Chloe’s shoulders lift a fraction and for the first time since I walked in breathing fire, her confidence wobbles. Just a touch. She pulls her tablet from her bag, unlocks it, and starts scrolling.
I lean in despite myself.
So does Marie-Louise.
There it is. My restaurant name. La Cucina di Rosa. One line underneath.
Watery tomato sauce.
That’s it.
Nothing else.
No sides. No pasta notes. No comments on texture or balance or seasoning. Just the one line, sitting there like a verdict.
I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s short and humourless and sounds nothing like joy. “You didn’t even eat there, did you?”
Her head snaps up. “Of course I did.”
“Because that looks a lot like you popped in, glanced at a plate, and made something up.”
“That is absolutely not true,” she says.
Marie-Louise clears her throat. “Chloe.”
“I was there,” Chloe insists. “I just…”
She scrolls again, frowning, then reaches into her bag and pulls out a folded receipt. She smooths it on the desk like evidence in court.
“See,” she says. “Spaghetti pomodoro.”
I look at it. Then back at her. “And?”
She squints. “And.”
“That’s it?” I ask. “Spaghetti. Pomodoro.”
“Well,” she says, “it’s a classic.”
Marie-Louise closes her eyes briefly.
I feel something loosen in my chest. Relief, sharp and surprising. “So you had one dish. One sauce. And decided that was enough to define the whole restaurant.”
Chloe straightens. “I was reviewing four places that day.”
“Four,” I repeat. “In one day.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re surprised you can’t remember mine.”
She bristles. “I remember plenty.”
“You remember my sauce.”
“Because it stood out.”
“In a bad way.”
