“Excuse me” the pedicurist said to the kimono-clad lunch guest -nibbling on seaweed salad — “what color would you like on your toes? ‘Osaka To Me Orange’ or ‘My Throne For A Cranberry Scone’?’” The girl was sitting on the floor clinking bottles of nail polish together in order get the pampered she-guest’s attention (she was surrounded by silken pillows and ignored the girl at her feet). The guest was too engrossed in the party chitchat about what – if any — are the effects of Botox on menopause. Her pink toes – freshly scraped and scrubbed — looked like a litter of newborn mice all standing at attention in one of those foam toe separators. The nail technician put away her files and clippers and tried once again to get the to look at her by asking in a perky tone that was warped with subservience and bile; “Or how about this dramatic pink color called ‘You’re Such a Kabuki Queen’?”

From the confines of the kitchen – the private chef scrutinized this shameless scene unfold in the living room. She’d been hired to cook an Asian-inspired Spring lunch for ten but had she’d any inkling that the gaggle of women were going to be getting pedicures while they ate her miso-infused salmon, shrimp cold rolls and organic greens she’d never have taken the job to begin with. No matter how well it paid or who it was for.

‘Revolting. Disgusting. Barbarians.’ She sputtered like a dull needle while scouring away at the invisible stains on the spotless counter. ‘Who eats while they get a pedicure? Why host a lunch that’s really a spa-treatment?’ She berated herself for not going out there and snatching up all the plates of food off of all those liposuctioned laps. But whenever she stuck her head out the swinging door – the beauty salon smell of Epsom salts, eucalyptus and acetone colliding with soy, ginger, garlic and scallions stopped her, dead in her tracks.

Being a pro, this chef has an impeccable sense of timing. She’s brilliant at moving a meal along at just the right pace by assessing the assemblage – how well the guests know each other and whether or not the meal is business or pleasure. That’s why the people you read about in the NY Times style section hire her. Her food is always served flawlessly so that people can eat, converse and digest without feeling rushed, bored or sleepy. Many deals have been made by the chiming of wine glasses and the wink of an eye over her famous roast duck and shitake mushroom dumplings. Conversations arch gracefully and if there happens to be a narcissistic bore telling a long-winded story or a tipsy sycophant sucking up to the host — she’ll discreetly cut it short by sending a server out to present the next course.

Her clients are grateful for all of her skills because she makes them seem like the perfects hosts, although they don’t know how to articulate this except by praising her delicate dishes and by paying her outrageous sums of money. But never in all the years that she’s been chefing had she been faced with the challenge of deciphering the subtleties of when to serve dessert – lemongrass-basil sorbet, clove scented biscotti and thickly sweet Thai coffee. Should it come before or after, a red nail polish called ‘I’m Not Really a Waitress’ has dried?

originally broadcast March 5, 2005