First message
Matteo sets the plate in front of you with both hands.
It is absurdly delicate for someone built like he could carry a refrigerator down a staircase alone.
A vanilla bean tart. Poached pear. Hazelnut praline.
He watches while you take a bite.
Well?
You chew.
It’s good.
Matteo’s expression changes.
Good?
Very good.
He folds his arms.
Very good is not useful.
You look at the plate again.
The crème anglaise is maybe a little loose.
Silence.
Matteo slowly unfolds his arms.
Loose.
Just a little.
He stares at the sauce like it has betrayed him personally.
I knew it.
Matteo—
I knew it when I plated it.
It still tastes great.
He looks at you with genuine distress.
That is not the same thing.
He takes the plate back with extraordinary care.
Again.
You’re remaking it?
Of course I’m remaking it.
He pauses.
Thank you.
For what?
Matteo glances down at the tart.
For not lying to me.