Revenge Served on a Silver Platter
It was 2 a.m., and I was once again rocking my baby, Sophie, while stirring a pot of chili. Sleepless nights and the chaos of a newborn had become my new normal. With one arm holding Sophie close, I gently whispered, “Shhh, it’s okay, baby girl. Mommy’s just making dinner for Daddy. He’ll be home soon.”
Being on maternity leave was like living in a time warp. Days blended together, and I often forgot whether it was Tuesday or Saturday. But despite being exhausted beyond belief, I still made dinner every night. Nothing fancy—just simple, comforting meals like stir-fry, chili, or mac and cheese with hidden veggies.
Then Derek started acting strange.
One night, he walked in the door, looking tired but not hungry. “Hey,” I said, offering a smile. “Dinner’s almost ready. Just warming up some of yesterday’s chili.”
He kissed my forehead, but he barely glanced at the food. “Thanks, but I’m not really hungry. I had a big lunch with the Johnson account today.”
“Oh,” I replied, trying to hide my surprise. “Well, it’ll keep if you want some later.”
This wasn’t the first time. For weeks now, Derek had been making excuses for not eating my cooking.
“Heavy food makes me sluggish at night,” he’d said last week.
“I’m trying to eat lighter in the evenings,” he’d mentioned the week before.
Before Sophie, Derek always devoured his meals. He would even ask for seconds! So, what had changed?
One morning, after being up with Sophie since 4 a.m., I collapsed onto the couch, finally getting a moment to breathe. I pulled out my phone to check our shared bank account. Maybe we could squeeze in that electric rocker seat I’d been eyeing.
That’s when I saw it. My heart dropped.
The charges jumped off the screen—$63 at The Golden Fork Bistro, $54 at Eastwood Steakhouse, and $48 at Louie’s Urban Tacos. I blinked hard, thinking my sleep-deprived mind was playing tricks on me. But as I scrolled through weeks of transactions, the pattern was clear. Derek had been eating out… a lot. Almost every day, in fact. Meanwhile, he’d been telling me he wasn’t hungry or had eaten a big lunch.
I felt a wave of anger and disbelief, but I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. Instead, I calmly snapped screenshots of the charges and sent them to Derek with a short message: “Full yet?”
His reply came quickly: “Babe. I just need a break from your food. You cook the same things all the time. I’m not mad, just being honest.”
The words hit me like a slap. But instead of firing back with an angry text, I took a deep breath and typed, “Okay. Thanks for telling me. 😊”
And that’s when my plan began to take shape.
From that point, Derek started bringing takeout home. But there was a catch—he never ordered anything for me. It was always a solo meal for him to eat while I nursed Sophie. I barely got a few of his fries, and that just added fuel to the fire.
One night, after Sophie fell asleep, I stayed up late working on something. By morning, “L’Amour du Goût — luxury for the everyday palate” was born.
I’d created a sleek website, designed professional menus using stock photos, set up a fake email account, and even bought a burner phone. I was now Chef Claude, a private chef offering exclusive, luxurious meals.
The next step was setting the trap.
When Derek’s usual takeout arrived that evening, I quietly slipped a glossy card into his bag while he was in the bathroom. The card read: “Enjoyed your order? Try something exclusive. No menu repeats. Ever. Text this number to be added to our exclusive client list.”
Of course, the number led straight to my burner phone.
Three days passed before I got a message on my burner: “Saw your card. I’m interested. – Derek.”
I smiled to myself and quickly responded as Chef Claude: “Bienvenue! Your private chef journey begins tomorrow. Deliveries at 6:30 p.m. Text CONFIRM to start.”
“CONFIRM,” came the reply.
Hook, line, and sinker.
The next day, while Derek was at work and Sophie was napping, I prepared the first “luxury meal.” I cooked the blandest, most ridiculous food I could think of: Air Poached Root Slivers (plain boiled carrots), Deconstructed Gluten Reduction Cake (a rice cake with mayo), and Basil Whisper Soup (warm water with a single basil leaf).
I arranged everything in sleek containers and added a note: “Chef Claude’s Daily Creation.” I hid it all in the back of our garage refrigerator.
