"This is incredible," I say after the first bite.
The vindaloo is exactly right. Layers of spice that build on each other—the initial heat hitting my tongue, then the depth of toasted cumin underneath, then something almost sweet that might be the tomato base or might be magic. The kind of food that makes you close your eyes and pay attention.
Better than Spice King. Better than most restaurants I've been to, and I've been to a lot of them, chasing this exact taste across three continents.
Jason flushes, pleased but deflecting. "It's not that hard once you understand the spice combinations."
"Don't do that."
He blinks. "Do what?"
"Downplay it. This is exceptional. The heat balance is perfect—most people fuck up vindaloo by just making it hot without depth. They think spicy means painful, so they dump in chilies and call it a day. You've got actual complexity here. Layers. The kind of thing that takes real skill."
The flush deepens, spreading down his neck, but he's smiling now. Pleased in a way he's trying to hide and failing. "I toast the spices separately. Most recipes say to do them together, but they have different burn points, so you get better flavor if you—"
He stops, like he's caught himself rambling. Like he thinks I don't want to hear it.
"If you what?" I prompt.
"If you toast them individually and then combine them." He's lighting up now, hands starting to move as he talks, sketching shapes in the air. "The cumin needs a lower heat than the coriander, and the fenugreek burns really easily, so I do that one last and only for like thirty seconds. And the Kashmiri chili—that's what gives it the color without making it too hot—that one you barely toast at all, just enough to wake it up."
"Where'd you learn this?"
"Trial and error, mostly." He's fully animated now, leaning forward, food forgotten. "I've been cooking since I was a kid—my family thought it was weird, a boy who wanted to be in the kitchen all the time, but I didn't care. Indian food I only got into a few years ago. There's this YouTube channel that explains the science behind it, why certain spices work together, how heat affects flavor compounds, the chemistry of browning—"
He stops again, cheeks red. "Sorry. You don't need a lecture on spice chemistry."
"I asked."
"You were being polite."
"I don't do polite." I take another bite, let him see how much I'm enjoying it—the way my eyes close slightly, the small sound of appreciation I don't bother to hide. "If I didn't want to know, I wouldn't ask. Tell me about the chili."
He does. Launches into an explanation of different pepper varieties and Scoville ratings and why Kashmiri chilis are used for color while bird's eye chilis are used for heat. He talks about capsaicin distribution and how drying affects potency and why fresh chilies taste different from dried ones even at the same heat level.
His whole face changes when he talks about something he loves—the nervousness falls away, replaced by confidence and joy. This is Jason in his element, the same way I saw him in the kitchen. The same way I'd guess he is on his bike.
I could watch him do this all day.
"Your bike," I interrupt when he pauses for breath. "You bored out the engine yourself?"
His eyes go wide, surprised by the topic shift. "You could tell?"
"Yeah. Why the 1250 instead of going bigger?"
"Power-to-weight ratio." He's practically vibrating with excitement now, pivoting seamlessly from food to machines. "Bigger would've required frame modifications, would've thrown off the handling. The 1250 gives me the power I want without sacrificing agility. I did the math—calculated the torque curves, figured out where the sweet spot was for that specific frame geometry."
"Smart. Most people just go bigger without thinking about balance."
"Exactly!" He slaps the table lightly, emphatic. "It's not about having the most powerful engine, it's about having the right engine for the bike. The frame can only handle so much before you start losing responsiveness, and I'd rather have something nimble that I can actually control than a beast that fights me in the corners."
"Tell me about the exhaust," I say, partly because I'm genuinely interested, mostly because I want to see him keep talking like this.
He does. Launches into a detailed explanation of sound engineering and back pressure and flow dynamics that should be boring but isn't, because he's so fucking passionate about it. His hands move when he talks, sketching shapes in the air,illustrating concepts. He forgets to be nervous, forgets to be self-conscious, just lets himself get lost in something he loves.
I file away every detail. The way his voice rises when he's excited. The way he uses his whole body to communicate. The way he looks at me for approval after each point, like my opinion matters.
The other lions gradually join us, drawn by the food and the conversation. Jason immediately shifts into caretaker mode, serving everyone, making sure they have what they need. He checks spice levels—"Silas, this might be too hot for you, let me get some yogurt to cut it"—and adjusts portions and makes sure no one's plate is empty.
