She shakes her head, frowning. “No, I just mean...” She shakes her hands at the pots and pans bubbling around her. “I’m cooking, I mean.”

She’s defensive, and she rests her hand on her hip, like she’s self-conscious but trying to bluster her way through it. But she shouldn’t be worried. She’s charming. My chef is charming. Me, specifically.

I step into the kitchen. “What are you cooking?” It smells divine. Smoky and nutty. My mouth waters.

Sophie turns back to the stove. Her shoulders rise and fall. “Mushroom gravy,” she says. “I’m testing recipes.” She looks at me over her shoulder, a challenge in her eyes. “Vegan recipes.”

She’s not even embarrassed to be caught cooking the opposite of what I’ve asked her to prepare for our menu. But do I care at this point? The longer I stand here the more mentally exhausted I feel after that dinner with Dad. And she’s talking to me at least. She’s not hiding in the walk-in again. She ignores me, chopping, sautéing, tasting defiantly. Watching her takes me back to binge-watching her show.

She was daring, rebellious. She took risks. The show, and having her here now, it reminds me of why I wanted to open this restaurant in the first place.

Food is family and tradition and new friends and experimentation. Food is a biological necessity, it’s breathing, but within that basic human need is art. Unlike paintings and sculptures, literature or music, we get to consume this art. And Sophie’s art melts on my tongue. I get to tear it with my teeth.

Food is visceral and pleasurable and I’m not bragging when I say I am a good cook. But that’s like saying I can draw well when Sophie painted the Sistine Chapel.

Food makes me feel good and I think, after her reaction last week, that maybe Sophie has lost some of the joy she gets from food.

“Can I try some?” I ask.

“I guess.” She shrugs. “If you want. There’s no shellfish,” she says, smug.

We need to clear the air. Or I do, at least. “I know I can be a bit pushy sometimes,” I say.

She pauses in her stirring and laughs, making it sound far more sarcastic than I ever could.

“I’m...overbearing, okay? I get it. I know. Sometimes I think I know what’s best and I have a hard time hearing other people. I did that to you last week and I’m sorry.”

Sophie plates the food. It takes me a moment to figure out what it is. Potatoes, cut into thick fries, mushroom gravy, and... “I thought you said this was vegan.”

“It is.”

“Those are cheese curds.” I point at the white semi-solid blob. “This is poutine.” I can barely keep the contempt out of my voice.

She spoons excess gravy along the edge of the plate, breaks sprigs of parsley off the stems in a mason jar to garnish the dish. “It’s vegan cheese. Here,” she says, sliding the dish toward me. “Get that look off your face and try some.”