At 6:25 p.m., I excused myself, took the fancy delivery bag from the fridge, and placed it on our front step. I knocked on the door and quickly ran back inside.
From the kitchen, I listened as Derek unpacked his “gourmet” meal. The silence stretched, and I was waiting for him to say something. But there was nothing.
When I returned 30 minutes later, Sophie in my arms, the containers were empty, and Derek was watching TV.
“How was your dinner?” I asked, trying to hide my grin.
“Fine,” he said, not even looking up. “Different. Kind of subtle flavors.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “That’s nice.”
The next night’s “luxury” meal was even worse: Fennel-Misted Protein Pillow (a hard-boiled egg in a cup), Artisan Airbag Chips (three stale popcorn kernels), and Ambrosia Reduction (a gummy bear melted on a spoon).
I repeated the delivery process. And again, Derek ate it all without complaining. But the look on his face told me he wasn’t enjoying it.
By night three, I’d had enough. I delivered a single long-stemmed broccoli labeled “Vertical Garden Monolith” and a teaspoon of plain yogurt called “Cloud Harvest.” Derek had clearly reached his limit.
My burner phone buzzed with a text: “Is this a joke?”
Staying in character, I replied: “Chef Claude does not entertain those who question culinary genius. Perhaps your palate is not refined enough for our offerings.”
Now it was time for the final act.
That weekend, I invited my two closest mom friends over for dinner. Lisa and Jen had been in on the plan from the start. They’d helped brainstorm the ridiculous food names and had cheered me on through every step.
“He still has no idea?” Lisa asked, peeling potatoes for our real dinner—roast chicken, crispy potatoes, and chocolate cake.
“Not a clue,” I replied. “He thinks this dinner party is his break from Chef Claude.”
“You’re my hero,” Jen said, sliding the chicken into the oven. “I can’t wait to see his face.”
When Derek walked in, he immediately sniffed the air. “Smells amazing in here.”
“We’ve been cooking all afternoon,” I said sweetly. “Why don’t you relax? Dinner’s almost ready.”
When it was time to serve, Lisa and Jen brought their plates to the table, loaded with golden roast chicken and crispy potatoes. I followed with a small silver tray for Derek, containing one rice cake, a boiled carrot, and a spoon with a lone gummy bear.
I set it in front of him with a big smile. “Bon appétit. Chef Claude sends his regards.”
Derek stared at the plate, then at me, then back at the food. The room was silent except for Lisa and Jen trying to suppress their giggles.
“Wait…” Derek said slowly, realization dawning. “YOU’RE Chef Claude? That restaurant… it’s all fake?”
I smiled sweetly. “I figured if you didn’t like my food, maybe you’d prefer something… curated.”
Lisa and Jen burst into laughter, and Derek’s face flushed with embarrassment. After a few seconds of stunned silence, he joined in.
“You got me,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you did all this.”
“I can’t believe you ate stale popcorn and called it ‘different,’” I replied, still grinning.
Later that night, after our friends left and Sophie was asleep, Derek and I sat on the couch with real plates of chocolate cake.
“I’m really sorry,” Derek said, his voice sincere. “I felt… I don’t know, trapped, I guess. Everything changed with Sophie, and eating out was like my escape.”
“You could’ve talked to me,” I said. “Instead of lying and making me feel like my cooking was the problem.”
“I know. I was selfish. And stupid.” He reached for my hand. “But you have to admit, your revenge was brilliant.”
I smiled but grew serious. “This isn’t fixed with one apology, though. I need to know we’re a team.”
“We are,” he promised. “From now on, let’s plan takeout nights together. No more secrets, no more sneaking.”
“And maybe you could help cook a couple of nights a week?” I suggested.
“Deal.”
And from that day on, Derek kept his promise. He started helping with dinner twice a week and complimented every meal, even if it was just frozen pizza. He also volunteered for night duty with Sophie, letting me get a full night’s sleep.
As for “L’Amour du Goût,” I kept the website up, just in case.
Because sometimes, even the most well-intentioned husbands need a reminder about what it means to be a good partner.
