“Chef Claude’s Revenge”
The days felt like they were blending together, each one a haze of sleepless nights and the endless chaos of caring for a newborn. My daughter, Sophie, was only four months old, and I was doing my best to navigate the whirlwind of motherhood. It was hard, but I had my husband, Derek, to lean on—at least, that’s what I thought. Then something changed.
It started small—just little things that made me wonder what was going on with him. He’d come home late, kiss me quickly, and then say, “I’m not really hungry,” even when I had a hot meal waiting for him. I thought it was stress or maybe a temporary phase. But as time went on, his excuses grew more frequent and his enthusiasm for my cooking dwindled. He’d say things like, “I had a big lunch today,” or “Heavy food makes me sluggish at night.”
It hurt, but I pushed it down. After all, things were different now that we had Sophie. The house was messier, the nights were longer, and my patience was running thin. Still, I kept up with dinner. It was the one thing I could control. Simple meals, like stir-fry, chili, or mac and cheese with hidden vegetables. Nothing fancy—just the food we needed to get through the day.
But one evening, Derek came home and said it again: “I’m not hungry.” His excuse this time was a big lunch with a client. I could feel my frustration bubbling up. It wasn’t just the fact that he wasn’t eating my food—it was the sneaky way he was avoiding it. Something didn’t sit right.
The next morning, after an exhausting night with Sophie, I collapsed on the couch while she napped. My hands were shaking from sleep deprivation as I opened our banking app. Maybe we could afford a new rocker for Sophie. That’s when I saw it. A trail of charges from restaurants: $63 at The Golden Fork Bistro, $54 at Eastwood Steakhouse, $48 at Louie’s Urban Tacos.
I blinked at the screen. My sleep-deprived brain must be playing tricks on me. But no—there it was. Derek had been eating out… a lot. Nearly every day. My stomach twisted as I scanned through weeks of charges. All the while, he’d been telling me he wasn’t hungry or that he’d had a big lunch.
I couldn’t hold it in. My fingers flew across my phone as I took screenshots of the charges and sent them to Derek with a simple message: “Full yet?”
His reply was quick: “Babe, I just need a break from your food. You cook the same things all the time. I’m not mad, just being honest.”
I stared at the screen. His words stung, but instead of lashing out, I sat back, taking a deep breath. That’s when a plan started forming in my mind.
After that, Derek started bringing home takeout, but it was always for him, never for me. It was as if he thought this would make things better—he’d still get his favorite meals without having to endure mine. But all it did was add fuel to my fire. I wasn’t going to let him off that easily.
One night, after Sophie had finally fallen asleep, I stayed up late on my laptop. By morning, I had created “L’Amour du Goût,” a fake luxury restaurant. I designed a sleek website, made professional-looking menus, and even bought a burner phone from Walgreens. I was ready to become “Chef Claude,” and I had a plan to serve Derek the most unforgettable meals of his life.
The trap was set.
When Derek’s usual delivery arrived that evening, I slipped a glossy card into his takeout bag while he was in the bathroom. It read: “Enjoyed your order? Try something exclusive. No menu repeats. Ever. Text this number to be added to our exclusive client list.”
I waited. Three days passed before my burner phone buzzed with a message: “Saw your card. I’m interested. – Derek.”
I grinned. I had him.
I responded as Chef Claude: “Bienvenue! Your private chef journey begins tomorrow. Deliveries at 6:30 p.m. Text CONFIRM to start.”
“CONFIRM,” came his reply. Hook, line, and sinker.
The next day, while Derek was at work and Sophie napped, I prepared the first “luxury meal.” I made the blandest, most unappetizing food I could think of: Air Poached Root Slivers (boiled carrots), Deconstructed Gluten Reduction Cake (a plain rice cake with a smear of mayo), and Basil Whisper Soup (warm water with a single basil leaf). I packaged everything in fancy containers, added a note that read “Chef Claude’s Daily Creation,” and hid it in the back of the garage fridge.
At 6:25 p.m., I excused myself and snuck out to the garage. I placed the bag on our front step, knocked on the door, and rushed back inside. From the kitchen, I listened as Derek unpacked his “gourmet” meal. It was silent.
When I returned 30 minutes later with Sophie in my arms, the containers were empty. Derek was sitting on the couch, watching TV.
“How was your dinner?” I asked innocently.
“Fine,” he said, barely looking up. “Different. Kind of subtle flavors.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “That’s nice.”
The next night’s meal was even worse: Fennel-Misted Protein Pillow (a hard-boiled egg), Artisan Airbag Chips (three stale popcorn pieces), and Ambrosia Reduction (a gummy bear melted onto a spoon). I followed the same delivery routine, and again, Derek ate it all without complaint, though his face said everything.
By night three, I had reached peak absurdity. I delivered a single long-stemmed broccoli labeled “Vertical Garden Monolith” and a teaspoon of plain yogurt called “Cloud Harvest.” Derek had had enough.
My burner phone buzzed again: “Is this a joke?”
I stayed in character, replying: “Chef Claude does not entertain those who question culinary genius. Perhaps your palate is not refined enough for our offerings.”
It was time to wrap things up.
That weekend, I invited my two best friends, Lisa and Jen, over. They’d been in on the plan from the start, and we were all ready for the grand finale. As I prepped a real dinner—roast chicken, crispy potatoes, and chocolate cake—Lisa asked, “He still has no idea?”
“Not a clue,” I replied, smirking. “He thinks this dinner party means he gets a break from Chef Claude’s creations.”
Jen grinned. “You’re my hero.”
When Derek walked in, he sniffed the air, his eyes lighting up. “Smells amazing in here.”
“We’ve been cooking all afternoon,” I said sweetly. “Why don’t you relax? Dinner’s almost ready.”
When the meal was ready, Lisa and Jen carried their plates to the table, heaping with golden roast chicken, potatoes, and salad. I followed with a small tray for Derek: a single rice cake, one boiled carrot, and a spoon holding a lone gummy bear.
“Bon appétit. Chef Claude sends his regards,” I said with a grin.
Derek stared at the plate. Then he stared at me. Then back at the plate. The room was silent except for Lisa and Jen’s barely contained giggles.
“Wait…” he 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 after a moment of stunned silence, Derek joined in, albeit with a blush creeping across his cheeks.
“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.
Later, after our friends left and Sophie was asleep, Derek and I sat on the couch with real slices of chocolate cake.
“I’m really sorry,” he said, his voice sincere. “I felt… I don’t know, trapped. Everything changed so fast with Sophie, and those dinners out were my escape.”
“You could’ve talked to me,” I said gently. “Instead of lying and making me feel like my cooking was the problem.”
“I know. I was selfish. And stupid.” He took my hand. “But you have to admit, your revenge was brilliant.”
I smiled, but my expression grew serious. “This isn’t fixed with one apology, though. I need to know we’re a team.”
“We are,” he insisted, looking into my eyes. “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.”
Derek kept his promise. He started helping with dinner twice a week, even complimenting every meal—no matter how simple. He also took night duty with Sophie so I could get a full night’s sleep.
As for “L’Amour du Goût,” I left the website up, just in case. Because sometimes, even the best husbands need a little reminder about what it means to be a good partner.
