A/N: Hewooo!!! I'm sorry I skipped last week's update so to make up for it this week is two updates long ;v; and I've already written the skeleton for next week so it's going to be a breeze for me to finish it hehe. It'll probably also be a longer chapter next week cuz I can't hold back on some FLUFF dammit I need me some P H Y S I C A L but the writer me is like: hello? plot? and then my thirty ass is like: w-wait but they haven't touched in so long omg?

Picture is Leroy's dish of the day :> hehe

Enjoy!

ALSO, I'LL BE HEADING TO LOS ANGELES FOR A BUSINESS TRIP IN JULY EEP how exciting!!! I've never been to the US my whole life im scared

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[Vanilla]

"The answers were in the script?" I repeated after Chef Streisand, carefully navigating through my memories and realizing I'd missed a page or two entirely. "I... Sorry, I must have skipped it entirely. What a disaster that could've been! Goodness, I'm so, so sorry. I promise it'll never happen again."

"Yes Vanilla but if you'd just listen to me," she put a hand on my shoulder, gaze fairly serious but with a teasing lilt in her voice. "You'd realize what a bigger disaster it could've been had you memorized the answers. You understand that was all Andre was trying to get at? He saw through the production team's gimmick. Not the greatest feat, I'd say—I mean, it was fairly obvious but clearly, he picked a fight with the wrong person. You'd probably fare better than mere mortals trying to memorize an answer key given to them before the start of an exam."

I coughed. "You think too highly of me, Chef Streisand, but I understand what you're trying to tell me. I'll be careful. Don't you worry. And again, thank you for the warning."

She shook her head, folding her arms and resting her gaze on Chef Andre from afar. "You never know. And with all the scripting going on... I mean, we're about to shoot the team sorting sequence, so."

I nodded. She smiled, then gave the cue to return; we were back in place before the end of the break. Quick as the wind, I searched for Chicken and promptly returned sleeping Leo to his original position on the former's back. Not a stir! Practically immune to the chaos happening all around him. His fellow partner, too, was exceptionally well-behaved for a dog carrying a kitten companion on his back and made no fuss over the additional weight. Or the fact that they were two completely different beings.

This therefore justified a search for Chicken's owner; possibly offering a word of thanks on behalf of my little one and perhaps a special treat or two once we were back in Portofino.

My gaze was on his back before I knew it was. He appeared occupied—speaking to someone else who had a phone in her hands and the screen of it angled in a way so that both could view its contents. I merely observed for a moment or two before looking away. I'd seen her around the production team, returning from coffee runs and relaying messages from one team to another. The simplest, most plausible conclusion was that she had been tasked with communicating key information to certain members of the cast.

The crew called for places before I could wait for an opportune moment to approach Leroy, so it was back to work. N-not that prior thoughts were, in any way, non-work-related.

"Cameras rolling!" "Sound rolling." The cue.

"Now, teams..." Chef Pao took the lead and the moment he did, I zoned out. In that instant, I knew it was the nerves; an anticipation, part fear and part eagerness to get this over and done with—knowing what was about to come next. "...Amelia and Banilla will take turns to draw your names out of a box. Those drawn by Amelia will be in the blue team. Our best critic here will look after the red team."

The entire process had been discussed prior. Last evening at the production meeting, they'd presented us an updated script with the exact instructions: Chef Streisand was to draw the three-sided, triangular folded paper slips. I was to pick the four-sided, square folded ones. They were distinct. There had been examples of these at the meeting and it was easy to figure out which was which without looking.

Needless to say, the purpose of this was made clear. A team fashioned by a group of people looking for entertainment was going to be much more interesting than a random, possibly eventless one. They were searching for every opportunity to create grounds for theatre and frankly, I wouldn't have participated had they ensured it was merely olive-picking they were doing. Well, that, and naming the oils but that, too, sounded fairly tame.

