“Foam?” I repeat.
“Don’t think of it as a foam. It’s lukewarm soup, really,” he says, then flicks the page to show a tightly rolled pile of linguine covered in what looks like an upside-down cage.
“Why is that pasta in prison?” I ask.
He tuts in frustration. “It’s a Parmesan basket,” he says quickly, closing the book. “You crack it.” I nod, amused, but Leo sighs. “They’re just ideas. For refining the dishes a little. Still simple and traditional, but elegant. Your dad’s section is traditional, and ours could be... the future?”
I grimace as I imagine some over-the-top recipe with sous vide, gel balls, and porcini foams. It’s the last thing I want. And then I’m wondering how Leo can think Dad wanted a Jerusalem artichoke foam anywhere near this book. I’ve seen a copy of the latest Nicky’s menu, and topinambour foam it was not.
“A chance for you and me to show a little of ourselves. Our own brands,” he continues.
Brands? Did he just say ourbrands? I narrow my eyes on him in the mirror. Suddenly, I’m picturing Leo trying to launch an Instagram channel off the back of a few awful, pretentious recipes in my dad’s book. Then I feel a stab of compassion. I’m about to put him out of a job.Of course he’s thinking about his future. But this isn’t the way to do it.
“I don’t think so,” I say softly.
“No?”
“Leo,” I say. “Can we not overcomplicate this?”
“It doesn’t need to be complicated,” he counters.
“It sounds pretentious.”
“Why is elevating something pretentious?”
“Have you seen that bar opposite Nicky’s?”
“Temp? You think that’s pretentious?”
“Pretentiousnonsense.”
“What? At least it’screative. What’s wrong with drinking something at its perfect temperature?”
“It’s pretentious and gimmicky.”
“You know, reverse snobbery is a thing, Olive.”
“Ha. Wrong. I’m keeping it real.” I place my wineglass on the bar and fold my arms.
“I’m all for simple food, but there are worse human traits than the desire to try something new,” he says.
“But Dad’s food is decidedlynotnew.” This feels like an insult to my father, so I quickly add, “It’s classic. It’straditional.”
“And there’s nothingwrongwith it,” Leo says slowly, his voice low and controlled, laced with frustration. “You ate at the Chambers in St. Pauls, right?”
“Yes,” I reply, still slightly taken aback that he’s been reading my reviews. Had Dad been reading them too?
“And youlikedit. The Chambers iselevatedBritish classics. You said it wasbanging. You gave it a rare four and a half forks out of five. Which I think is your highest ever.”
“I never give five.”
“Why not?”
“You always need room to improve.”
Leo tuts. “Well, anyway. That’s the level I’m talking about.”
“Don’t use my reviews against me,” I say, my knee starting to jiggle. “And that’s different. This is Dad’s last good-bye; we need to do it his way. No Parmesan baskets. No fucking foam.”
