I hold my cup close to my face, watching him from behind it. He clumsily rips open three packets of sugar and dumps them in his coffee at the same time. But one of the wrappers dives into the mug. I watch him burn himself when he tries to fish it out, and he then proceeds to stir the coffee, slowly, methodically. He takes a careful sip, makes a face like it’s still not to his taste, and tears another sugar packet. Only then does he look up and finally catch me staring.

“It wasn’t sweet enough,” he explains a little flustered.

“You’d think sweets would be the last thing on your mind when you’re not working.”

He feigns offense. “I’ve seen you eat. At least I don’t add mayo to pizza,” he says, making a disgusted face.

“When did you see me add mayo to pizza?”

“Remember that time we had that intercollegiate science fair, I think in sixth grade? You were eating pizza with a ton of mayo on it.”

I feel myself blushing. I didn’t realize he was watching then. “Well, I was experimenting with condiments. For science,” I mumble into my coffee cup. “And for the record, mayo is delicious.”

He shudders. “Whatever you say.”

I take a tiny sip of coffee. The taste is rich and nutty.

Pedro puts his cup down. “Are you happy with your layer of our recipe?”

“I...think so? I keep wondering if the way I bake it maybe isn’t as good as Grandma’s original. All that Parmesan cheese is delicious, but...”

“Your recipe is good,” he says. “You don’t need it to match hers.”

“But do I have the right to change something that’s worked well for generations? I think it was Great-grandma’s recipe.”

“Honestly, I wish I had the chance to do something like that with Grandpa’s recipes.” He looks at me like he’s deciding whether to tell me something or not. He then pulls his chair closer, lowering his voice. “Do you know what it feels like to be in a kitchen that’s just stuck, frozen in time? I’ve prepared the same dishes so many times, always the same dishes, I don’t even know whether I like them or not anymore. That’s my curse. I know it bothers you that you didn’t grow up cooking, but I envy you. You get all this freedom to just grab a recipe and prepare it for the first time, or to reinvent it, make it your own. You can do whatever you want and not feel like you’re offending anyone.”

He looks off to the side, his arms crossed.

“Pedro...is that why you wanted to apply to the Gastronomic Society? Because you feel stuck at home?”

“That’s a big part of it.”

“Is that also why you...left?”