“Maybe with this dish I wouldn’t,” he says, folding his arms. “Maybe we could serve it in custom-made Nicky’s Sardine Tins, and the guests have to pull back the lid to get to the meal.”
I study him, my eyes narrowing.
“Or with, like, an anchovy and lemon sorbet that you spoon over the dish at the table and the guests get to watch it melt.”
“I don’t know if you’re joking,” I say, flicking my tea towel at him.
“Or maybe, Olive, we could boil the spaghetti at the table on little mini gas stoves, and the customer has to fish out their own pasta?”
“Fuck you,” I say, laughing. “Although I admit I kind of liked the sardine-tin presentation idea. That was fun.”
He resumes cleaning and considers the question seriously.
“I wouldn’t do much to that dish,” he says. “Close to this recipe, I think. But Nicky’s desperately needs new crockery, and I reckon we could have worked on the presentation. Itcoulduse some fennel beard, since we’d be using the bulb elsewhere.”
“No waste,” I say.
“It’s not about one dish, though; it’s about the whole menu. There are thirty-four dishes on the latest menu. Your dad thought that offering everything meant that no one was disappointed. But, Jesus, that meant a lot of prep and a lot of waste.”
“I read that seven mains is the lucky number. Less, and people feel they’re missing out. More, and people get overwhelmed and opt for something they already know.”
“I did not know that,” he says.
An alarm interrupts us, and Leo pulls the orange cake out of the oven. I watch as he frees it from the springform pan, slides it onto a cooling rack, and carefully pours our prepared orange glaze over it. I move in and add our dried-blood-orange rounds.
“Looks good,” I say. “But how does it taste?”
I reach over at the same time as Leo to get the knife. And he pulls back. “It’s all yours,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender.
The knife is heavy as it glides through the cake, and I cut a slice for us both. Leo slides a couple of forks onto the bench, and in he digs.
Leo nods approvingly, a small groan escaping his lips. “Almonds, oranges, bitter, sweet,” he says with his mouth full. “It’s understated. It’s balanced. It’s perfect.”
“Whoa there, big guy,” I say, as I watch Leo tuck in with the enthusiasm and the manners of a Dickensian orphan.
“When something tastes this good, you can never have enough,” he says, eyes flickering up to mine.
I dig my fork in. “Well then. I better taste.”
“Luca’s making his version of this too, so we should save some to compare at Rocco’s tomorrow,” he says. “I’ve told him we’re going to feed them our final dishes, by the way.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea,” I say, nodding. Then I look over at Leo, who is looking as pleased as I feel. “We did it, didn’t we?”
“We did.”
“Sicily done,” I say.
“Except for the story,” he reminds me.
“Except for the story,” I say, nodding nervously. “But I have some ideas.”
Leo nods. “Well, today was fun,” he says, smiling. A full genuine smile. Nothing hidden behind it. No playful teasing.
“Yes, Chef,” I say, smiling back, removing the scarf that was holding my hair back and letting it fall. Leo watches me fix my hair, and I feel a touch of heat in my cheeks, quickly staring down at the three pages that contain the final recipes for this section of the book.
I glance across but look away when I see he’s watching me.
“What are you thinking, Olive?” he asks.
