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“Honey, what are you doing?” Chandler asked her, seeing her busy in the kitchen.
“My parents are coming to dinner, and I want everything to be perfect.” she explained, while she tried at the same time to stir something in a pot and check the meat in the oven.
Her husband looked amused.
“Mon, take it easy. I’m sure it’s all going to be alright.” he told her, putting a finger in the sauce’s bowl to taste it.
The scream that followed was piercing.
“Take those dirty hands out of my béarnaise sauce! Chandler, you know I get tense when my parents come here. Please, just go to your room!” she yelled. He raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not your son! You can’t treat me like that, woman!” Monica turned slowly, letting for a moment the stove run itself.
“If you don’t go out of my kitchen right know, I swear I won’t let you go play foosball with Joey later.” she said, calm.
The man stuttered about something, but then went back to his room.
He knew his wife always wanted to look the best for her parents, he knew about her complex, believing that they loved Ross more than her.
But still, when she wanted to she could make a Nazi general blush!
~
“So dad, what do you think of the quiche?” Monica asked, nervous. Her father chewed, deep in thought for a few moments, before smiling and turning toward the girl.
“Well honey... let’s just say I’ve had better tasting food from you.” he told her.
Chandler saw the vein on Monica’s forehead swelling dangerously, and made a clumsy attempt to redirect the attention.
“So Jack, how’s the market lately?” he said, too loud. The three of them turned to look at him, confused.
“Boy, when was the last time you’ve worried about bonds and stocks?” Monica’s father asked, amused. Chandler lowered his eyes.
“Erk... Never, I think.” he admitted. Monica took advantage of the moment to stir the conversation back to the point.
“What do you mean you’ve had better? It took me two hours to cook it and it’s the best thing you’ll ever taste in your life!” she yelled, with her usual ‘someone-doesn’t-like-my-cooking’ sharp voice.
“Monica, I’m sure your father didn’t mean to criticize your dish. Which is delicious.” Chandler said, trying to gesture Mr. Geller so that he would understand what to say.
“Do you have a tic, son?” he asked, oblivious. Monica then stood up, took the quiche and threw it to her father.
“Out!” she screamed, pointing at the door.
“Monica, keep quiet, the quiche is...” her mother tried to say, but the woman didn’t want to hear it. After her parents had collected their things, she went to her room, slamming the door behind her.
Chandler followed the Gellers to the door, mortified. Monica’s father patted his shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Chandler. She’s been like this since she was about six. I’m sure it’s going to pass.” he whispered, then said louder. “Come on, Judy, I’m taking you out to dinner!” from the bedroom, they could hear a clear scream, and they rushed out.
~
That night Chandler waited in vain for Monica to come to bed. After a while waiting, he decided to join her in the kitchen. He found her sitting at the table, staring at the remains of the quiche on the floor.
“I’ve messed my kitchen.” she said, staring into the air. He smiled.
“There’s some quiche left on the plate. How about we finish it?” he asked, handing her a fork. She snorted, but then smiled and accepted it. She chewed intensely, then laid down the fork on the plate.
“You know what? Maybe it’s actually not my better dish.” she admitted.
Chandler glared, but then shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter. I love you anyway.” he said, and hugged her.
“But it’s definitely better than anything you can eat at any New York’s restaurant.” she muttered, starting to eat again.
Yes, Chandler told himself, he loved her anyway. Even though quiche wasn’t her forte.
He grinned and bore it, starting to eat again and never stopped smiling to his wife.