The sauce was silky and rich without being heavy, the cheese sharp but not overwhelming, the guanciale adding the perfect amount of salt and smokiness. The pasta was al dente, with that ideal resistance when you bit into it.
This was the sort of food that made you understand why people dedicated their lives to cooking.
"Good?" asked Sofia, though her expression said she already knew the answer.
"It's perfect," I said, with no need to curb my enthusiasm. "Best carbonara I've ever had."
Sofia beamed. "See, Daemon? I told you she had good taste."
Daemon had been watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. "Never doubted it for a second."
The way he said it, low and warm, made it clear he wasn't talking about food.
"So," said Sofia, fork poised midair. "Daemon tells me you used to be in the military. Army?"
"Yes, ma'am. Ten years. Food services and logistics."
Sofia's eyes lit up. "Ah! You understand. Feeding people, it's not only the food. It's timing, organization, making sure everything comes together."
"That's it." I leaned forward, drawn in by her enthusiasm. "Most people think catering is cooking in bulk, but it's so much more. You're coordinating suppliers, managing staff, planning for every disaster."
"While making it look effortless," added Sofia with a small laugh. "Because if the guests see you panic, then they panic, and the meal is ruined."
"Yes!" I couldn't help but smile. "I learned that the hard way during my first big event in the Army. Power outage thirty minutes before service. I was ready to cry, but my sergeant told me to smile and pretend everything was fine. We served the dishes cold and called it a refreshing summer menu."
Sofia let out a full-bodied laugh, her entire face lighting up. "Quick thinking. I like that."
Daemon, who'd been quiet while we volleyed the conversation back and forth, spoke up. "Sofia used to cater big events at the church."
"Not just church," said Sofia, correcting him. "Weddings, baptisms, feast days. For forty years, if there was a celebration in Coogan's Break, I made the food." Pride rang in her voice. "I taught a few restaurants in town how to make proper Italian food. Authentic food, not that..." She waved her hand. "That Italian-inspired nonsense."
"Like what the chains serve," I said, thinking of Elevate Events and their generic menu.
"That's it!" said Sofia, pointing her fork at me. "No soul. No tradition. Food that looks Italian but tastes like nothing."
An idea was forming, small and tentative. "Have you thought about teaching classes? People would pay good money to learn authentic Italian cooking."
Sofia shrugged. "Too old for that now. Standing for hours, teaching people who don't listen..." She trailed off, but something wistful crossed her expression.
"What if you didn't have to stand for hours?" I asked carefully. "What if someone else taught, but used your recipes? Your techniques?"
Sofia studied me, her sharp eyes missing nothing. "You're thinking about your business."
"Maybe." I took a sip of wine, buying time to organize my thoughts. "I lost a major client today. The corporate contract went to a national chain. I'm trying to figure out how to compete with companies that can undercut my prices and have resources I don't."
"But they don't have Sofia's recipes," said Daemon, arching a brow.
Our eyes met, and I could see he was thinking what I was thinking. There was an opportunity here.
"I'd need to think about it," said Sofia, her response measured. "My nonna's recipes, they're family. Sacred. I don't share them with anyone."
"Of course," I rushed out. "I wasn't trying to..."
"But you," interrupted Sofia, "you understand food. You respect it. You're not looking to make it faster or cheaper. You want to make it right."
She fell silent, twirling her next forkful of pasta longer than necessary. The only sound was the clink of forks against plates.
At last, Sofia spoke. "Tell me about the company that took your contract."
