I raise an eyebrow. “Is this a demotion or a promotion.”
“This,” he says patiently, “is where you stop hovering and start paying attention.”
“I have been paying attention.”
“You’ve been narrating silently,” he replies. “There’s a difference.”
I feel seen and I am not sure if this is a good thing.
I step closer, close enough to smell the tomatoes properly. Sweet, warm, almost floral.
“And what,” I ask, “are we making here.”
He looks at me sideways. “You know exactly what we’re making.”
“Ah,” I say. “The infamous watery menace.”
He huffs a laugh despite himself. “You can’t help yourself.”
“You invited me,” I point out. “I assume you knew the risks.”
“I invited you to observe,” he says. “Not to antagonise.”
“Those are adjacent skills,” I reply.
He turns fully towards me now, expression intent rather than annoyed. “This is my Nonna’s sauce.”
“I know.”
“I make it the way she taught me.”
“I know.”
“And I am not changing it for trends, critics, or people who eat four restaurants in one afternoon.”
There it is. The line in the sand. I meet his gaze, steady.
“I didn’t ask you to,” I say.
He pauses, thrown slightly by that. “No?”
“No,” I repeat. “Now show me. I am ready to be corrected.”
He watches me for a second, assessing whether I’m being sincere or clever. Eventually, he nods.
“Good,” he says. “Then watch.”
He reaches for the tomatoes, movements economical, practiced. He doesn’t over explain. He doesn’t perform. He just works, talking as he goes like this is something he has done a thousand times and never stopped caring about.
“People think sauce is about intensity,” he says. “Big flavours. Reduction. Forcing it. It’s not.”
I lean in slightly, notebook forgotten for the moment. “What is it about then?”
“Patience,” he says. “And restraint.”
I smile faintly. “You don’t strike me as restrained.”
His mouth twitches. “You don’t know me well enough.”