That said, I'd never cheated on a test; never considered the prospect of doing something marginally illegal or or or morally ambiguous save associating myself with a certain criminal and even then, I was never to partake in said activities. The idea of having to do something without getting caught red handed or hiding things in general was enough to spark my nerves.

"I'll go first," I heard Chef Streisand declare and it was also the cue scripted for part of the camera crew to reposition. "Blue's first member... and we have..."

The ask was fairly easy. Reach into the box; feel for the first folded slip you touch; confirm the number of sides. Correct: unfold it a little as you pull it out of the box. Incorrect: rinse and repeat till correct.

Yet, the math was worrying. One should, inevitably, entertain the probability of drawing an incorrect slip x number of times consecutively. This probability would of course be higher during the initial parts of the process but gradually lessen; thus explaining my heightened concern. Sometimes, being a fool wasn't so bad after all.

"Du Bellay."

Amidst applause, chefs were to collect a scarf in the color of their team and wear it as they wished for the rest of the segment. Soon after, all attention returned to the box on the table.

"Banilla! Let's see... red team's first member..."

I reached in.

The very first folded slip I brushed against, I confirmed had four angled sides before pulling out and unfolding. It was tiny—the size of several pennies put together. The name threw me off entirely.

"Leroy." It had said. And I, being the intelligent creature I was, had paused for a moment too long before adding his last name which, of course, guaranteed some amusement from my fellow judges and said owner of name—who appeared to enjoy the entire duration walking up to me for his scarf.

I held it out to him.

And like the instance that occurred yesterday at the airport, we touched briefly. Just his fingers against the heart of my palm and our eyes meeting as they did.

"Thanks." He turned while my mind computed an error and busied itself with a mandatory reboot. The scarf, he tied around his bicep.

Chef Pao moved on to the blue team's draw, which turned out to be Layla. And then back to me. I sifted around the box, but soon pulled out a name.

At first glance, I'd paused at the first name in odd recognition but it was only after reading the last that I put a face to it. Not many people had that sort of name; a name like Maple. Pierson on the other hand, wasn't so uncommon a last name in my list of acquaintances and general contacts.

He'd made an impression on me back then. Albeit not an unpleasant one, my impression of him was built on several vague encounters that mostly involved other people. He wasn't necessarily mean or anything—just, most certainly not in Leroy's good books. Or Violet's.

Most importantly, he looked nothing like the pink-haired ray of sunshine I knew from back then and as these thoughts occurred in the back of my head amidst the reading of his name and scarf-giving, I wondered if Leroy knew all of this. And if he did, had long spoken to Maple and exchanged stories from the past.

In minutes flat, most chefs had been sorted into teams save a few whose names had remained in the box. Of which included Andre's.

Every fool would've known exactly where they'd put him. I'd been expecting to see his name in my hands but to think I'd had the misfortune of being a natural tea-stirrer, leaving his name in the box till the very end and watching the other members of the red team freeze up as soon as I read his name.

Please. It shouldn't come as a surprise by this point.

We handed out samples of the thirteen oils in tiny plastic cups for a preliminary taste, which the production team paid less attention to and had begun to leave the set to prepare for the next shot.

"This one's slightly sweet." I made a passing remark when they were presented with the Ligurian extra virgin, gaze meeting briefly with the one it was intended for, then moved on.

After tasting, we were given five minutes to move to the next location and I was given some additional time to help Leo into his carrier and leave him at the terrace with the assistants for the next hour or so. Chicken on the other hand, was allowed to tag along with his owner.

The chefs were introduced to the farm owners, who each led the teams on separate paths to the olive grove and talked as they did. I was to watch over the red team as they toured and learned about Taggiasca olives that were exclusive to this part of Liguria—its oil likened to the champagne among wines; a companion to the dish that enhances its flavor, not replace it.

