Chapter 18 #3
To this, I have no answer because he is right. Actions matter, and they might eventually be re-contextualized and shifted by other actions, but that’s not erasure.
A conflicting measure of curiosity and wariness enters me. Knowing his family’s reputation, unpleasant behavior is a large umbrella term, though I don’t believe Luke is bringing up usual teenage shittery when he speaks of his past. It’s more serious than that, I can tell.
Is it much worse than being the callous CEO he is today?
For a split second, I’m back in the kitchen with Mr. Duncan. He is asking me if I think Luke is a good person.
The man currently sharing the kitchen actually doesn’t sound like he would defend himself. And from what I’ve gathered from our past conversations, he did not like his childhood. The food. The expectations.
“What you do now, that matters,” I say finally.
“Hm.”
That’s not an answer to my question, but a reaction to the conversation. It’s thick, new, too personal to continue. He is telling me he has regrets, but I still can’t help but think of how he was in his office. How ruthlessly he sat, making commands as the CEO overlord.
But here he is, taking time out of all his responsibilities, slowly cracking eggs for me. How do I match the two? The one in the boardroom to the one in the kitchen? He walks over, holding up a bowl of cracked eggs.
I peek down at it. “You missed two little shell pieces. Below average.”
“Generous of you to rate me.”
“I’d be even more generous if you started handing me the spices I need.”
“How ever will you come down from this power high?” asks Luke, sounding like his usual pompous self, if not also tempered with an undercurrent of relief. The moment of sharing past trauma has passed. Whatever caused it to happen, we are safe again.
“It’s your fault you’ve created a monster,” I say. “Tomorrow you’re making me a smoothie.”
He laughs as lowly as one can.
As the tarka mixture simmers, I use a fork to smash the tomatoes and onions together on the stove.
The new smells wafting around are wonderful and remind me of the food stall, Pav Bhaji Delights in Mumbai.
How many times have I watched the owner, Rohan Nindu, make his spicy scrambled egg bhurji on a giant griddle, fifty eggs at a time?
I remember it so clearly. The humid heat swamped the waiting crowd, making them even more impatient to eat, but Rohan’s precision never wavered in the face of their eagerness.
He cracked eggs with one hand, diced hundreds of onions, and chopped tomatoes in the air with a long blade so they fell into pieces before hitting the hot flat plate like petals magicked apart.
Despite the volume of everything he added, not one piece of food fell off the side.
It was theater. Showmanship.
Watched by young teens marking their turf in boisterous huddles, workers living for their lunchtimes, and old timers who practically owned the streets.
All the nooks and corners of the city breathed into Rohan’s dish, imbuing it with the kind of character hard to duplicate in a home kitchen. How many times have I made this recipe wishing I could concentrate Mumbai City as a flavor under my own hand and?—
It strikes like a bolt.
Concentrate!
“That’s it! I can condense this dish into another form,” I exclaim.
”What if I combine something like an Italian frittata with an Indian-flavored egg bhurji?
These ingredients are staples in most kitchens, and affordable, and a frittata is a forgiving dish most customers can make in under forty minutes.
Just that form can concentrate all these amazing flavors, and it’s presented with a twist! ”
I see it so clearly in my mind. My fusion dish.
Innovative and practical.
After a long pause, I see that in my excitement, I have dug my fingers into the tailored sleeve of Luke’s shirt. I look down at my hand and immediately unhook myself.
Feeling freshly encouraged and enthused, I dive right into using what I’ve already made. Most of it can be incorporated into my new dish. With some gusto, I pull out a cast-iron skillet, put it over a flame, and then test the bottom.
Luke yanks my hand off the skillet. “You’ll burn yourself. Good thing I’m here. You are not looking after yourself.”
I wait for him to notice our prolonged contact, but he doesn’t. Meanwhile, I’m experiencing too closely his masculine cologne, and the length of his arm cupped under mine. Why do I feel enclosed against him? So held ? There is a treasured sweetness in this pressure confusing my senses.
Then, alarmingly, the length of a belt buckle ghosts over my hip.
I know he hasn’t pressed forward on purpose, but that brief pinch of metal further deteriorates me.
For now, all I can conjure in my mind is expensive black leather and that motion a man makes when he unbuckles himself with one hand and smoothly slides off his belt.
The hungry intention on his face as he undresses while stepping closer to you?—
What?!
Hurriedly, I stomp my thoughts out, chucking them into a mental bin. Pulling myself out of his grasp, I wave my hand in the air. “I’ve got Punjabi Aunty fingers. They don’t feel much of anything when touching a hot surface, so stop freaking out over nothing.”
Luke scowls.
I ignore it (and my misled heart), putting all my energy into the Egg Bhurji Frittata. A few more jibes get traded between us, but for a large part of it, there is mostly silence. A silence where a few times our eyes meet. I wait for it to get awkward. It doesn’t get awkward.
When the finished dish is complete, it is beautiful. The healthy amount of turmeric added has made the whole frittata a deep sun-gold yellow. Taking out my phone, I confirm it photographs perfectly.
“It’s a winner,” he declares.
“Hopefully.”
