I almost smile. “A rare display of restraint.”
“You have no idea.”
I don’t look away quickly enough. The air at the table warms, and both of us feel it. I see it in the way his hand tightens once around the espresso cup. He sees whatever happens on my face, because he sees too much, and because my face has been much less obedient around him than I prefer. I force the conversation back where it belongs.
“The review covers the anonymous meal only,” I say.
“Official menu, room, service, pairings, pacing. Subsequent access is context at most. Private intimacy is not part of the piece.”
His eyes hold mine when I say private intimacy, and my pulse has the nerve to answer.
“Understood,” he says.
“You don’t get to influence the review.”
“I didn’t ask to.”
“You don’t get to charm your way around criticism.”
His mouth curves faintly.
“You think I’m charming?”
“I think you’re avoiding the noun you should be worried about.”
“Criticism,” he says.
“Yes.”
“I can take criticism.”
“Can you?”
His expression turns dry. “That was an aggressive question from a woman who has read my industry.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“No,” he says.
“I can take intelligent criticism. I have less patience for lazy criticism dressed as insight.”
“Then you should be fine,” I say.
“Should I?”
“If the work holds.”
He leans back, and the professional chef returns fully now, proud, exacting, and impossible.
“The work holds.”
I pick up my coffee. “Most chefs believe that,” I say
“Most chefs are wrong.”
“There he is,” I say.
He almost smiles. “You prefer false modesty?”