Gathering olives from 200-year-old trees started at the top of the grove, utilizing nets that were sown across the land that would collect the olives as they fell. Harvesting the black jewel-like fruits was manual labor; done by reaching up and running what they called an olive rake through the branches of a tree. Workers would then shift the nets so that the olives rolled to the bottom of the hill and into a truck and brought to the mill. All these tasks were entrusted to us for the day.

Granted, heading a kitchen was no walk in the park either and proper head chefs were, as much as other blue-collared workers, expected to function at high levels of physical and mental intensity at work.

"My arms hurt like hell." "You're only on your second tree, Andre." "Hey, we're slowing down guys. Focus." "Fuck, my back." "It really is much harder than I thought. These rakes... and going at the branches all day." I stood at the top of the grove, observing quietly while the crew jumped from tree to tree for b-rolls and individual angle shots.

It was hard not to notice the many enthusiasts who'd gathered around a certain someone with an aptitude for physical, um, activity; paired with his happy dog in the same frame, I'd imagine it was the perfect shot for an episode teaser of sorts.

Harvesting took much of the morning and by noon, both teams had gathered at the mill for a demonstration of the pressing process. The olives were sorted, ran through the mill to be ground intro a paste and finally pressed in layers—producing something akin to fresh-pressed juice, mad without heat or chemicals. This was olive oil at its finest quality. Extra virgin.

There was a detailed, theoretical introduction to oils of other grades and olives from other parts of the world that was meant to aid the team in identifying the un-labeled oils later on but the only person taking notes was Chef Du Bellay.

When it finally came down to presenting each team with the exact same samples to taste and thirteen labels to match, select few people began taking the lead. Of the blue team, Layla was the first to provided her take, leaving a few ambiguous samples up to the rest of her team. Chef Garland, a classically-trained French chef offered her opinion, swapping two labels. Chef Du Bellay added on. Overall, they seemed professionally smart and mature despite disagreements.

The red team on the other hand, were in the midst of a heated debate which unsurprisingly involved Andre and almost every other member of the team.

"This isn't it—the color's off. Can't you tell?" "Did you not taste it? That's exactly what the Ligurian extra virgin tasted like." "You're missing the point. These shit taste the..." "Fine. Whatever you say, mate. You deal with it."

A certain someone had pulled out of the conversation entirely, taking a backseat in the challenge and allowing everyone else to determine his fate.

"Chefs, you have five minutes remaining!" Chef Pao called after glancing at the timer, turning to me with a wink and lowering his voice. "Can't wait to see them get it wrong. Not easy, all this... for me. I don't work with olive oil too much. Look at Andre's team." He pointed with his lips. "Poor thing."

"They aren't entirely aware of how their performance would affect the next challenge, are they?" I followed his gaze. Andre could be seen gesturing wildly. Everyone else appeared to be actively avoiding his gaze. "I think it's deliberate, that they're deciding to hide it from the contestants. Some are coming across far too eager. And others, a little... lackluster in comparison."

"You're talking about Cox?" Chef Streisand overheard, joining in the conversation. "I'd appreciate if he'd put a little more effort into interacting with the others but I get this isn't exactly the best time to be offering a strong opinion. Too many cooks spoil the broth, really."

"If it's a team player you're looking for, we will know soon. Patience, Amelia," Chef Pao wagged a finger, smiling with a twinkle in his eye. This, I knew, referred to the subsequent penalty to be imposed on the losing team for the speed challenge. "One more minute!"

Every sample had a number written on the bottom of the glass that would allow us judges to determine its identity without tasting it ourselves. Chef Pao and Chef Streisand had the list of answers in hand, ready to evaluate the teams while I was given the task of facilitating the challenge.

Watching the teams scramble over a large-sized drawing pad in which both had written the incorrect answer—not once but twice—the director called for cut and gave permission for a second take to start anew. This, very naturally, had many of us in disbelief. I hadn't imagined identifying olive oils to be so difficult a task since... well... since it most certainly wasn't for me, but clearly another factor was at play.

With far too many minds working at a single answer, there were bound to be disagreements.

