"Can I get you anything to start with, sir?" the waitress asks, just after she seats him at the table.

Ken would have preferred a booth but, then, he supposed this was more classy and professional anyway. He nods. "Yes, please. A water with a slice of lemon?"

"Sure. Are you eating alone tonight?"

"No, I'm waiting for a date."

Nothing on the menu really appeals to him. He wishes he were eating somewhere else entirely. Like at home.

Just after the waitress comes back with the water, sans ice, with the world's smallest slice of lemon, his date arrives.

Immediately, Ken recognizes him. That's an issue. This is supposed to be a blind date, set up by his sister and her friends. He gets the joke now. She set him up with the critic who gave his food truck the worst review it's ever had. The very presence of George Zhong has to violate the Eighth Amendment. Ha-ha, very funny. Ken wants to go home.

*****

The date goes less than fine. The menu doesn't please either of them. They pay the bill earlier than either of them meant to, and George suggests that Ken cook for him.

"I know you're a good chef." George grins in the way a stretching cat reaching for a wire does.

"Wouldn't know it from your review," Ken mutters, quiet enough that he can barely understand himself.

Still, that's the only plan the two of them have, so it's what they go with.

That's when Ken gets an idea. Maybe, if he can cook well enough, he can convince George that he is a good chef after all. George Zhong called him uninspired and said his food was like sandpaper and cardboard. Well, Ken'll show him.

He cooks with a fury he didn't know he possessed. He loses himself in the blur. It's like he's a kid again, going insane with a pastry cutter.

George tries the pastries when they're ready. Cream cheese and guava, Ken's favorite. George smiles around a mouthful. "It's good, I'll give you that."

"Then why--"

"Why did I give you such a negative review?" George looks him in the eye. "Because it was true. Listen, Ken, we know each other, and we have for years, so I'm not going to sugarcoat it. Do you remember what my review said? Your food lacked invention, intention, and soul. Cooking is both a science and an art. You have the science-and-procedure part down pat. But what about art? What about passion? You have to tell the food you care."

"I didn't tell it I cared. That was all spite."

"Hatred is a form of caring."

"And what would you say if I were to kiss you out of spite? Would that be caring?"

"I would ask you to wait until I don't have food in my mouth. Nothing ruins a kiss like the taste of pastry chunks."

George takes a swig of water. He raises an eyebrow, smirks.

Ken kisses him.