During a weekend night—I can not remember how long ago—I stood in the kitchen awaiting my brother to chauffeur the guests to their table. He came from the basement which had been transformed into a five-star Paris restaurant. It was not the first time the basement had become a different setting. It was once an Italian vineyard that served the finest mushroom risotto. Before that, it was a beachside restaurant that had a special garlic shrimp pasta.  

“The guests have been seated. They have ordered two chicken cordon bleu’s—no sauce,” my brother, dressed in the old suit he wore to our uncle's wedding. He was only 10 but he had a talent for acting. I laughed and began cooking. 

“Could you bring the appetizers down to them please,” I said, handing him the homemade mozzarella stick we made in advance. I watched him until he disappeared around the corner and began working on the meal. 

After my brother had come back from giving the guests their appetizer, I instructed him to prepare the chicken. We baked and broiled the chicken until it was perfectly cooked. I handed my brother the perfectly plated dish for him to bring the guests. 

I went to the fridge to check on the french mouse cake I had prepared earlier in the day. I pulled it from the fridge just as my brother returned from the basement. 

“Can I put the rosettes on?” he asked racing to the kitchen. 

I nodded and handed him the piping bag filled with light whipped frosting. 

He dotted the cake with six rosettes in a circle. After an hour, we cut the cake and placed it on two separate plates decorated with a single strawberry and helped him carry it downstairs. 

We served it to the guest who invited us to stay. The guests were simply our parents on their anniversary night enjoying a meal not made by a five-star chef but by their 15-year-old daughter and served by their 10-year-old son. Enjoying the meal not in Paris but in their home.