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Brandon’s jaw clenches, his fingers drumming against the table.
“The plum sauce has this really…” I dip my finger in it, pretending to search for words. “Plummy quality. Like, it tastes exactly like what a plum would taste like if it decided to become a sauce instead of staying a plum.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Brandon snatches up one of the spring rolls. “The exterior is perfectly crisp, maintaining structural integrity while complementing the richness of the duck confit. The meat is tender, properly seasoned with what I’m guessing is Chinese five spice, and the plum sauce…” He dips it carefully. “Has been reduced with star anise and balanced with rice wine vinegar to cut through thefattiness, or what my girlfriend would say, duckiness of the duck.”
I bite my lip. Too easy.
“The ratio of filling to wrapper is spot on,” he continues, examining. “Though I’d consider adding some pickled daikon for textural contrast and brightness.”
Elliot nods approvingly. “There he is.”
Brandon freezes mid-bite, realizing what just happened, zeroing in on me. “You did that on purpose.”
I shrug, reaching for another spring roll. “I have no idea what you mean. I was just trying to be… springrolly.”
He reaches for the arancini, breaking it apart to study the texture. It’s like watching someone wake up from a long sleep. “The breadcrumb ratio is off.” He tastes it. “And you’re using pancetta instead of guanciale.”
“How’d you know?” Elliot asks.
“The fat content’s different. Changes the mouthfeel.”
This is the Brandon I fell for in college. Passionate, sure of himself, and lost in the details of a meal.
“Knew you still had it in you.” Elliot clasps Brandon’s shoulder. “Got something else for you to try. New sous chef. My previous guy retired.”
“Not interested.” Brandon pushes the plate away. “Also, the egg yolk’s overcooked. Needs to be runnier to bind everything together.”
“Come on.” Elliot’s already backing toward the kitchen. “Just taste what he’s working on. Give me your professional opinion.”
“This guy, seriously.” Brandon stares at the deconstructed arancini as if it had personally offended him. “Amateur mistakes. Any first-year culinary student knows better.”
“Right.” I take another sip of wine. “That’s why you spent five minutes breaking down the exact ratio of breadcrumbs?”
His jaw ticks. “Just pointing out the obvious flaws.”
“Mhmm. And that thing with the pancetta versus…” I wave my hand, “whatever that other thing was.”
“Guanciale.”
“That was just you being pedantic?”
“Someone has to maintain standards.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, such tragic standards in here.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Never.” But my lips defy my brain.
“You are.” He points his fork at me. “I can hear and clearly see it on your face.”
“I just think it’s cute how you can’t help yourself.”
“Cute?” His nose wrinkles. “I’m not cute. I’m expressing legitimate concerns about declining standards in professional kitchens.”
“Mhmm. Whatever you say, chef.”
“Whatever you’re thinking.” His expression softens. “Stop.”