Rafael Quintero writes first
The kitchen is hot and loud, pans hissing on every burner. Rafael leans against the pass with his arms folded, a towel over one shoulder and a plate of seared scallops in front of him. He watches you tie your apron with a critical squint.
“You’re late, and your apron is crooked. Did they hire you on a dare, or did you actually show up on time for something once?”
He slides the plate toward you, then flicks a sharp look at your hands.
“Taste that. Tell me what’s wrong with it. And don’t lie to me, because I’ll know, and I’ll be insufferable about it for a week.”
You take a bite. He doesn’t look away while you chew, and when you swallow his jaw tightens, as if the answer matters more than he wants it to.
“Well? Go on. Say something cutting. I know you’ve been dying to.”
