Emma chuckled. “I’ll see what we can rustle up for you.”
As Emma departed, Isla pulled out her phone and opened her notes app. The familiar routine settled over her at once. This was her element—observing, analyzing, judging.
The appetizers arrived promptly: a delicate mushroom tartlet with microgreens for Isla, and a small cup of tomato soup for Percy.
Isla lifted her fork, assessing the presentation first. The tartlet was artfully plated; the pastry golden and flaky, the mushroom filling a rich brown against the vibrant green garnish. She took a small bite, letting the flavors develop on her palate.
The pastry was slightly overworked, resulting in a tougher texture than ideal. The mushroom filling lacked depth; they’d clearly used button mushrooms rather than a more flavorful variety like chanterelles or porcini. The seasoning was adequate but uninspired.
She made a note on her phone: “Pastry overworked, filling one-dimensional. Competent but lacks imagination.”
“Mom, this soup is really good,” Percy said happily, swinging his legs under the table. A small drop of tomato soup clung to his chin as he grinned at her. “It tastes like sunshine.”
Isla blinked, momentarily pulled from her analysis. Sunshine. What a beautiful word to describe food.
“Can I try it?” she asked, reaching for his spoon.
Percy pushed the cup toward her. “Sure. It’s super yummy.”
Isla dipped the spoon into the bright red soup and took a taste. It was simple tomato soup, nothing extraordinary byprofessional standards. But as the warm, slightly sweet liquid touched her tongue, she found herself thinking not of acidity levels or seasoning balance, but of summer gardens and fresh-picked tomatoes still warm from the sun.
“It is good,” she agreed, surprised by her own reaction.
The main courses arrived next. Percy’s chicken fingers came with a side of sweet potato fries that immediately reminded Isla of the meal at Thornberg Restaurant. Her own plate featured a pan-seared trout with lemon beurre blanc, asparagus, and fingerling potatoes.
“And here is the chili dip the chef made especially for you,” Emma said, setting a small ceramic bowl down. “Not too spicy.”
“Thank you,” Percy said happily.
“Yes, thank the chef. That was very kind of him,” Isla said.
“We try to please,” Emma replied. “Now, if there is anything else you need, just let me know.”
“She’s nice,” Percy said as he picked up one of his fries. “I like it here.”
“I’m glad,” Isla mumbled as she assessed the plating—slightly crowded but attractive. The fish skin should have been crispier. The asparagus was perfectly cooked, though. She lifted her fork, took a bite of the fish with its sauce, and mentally began composing her critique.
The beurre blanc was too acidic. The chef had leaned too heavily on lemon, overpowering the delicate flavor of the trout. The fish itself was slightly overcooked, the flesh a touch too firm. The potatoes needed more salt.
She made another note, her fingers moving efficiently over her phone screen.
“Mom, you’re doing your food face,” Percy observed between bites of chicken.
“My food face?” Isla looked up, surprised.
“Yeah. When you’re thinking really hard about what’s wrong with the food instead of just eating it.” He demonstrated by furrowing his brow and pursing his lips in exaggerated concentration.
Isla felt a flush of embarrassment. Was she really that transparent? “I’m working, remember?”
“I know,” Percy said, dipping a sweet potato fry into the dip. “But the food is supposed to make you happy, right? Like when we cooked with Kirk. That made you happy.”
The innocent observation landed harder than it should have. When had she stopped enjoying food for its own sake? When had meals become exercises in criticism rather than pleasure?
She set her phone down deliberately and took another bite of the trout. This time, she tried to taste it without analyzing, without mentally picking it apart.
The lemon wasn’t sharp now. It was bright. Fresh. The fish was delicate; the sauce was buttery and rich. Suddenly, she wasn’t thinking about balance or plating or whether the dish would make excellent copy for her readers. She was just tasting it.
“Yummy?” Percy asked, watching her curiously.
