On the surface, it’s professional reflex. I’ve trusted her palate before, quoting her pairings to students as examples of fearless precision. Following her lead is a no-brainer. Even though its airplane food, what a cool opportunity for me to get her take on things.
When the attendant moves on, I catch Rosa’s profile. Eyes shadowed, lashes low. Awareness prickles across my skin.
“You vacationing in Barcelona” I make an attempt to soften the edges of my accent
She glances over, almost surprised to hear me address her. “Yes.”
“My home. Barcelona doesn’t wake in a rush. Mornings open slowly, like something meant to be savored.” I manage to stop myself from wincing. I didn’t mean for my words to come out like a pick-up line.
Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice my faux pas.
By the look in her eyes, I bet she’s thinking about La Boqueria before tourists crowd its aisles. I picture her wandering through the market where scallops glint like half moons.Jamón ibéricohangs overhead, fat shining under pale light. Citrus lines up beside stacks of thick tomatoes. Copper pans clang in the small bars tucked between stalls. Everywhere, voices are low with anticipation of whatever treasure they’ve purchased.
“So true.” She fidgets with the hem of the blanket. “I studied there.”
Her gaze drops, as if she’s said too much, though she hasn’t uttered more than a few words. For the tiniest moment, I glimpse a woman who’d rather hide than be seen.
Still, I’ve opened the door and I don’t want it to close. Her opinions are a treasure. I want to hear her voice again, even if she guards herself carefully.
I could tell her I know her work, I’ve been to her restaurant and tasted her food. Spoken her name tomy students. It’s too early, though, and my instinct tells me timing matters.
I won’t overwhelm or expose her, she’s minding her own business, after all. When we speak, I want her curious, not cornered.
Frankly, it surprises me how much I care. As a frequent flyer, most conversations are usually disposable. Weather. Professions. Fun facts about whatever the destination is. Polite noise forgotten before landing.
With Rosa Delgado beside me, I don’t want disposable. I want a thread strong enough to carry us through these hours in the air. Maybe even further. Letting this opportunity slip away s unthinkable.
I keep it simple. “Then you understand.”
Before she can reply, the food arrives. She takes a few polite bites, then sets her fork down. No grimace, no complaint, but the absence of pleasure is clear.
Rosa Delgado isn’t the type to fake delight. I admire her conviction.
“In Barcelona,” I lean toward her, “I always start at the markets. Taste what’s fresh, see what calls loudest.”
Her eyes flick to mine, curiosity edging past her guard. “La Boqueria is my favorite market in the world.”
Aha. Nailed it.
I nod. “Mine too. You can eat better at one of those counters than at half the fine-dining rooms in the city.”
“I miss eating food I didn’t make myself.” She gazes into the distance as if this is a revelation.
“Hmmm.” Her admission settles between us. “So you cook?”
A pause. Then, with a small lift of her chin, “I’m a chef.”
I let her claim the word. I don’t press, don’t mention I already know.
Not yet.
“And when you last ate someone else’s cuisine?” I probe.
She exhales, eyes lowering. “Every bite felt like a gift.”
“I hope Barcelona blesses you with many gifts.” I beam at her.
Her mouth twitches into almost a smile. Enough to undo me.
