Leta had wanted a place at that table for months. She ran a small grocery shop, was forty-two, and ate too many dinners standing up. The dining club met once a month; everyone brought something they had cooked, and for several hours nobody discussed work. At least that was how her friend Dunja described it. When the invitation finally arrived, Leta prepared a dish she had practiced for days and put on a dress with generous pockets.
At the entrance they gave her an apron saying she had no taste yet. She thought the joke was tolerable. Then they explained the welcome rule. Every new member had to serve dinner and, between two courses, tell the most embarrassing thing they had done for love. The story had to be true. The club founder raised his glass and added that admission required a little courage. The others laughed like people who knew when to begin.
Leta picked up the first plate. She had a story she could offer, something about traveling to the wrong address, amusing enough to conceal her genuinely bad memories. But the new member beside her began describing a breakup and lost his voice halfway through a sentence. The host encouraged him to continue. Dunja stared at the tablecloth. Leta set down the plate and asked the founder what he had told when he was admitted.
He said the rule had been introduced later. She asked whether he could fulfill it now, for balance. His smile disappeared. He explained that not every tradition could be overturned the moment somebody found it uncomfortable. Leta looked around the table. Some people already held their cutlery above her food. She had wanted their company so much that she almost picked up the plate and resumed serving, as though her question had merely been an awkward joke.
Instead she removed the apron. She said she would dine with them if everyone sat down and nobody had to pay for a place with their own shame. The host replied that the club clearly was not for everyone. Nobody interrupted him. Leta left the food; she felt embarrassed about taking people's dinner away. She collected her coat and went out before exhaustion persuaded her to agree that it had only been a joke after all.
Dunja caught up with her at the tram stop. She did not promise to leave the club, and Leta did not ask her to. They bought two hot pastries and ate them on a bench. Later a message arrived from the new member who had lost his voice. He thanked her and asked whether they might exchange recipes sometime. Leta replied that Thursday would work. This time she planned nothing that would keep her at the stove for days.