Victor places a buffet of St. John’s delicacies in front of me. A cup of mungunzá, the maize kernels swimming in a thin, heavily sugared porridge. A plate of canjica—dense, creamy-like pudding, and bright yellow—covered in a dusting of cinnamon. He’s brought a cluster of fragrant espetinhos, too! Beef, chicken, and golden brown, crispy coalho cheese skewers which Victor says he grilled himself. I understand why Cintia wanted one!

We eat so much, messy and chatting about all the delicious flavors with our mouths full, that I forget about my early embarrassment. When I’m done, I feel like I’m about to burst, so I just lean back and listen to Victor talking about the different ways he was fanning the grill, trying to make sure the steaks retained the smoky flavor and remained juicy.

His excitement is too cute. When he looks at me, his lips bright with food grease, I can’t help but smile.

“My grandmother would have loved you,” I say.

“Yeah?” he smiles.

“Because you love food.”

Victor wipes his mouth with a napkin, his eyes lighting up. “Who doesn’t?”

“True. But you’re excited about food.” I take a deep breath, feeling slightly melancholy after this buffet and good conversation. The full-stomach blues sure hit different.

One of the flower clips in my hair falls on the table and Victor picks it up. He smiles, handing it back to me.

“Is it a sunflower?” he asks me.

“Yeah. They were my Grandma’s favorite flowers,” I say, clipping it back to my braid. “Now they’re my favorite, too.”

Victor is quiet for a while, his friendly eyes studying me. “Would you like me to bring you something else? Maybe another skewer?”

“Thank you, but I’m totally full.” I watch the way he turns to look at the food booths nearby. I think he’s tempted to try everything, the same way Grandma was every time we visited the feirinha. “I never asked you why you joined the cooking club,” I say. “Do you plan on working in the food industry when you graduate next year?”

He starts stacking up the empty plates in front of us. “I hope so, although not as a cook. I want to write about food.”

“I didn’t know you’re a writer!”

“Not yet.” He smiles. “But one day, who knows. I want to travel and eat different dishes. But more than writing about food, I’m interested in the people making it. The people eating it.”

That explains the way he observes us at the club more than he talks, his eyes curious, as if photographing the moment, analyzing us with journalistic interest.

“You’ll be a great writer.”

“I hope to write something about you one day.”

I straighten my back, a rare spark of vanity making me feel good about myself. “What would you write?”