“How can it not be? You’re technical about cooking…and I didn’t know that,” he admits. “I underestimated the level of effort and exactness it takes to bring together a recipe. What I said about you only baking cakes—my apologies, Rita.”
A wound I hadn’t known was still open seals over. My cheeks hurt. Apparently I’m smiling.
He goes over and takes a spoonful of the leftover frittata stuck to the pan. He puts it into his mouth. I wait—my pulse fast and warm. It’s different from anything I’ve ever made him. Will he like it? Why do I care so much?
His eyes meet mine. “You are going to win.”
Then he pays me the largest compliment available. He finishes the rest on the pan with quick work.
“You know,” I say, “even your smoothies are technical. Do you think I dump whatever is in the fridge and call it a day? No, I don’t.”
I tell him about the essential balance between protein, fat, and carbs that provide both fiber and fast-acting sugar. There are ratios and absorption rates to calculate and cross-reference because the wrong ingredients paired together actually work against each other.
Luke, in the face of another lecture, slips his hands into his pockets, looking generously interested and at complete ease.
Only when I finish my last bit about food particle size, do I blush.
Crap. Why am I acting like this? Talking to him as if he is my friend.
As if he is forgiven. Or at least someone who makes me comfortable enough to share my true self show—the underappreciated and secluded part that thrives on making food an academic discipline.
Time to focus again. “Right, I’ll go submit these photos and the recipe instructions as soon as we clean up…”
We look around. The kitchen looks like it’s vomited onto itself.
“I’ve got a meeting,” says Luke.
“Shut up.”
“Rita, I’m a very important person.”
“At least thirty percent of this mess is yours!”
He lets out an egregious sigh, an attitude I might have found childish if he didn’t promptly get to work with scary efficiency.
Leftovers are put into containers, dishes are stacked and loaded into the dishwasher, and the floor is swept, vacuumed, and mopped.
We only slow down when the last few tasks are left.
Luke starts heavily spraying a disinfectant solution across the counters. “It’s obvious you’ve got food goals that go beyond meal prepping,” he says. “Remind me again, why are you in Barcelona doing this exactly?”
I freeze.
His question strikes closely.
The truth involves my father and his addiction, and the duties of an only child. It’s thorny. Complicated. Real.
“I love Barcelona,” I say slowly, “for the men in short swim trunks. And the weather.”
“Seriously—”
“You want to be my friend, do you not?”
Luke’s hand falters and he sprays disinfectant into the air. “And?”
“That doesn’t mean digging into me. In fact, I’m much more comfortable if you didn’t inquire about such matters.
” There’s a silence that makes me bite my lip before I continue on.
“That being said, I need to thank you. Genuinely. This competition is very important to me, and I might have continued spiraling without you stepping in.”
“Unnecessary. You did the real cooking. ”
“Yes, but talking about it out loud helped. A lot more than I thought it would. So, thank you.”
“It’s nothing.”
“No, you did more than you needed to.”
Maybe it’s the glowing aftermath of finally finishing an egg dish, but I feel like Luke needs to hear this.
“I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank you properly not only for today but for allowing me the use of this kitchen and for—well—giving me a place to stay. If it wasn’t for your hospitality, I wouldn’t have anywhere to go.”
I don’t ask him how long I can stay. I’m not ready for another tidal wave of stress, after having survived this one.
Luke puts his hands back into his pockets. “Rita, I prefer it when you think I’m an elitist pig. Go back to that.”
“Actually, speaking of ego?—”
“Not sure I can take more, but go on.”
“About Janice Dorian, I know it is easy and will be very satisfying to ruin her, but you can’t. Ruin her. The tenants she supervises are vulnerable for a variety of reasons, I don’t want anything to fall back on them.”
“My lawyers?—”
“No.” I grip onto a kitchen towel. “What if the owners decide fighting the case is not worth it, and decide to sell the property to condo developers? I can’t have Mr. Albo, Mrs. Milla, and Ms. Baghdadi out of a home, too.
They need rent control. They’re retired.
And they told me Janice has cooled down so we should wait. ”
“I’m not used to letting anyone get away when they cross the line, Rita. She crossed it with you.”
“Yes, but I can’t be the only one making decisions about this. I have to talk to Mr. Albo, Mrs. Milla, and Ms. Baghdadi and see what they are comfortable with. It’s not all about me.”
He ponders my expression for a few slow beats, before reluctantly nodding.
“Alright. We can talk about this later. For now my lawyers won’t do anything without explicit permission, but to get ahead of it—I recommend writing down a personal testimony about Janice so we have it in writing.
We can send at least that to the lawyers, but they won’t do anything with it unless you give the go-ahead. ”
My automatic instinct is to deny him, but I discover I don’t spring to it. His word… Do I actually trust it? Maybe? At least enough not to fight about this for now.
“Okay, sure. Thank you.”
Luke’s jaw flexes at my gratitude. “Go back to sleep,” he says, making a shooing motion. “I’ll finish up in here.”
“No, I can help?—”
“Sickly peasant, I don’t want you to yak on my floors. Don’t make that face. Leave now and go deal with your competition.”
“Fine.”
Might as well exit before another belt vision plagues me.
I flee the site of my imagination crime.