"Aight cast, we're changing things up a bit now, listen," the director stepped up to the terrace with Siegfried by his side. "Chef Cox has suggested a turn-based answer system. Very quickly, you teams get yourself sorted into a line and we'll go down it. On the count of three, I want one member from each team to name the sample in front of them. No talking among each other. Just... bam, answer, next. Bam. Next. Bam. Understood? You get it wrong, you get it wrong. We good?"

This was, arguably, the better idea. It was efficient and needled out wasteful arguments or discussions that, while dramatic, would've been difficult to flesh out and provide any useful characterization to the contestants. Part of me was glad Siegfried had raised it.

Another part of me wasn't even sure if anyone could get this correct without any help.

The cameras were back on in the next moment and Chef Pao had gestured to the first samples of a supermarket-grade olive-pomace oil laid out for one member of each team. Layla from blue and Andre representing red.

Both tasted the oil and wrote their answers. On the count of three, they flipped their boards around and to my absolute horror—both, correct.

"Refined olive-pomace oil, yes," I blinked. Stunned. And almost forgetting to congratulate them both. N-not that I was expecting absolutely failure, no. Perhaps I'd lowered my expectations by a far bit. "That is correct. Very well done, both of you."

"Tastes bad," Andre made an overly dramatic face at the tiny glass of oil, wincing like he'd just downed a shot of vodka. "Can't believe you guys made us drink that."

"Enough with the theatrics love," Chef Streisand said with a straight face, collecting the glass and placing the next numbered sample on the table. "Your turn's over."

Sample two, I could tell its grade just by its color. The exact answer was down to the origins of the olives; Tuscan or Turkish. Both teams missed the mark. Pierson was close and had gotten the grade correct. Having the answers in my head did the opposite effect of facilitating a challenge so supposedly difficult even for top-tier chefs.

It bored me.

Very much, I would have assumed wrong answers or perhaps even unexpectedly fast and correct ones would've instilled some form of sympathy or acknowledgement respectively but really, I wasn't going to make a big deal out of 'noticing' or singling out select few who'd stood out. If anything, such a challenge really wasn't telling of anything at—

"Sorry. Excuse me, Chef Cox. Could you...?"

I turned. Chef Streisand had reached out to gesture at Leroy's drawing pad, gaze fixed on his answer. One look and I knew the reason behind her confusion; in fact, I quite nearly laughed aloud.

"It's the extra virgin. Ligurian. From the farm." He laid out with a straight face, pad in one hand with the words faced out, spinning sharpie in the other. "No?"

"No no, I mean," Chef Streisand herself was smiling. "That's correct. But..."

He gave his chicken scrawl a glance. "...did I spell it wrong?"

Ligorean Tajustka Extra Virjin Olive Oil. Behold, Leroy without auto-correct. Ligurian Taggiasca. His opponent on the other hand, had missed the mark entirely. The aftertaste of the oil was what set it apart. But still, it would have taken quite the keen tongue to differentiate—

"Ay, you spell it correct I approve. Full marks," said Chef Pao to Leroy, laughing as he headed to the back of the line. "You have a very good palate. English can be learned. Maybe Banilla can teach you!" Oh dear.

"I'd like that."

"Okay deal," Chef Pao slapped him on the back before the director called for cut and the assistants on set began clearing all materials used during the challenge. "Per hour tuition I charge one Jollibee meal. He teach, but you pay me because stonks."

I pretended not to hear or look at the pair, staring at the score I'd tabulated and knowing full well how badly Leroy's team had fared in comparison to their opponent. Those who'd been quietly counting the correct answers for both teams were either dreadfully disheartened or containing their excitement. Already, Layla had a smile on her face and so did her teammates who'd gathered around her as soon as the cameras stopped rolling.

"Places!"

Conversation scrambled to a stop; places were resumed. The winning team was announced and with it, came the catch.

