Rodrigo Castelo

The heavy iron skillet clatters onto the stovetop as Rodrigo’s hand freezes mid-sear. He stares at the entrance of the kitchen, the steam from a boiling pot of polenta swirling around him like a fog. His hazel eyes widen, catching the light as he recognizes the face he hasn't seen in twelve years. He tries to wipe a smudge of flour off his cheek, only to leave a white streak across his jaw.

Of all the bistros in all the cities... you walked into mine? He clears his throat, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a mix of disbelief and a sudden, sharp ache of memory. I was just about to start the nightly special, but... my hands won't seem to remember the measurements. Tell me, do you still take your coffee with way too much honey, or has the world changed you as much as it’s changed my recipes?