“Now,” she says with a smile, stepping back with a gentle sweep of her hand, “would you like to try some Thai delicacies?”
I can’t help but smile, nodding. Something about her presence makes it easy to say yes.
“Very well then,” she says, returning my smile with a brighter one. “The chefs here are among the best Thai chefs in the city. I told them to make something special for you.”
We settle at a small table nestled beneath a curved arch of climbing roses, their soft petals swaying gently in the breeze. The garden wraps around the restaurant like a protective hush, turning the space into a quiet, calm place.
The table is soon filled with steam, spice, and color —a fragrant feast that feels both unfamiliar and inviting.
Davika sits gracefully across from me, eyes bright.
“Let me introduce you to heaven,” she says, gesturing to the dishes like she’s unveiling treasures.
She points to a golden, folded pastry.
“Curry Puffs. Flaky pastry filled with curried potatoes and chicken. It’s mild, sweet, and perfect for a starter.”
Next, a bowl of creamy orange soup.
“Tom Kha Gai. Coconut milk soup with chicken, lemongrass, and galangal. It’s warm and comforting, with just a bit of tang.”
Another dish catches my eye—vibrant green leaves with small, colorful toppings. She lifts one gently.
“Miang Kham,” she says. “This one’s fun. You wrap toasted coconut, peanuts, lime, and ginger in wild betel leaves. It’s like a burst of flavor in one bite.”
She reaches for a plate of skewers.
“Moo Ping. Grilled marinated pork with sticky rice. Sweet, smoky, and best eaten with your fingers.”
Then her fingers pause over a beautifully plated dish of rice noodles wrapped in a delicate egg net.
“Pad Thai Hor Kai. It’s Pad Thai, but served in a thin omelet wrap—it’s one of my favorites.”
Finally, she uncovers a small plate with shining mango pieces beside perfectly shaped mounds of sticky rice, drizzled with coconut cream.
“And for dessert… Khao Niew Mamuang,” she says with a smile. “ Mango sticky rice. Simple, but so beloved. It reminds me of home.”
I stare at everything, wide-eyed, a little overwhelmed, but in the best way. The smells, the colors, the way she presents each dish with such pride and care. It doesn’t feel like a meal. It feels like a gift.
She watches me quietly as I reach for the curry puff first. I take a bite, and the warmth and subtle sweetness flood my tongue, soft and rich. My eyes lift to hers, and she laughs gently, like she expected that reaction.
“Good?” she asks.
I nod, maybe too fast. She doesn’t tease me for it. She just passes me the next plate with the same quiet joy.
We’re halfway through the meal when her playful energy starts to settle. The way her chopsticks move slows. She sips her Thai tea, eyes drifting toward the blooming garden just beyond the restaurant terrace.
Then she speaks, softer this time.
“Alex likes Thai shrimp omelette— kai jeow Goong, especially if it’s really hot. I used to make it for him all the time for breakfast.” She smiles gently, like she’s watching the memory play out somewhere behind my shoulder. His favorite dessert is called medovik. It’s a traditional Russian layered cake, and he was so addicted to it when he was a kid.”
I stay quiet, watching her, because I know she has a lot to say to me at this moment.
“When he was little,” she says, her voice low but clear, “he didn’t know how to tell sadness apart from anger. To him, it was all the same. He didn’t cry when he was supposed to. He’d just… shut down. Go quiet. Cold. Distant.”
That makes me pause, my chopsticks stilling mid-air, the food on my plate suddenly forgotten.
“One of his nannies quit when he was eight and never came back,” she says, her tone touched with something like regret. “She told me he was a psychopath. She said Alex likes to kill the animals in the forest and bury them in the backyard. What got to her was that he told her he would kill our house cat because it was in pain and would like to free it from the burden.”