"Blue team," Chef Pao's words were met with quiet celebration over on Layla's team while those on the opposing end watched with half-hearted applause. "You are safe from elimination. But ay, the day just started."

"There is more to the challenge: using the variety of olive oils available, all thirteen of them, each team will send one member to prepare a Michelin-worthy dish in fifteen minutes. The catch—red team," Chef Streisand turned to those on the losing end. "The member sent by your team will face immediate elimination if they lose. If they win, however... your entire team will be excused from the next challenge."

The sudden announcement of an all-in gamble fazed both teams. No one had expected such an escalation of matters. What had originally seemed like a harmless lesson in an olive grove took a bitter turn in a snap. Truth to be told, I hadn't anticipated such ruthlessness myself. After all, my opinion of the show had always been something of sheer entertainment value and theatrics. Not actual, proper critiques on a chef's culinary skill and knowledge.

"There will be no consequences for the blue team. Losing will not result in elimination," I further explained, nodding at Chef Pao who gave the final word.

"So... any volunteers?"

Eyes went round; looks were exchanged. It was infuriating how I needn't look at him to know exactly what he was about to do, down to the very words he'd say. For a good long minute, no one said a word.

"Chef Cox," I heard Streisand say, amused. "I take it you're up for the challenge?"

I looked up to see Leroy standing apart from his team, a step in front of an entire row of people staring at him. He cracked a smile.

"... no reason to hide if you're good."

At the very same time, Chef Garland from the blue team stepped up to the plate. There was a round of polite applause.

The look on Andre's face was a mix of disbelief, indignance, and a cow-like sadness that altogether made the look rather priceless. The rest of Leroy's team, including Maple, appeared to watch in awe.

Chef Garland, classically trained in French culinary techniques, was by all means a formidable opponent. Though butter was certainly not olive oil, this was insufficient grounds to conclude her lack of expertise on the subject matter. To volunteer herself would have meant that she was, at the very least, confident in her abilities. Either way, losing would have had no consequences except a blow to her pride. Leroy on the other hand, would have to face elimination.

And by god, I needed to stop looking at him.

"Ay, I like this," said Chef Pao, rubbing his hands with glee. "And I like you, Leroy my man." He gestured with a smile.

"I see you're a team player—which of course, shouldn't be surprising given your role as a firefighter. You are doing your team a huge favor," Chef Streisand nodded in approval and I was faced with the sudden urge to correct her. The idiot beat me to it.

"...not really. I'm not that nice." He admitted. "It's not a favor."

Knowing him, I wouldn't have probed further for it would have allowed absolute nonsense to ens—

"So why did you volunteer?" Streisand had a cross between a smile and a frown on her face.

The pause between her question and his answer was doom. "...I'll probably regret it if I don't cook now. The olive oil they make here is crack. Also, I'm hungry."

Half the set did not understand a single word of his vocabulary but the other half that did fell in love with him at once. Over by the side, out of frame, I spotted Raul translating Leroy's words with a smile on his face and the farm owners to his right soon shared a look of pride and adoration.

Quite simply, it was an honor to have a chef feel inspired by their raw ingredients from its sheer quality and taste; what no one else on set knew was that how extremely rare it was for Leroy to feel anything at all towards any culinary venture. Privately, I would have liked to hear him share about the thoughts running through his head for the whole of today. After all, it had been years since he travelled out of London or even added anything to his lukewarm culinary knowledge.

"We're happy to hear that," Chef Streisand laughed. "Right then. Let's get started. Chef Garland, Chef Cox, come up to your stations. Everyone else, head up to the balcony on the second floor."

I could tell he was looking at me. I was actively trying to avoid his gaze or the slightest sign of criminal activity would surface and I would therefore be rendered defenseless against a smiling attack. The cameras were cut for a minute while the rest of the chefs made their way up and the set was re-arranged.

