dish is being served." Before Liam could explain further, a server approached carrying an exquisite bone china plate. "Today's featured dish: French foie gras and black truffle bisque with butter-poached lobster. Please enjoy." Cecilia picked up her fork and gently tapped the lobster shell. She wasn't particularly fond of seafood--it always felt like too much effort. Although she was used to Western cuisine, she still felt a bit resistant to dishes this delicate and elaborate.

Christmas was the reading of the book. This Christmas, Don's book was a novel—Norwegian, which was not a coincidence, a novel by the same writer whose essays were in the Norway reading programme. The novel was called The Dark Year, and it was about a man who spent a winter alone in a cabin in the far north of Norway, experiencing the full darkness for the first time. Don had been saving it since September, when he had finished the essays. He had placed it on the shelf above his desk, the designated holding place for the Christmas book, and had not opened it once.

The table was adorned with an extravagant spread—fresh fruit, pastries, eggs, and more food than I had ever seen on a breakfast table. “You do realize there’s only two of us, right?” I asked, staring at the feast. Lucas sat at the head of the table, motioning for me to take a seat across from him. “I like having options.” I rolled my eyes but took a plate, carefully selecting a croissant and some fruit. As I started eating, Lucas sipped his black coffee, watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. “What?” I finally asked. “You adjusted quickly,” he noted, setting his cup down. “Most people would have been overwhelmed.”

“Do you enjoy eating cold food?” “Well,” I don’t enjoy eating food that isn’t meant to be eaten cold. I would rather have a piping hot bowl of chicken alfredo than a bowl filled with cold sauce and slimy noodles. As my face scrunched up at the thought of it, I warily shook my head. “Well, no. I don’t but-” His glance towards me was stern, “Then you’ll get a hot meal. I refused to let my ma-my valued customer-eat cold food if that isn’t something she likes.”

“But if she sees a handsome officer, something may happen; therefore I chose to bring her with me rather than leave her, especially as it is dangerous for a girl at home alone. But if I go without her to Rashroff, then let her grace give command to tie her with a cord, or she will play pranks.” “I was no better myself,” said Basira. “They gave her a distaff to spin,” said Zastar; “but she danced with it, since she had no one better to dance with. But you are a jovial man. Basira, I should like to have an encounter with Sir Novoveski, for I also am fond of amusement at times.” Meanwhile, before supper was served, the door opened, and Mellehov entered. Sir Novoveski did not notice him at once,

“Seems you are not the type to want people in your space.” He flicked his gaze to me. “You could say that.” And this kind of people has dark secrets that hide beneath their surfaces. Sometimes I wondered who was more dangerous between someone who intrudes on people's space or someone who hates people interfering in their space. “I see. So what is the name of this meal?” I asked him, catching the sweet aroma of potatoes. “Chicken cordon bleu with mashed potatoes,” He said. I nodded. Just as I picked up my spoon to have a taste, several beeps blew up on my phone, and I looked down at my phone in shock. Was Bishop done with the emails?

The cold air had left the seats damp, but without hesitation, Aidan wiped one clean for her before gesturing for her to sit. Malikha smiled softly. “I made you lunch,” she said, opening a container carefully. “Since it’s cold, I made soup. You should try it.” Steam rose gently into the chilly air. Aidan took a spoonful and paused, then nodded with genuine approval. “This is really good,” he said. “You’re a great cook.” Malikha’s cheeks flushed immediately, her gaze dropping shyly. “Eat more,” she said softly. “It’ll keep you warm.”

"One of my favorites. We never eat it. Mrs. Tate must have gone to great effort for us tonight." "I must remember to thank her. I like this soup too," she admitted with a grin, and dipped her spoon into the bowl. They ate quietly, the fire crackling behind them. Even in the summer it was noticeably cooler in Scotland than it was in Bath. Once they finished, the footman brought out a platter of salmon and then roast beef. They then shared a tart with meringue, laughing when their forks both collided as they reached for the same piece.

At least it would fill her up and cool her off. She closed the fridge and pressed the cool can to her forehead, closing her eyes and leaning against the stove. Who would have guessed she’d find heaven in an ice-cold aluminum can? Especially when she’d already found it in the hot, sultry prose of the nineteenth-century book. Slowly, she trailed the can down over her nose, her chin, down her neck to her cleavage. It felt wonderful, and she was just so damn hot.

"Lana, come sit here." Since it was a round table, Lana could sit anywhere near him. Lana knew nobody there except for Eric, Jennifer, and Olivia, so it didn't matter where she sat. Since Eric invited her to sit there, there was no reason to do otherwise. Soon, the first cold dish was served. The foie gras, sliced into diamond shapes after being lightly chilled, was coated with a bright red hawthorn sauce, which was both rich and refreshing. Just this cold dish alone earned praise from the guests.