"You will have access to a basic pantry that includes all thirteen types of olive oils tasted earlier—use what you think is necessary—and a choice of seafood protein, Portofino's local specialty." Chef Streisand started with, gesturing to a wide array of seafood displayed on beds of ice. A fancy set-up they'd completed behind the scenes. "You may pick only one. Chef Garland, you first."

I was stationed by the seafood display to provide a 'brief comment' on their choice, one of the few unscripted moments so far in the episode's shoot.

"I'll go with the sea bass," she said, picking a beautiful fillet cut that was slightly thicker than an inch. I nodded in approval.

"A very good choice. Sea bass from the Ligurian sea is a favorite among the locals here—I assume you'll be giving it the Mediterranean treatment? Pan-seared?"

"I'll do an oil-poached sea bass. With olives and a tomato vinaigrette," she said before returning to her station with the protein. I had my reservations about the dish despite its brilliant conception; there simply wasn't enough time for a decent poaching in olive oil. Chefs were given fifteen minutes and nothing more. Still, I wasn't sure if we were allowed to provide such opinions during a one-on-one elimination challenge.

"Leroy!" Chef Pao turned to the red team's sacrificial lamb (lion, perhaps, in this case) before nodding in my direction. Or more specifically pointing with his lips. "Your turn."

He'd crossed the terrace before I could register this all happening and before I knew it, he'd asked the question.

"Any cravings?"

Discombobulated I was. Absolutely, simply, speechless.

"I—y—this shouldn't... I don't think that's very..." "Why not?" "Because it, it would seem like you are attempting to curry favor with a member of the judging panel a-and and catering to their tastes." "Anyone could say they wanted the most complicated shit and I could be shooting myself in the foot." "Oh yes! I see that you are aware of that too, so there, you admit it is a foolish question." "...I'm not taking it back."

"Alright then," I looked again at the display, barely afloat. "If you insist, Chef Cox. I pick crab. There. Enjoy your challenge." It was the most difficult protein among the lot.

He picked a decent blue crab from its bed of ice and headed back to his station. But not before the most criminal "I will."

Pained, I rejoined my counterparts at the front of the terrace, facing the two outdoor stations with the straightest face I could manage. Chef Pao once again reinstated the time given before then officially, starting the clock. I was not in the headspace to register his exact words.

"Banilla, you craving crab huh?" "A splendid choice. Would've picked the same. Seafood fro the Ligurian sea... it doesn't get any better than that." "Curry favor, ay?" "It's clever though. Hosted cooking shows and competitive stuff like that all my life and never before has a contestant thought of asking what I'd like to have for lunch. I mean, I do have very high standards of taste so failing to deliver what I ask for would mean huge disappointment but still. No one's bothered to ask." "So how do you feel, Banilla? Excited?" "Dreadful." "Oh! But you look so eager." "Yes, precisely. It is very bad news to be anything other than neutral and objective." "Eh, sometimes. But sometimes, it's good to be feeling... good!"

I sighed, watching him bring out a traditional mortar the Italians would use to make pesto and wandering where he'd learnt that from. "Simply... electric."

Fifteen minutes in the kitchen passes like a snap of the finger; all chefs know that. Cameras were only momentarily allowed to come close to the stations for b-roll but otherwise, there was little time for us judges to be making our rounds and providing advice or asking about the dish. Both chefs were given the space for peak focus, leaving them immersed down to the very last second.

I'd barely seen Leroy's finished dish before he covered it with a cloche. First up was Chef Garland.

"Ah, sea bass poached in olive oil! I see you used the Ligurian extra virgin. Which isn't the wrong choice, but I would have gone for the Tunisian oil, infused with Kalamanta for a stronger aroma," Chef Streisand advised. "The heat would have enhanced it."

"Right. I didn't think of that."

I could not disagree. The Ligurian Taggiasca extra virgin olive oil was more suited for zero heat application; perfect for cold dishes like salads and in dressings. Making pesto was another one of its strengths.

Together, we tasted the dish: poached sea bass with tomato vinaigrette and Ligurian black olives.

"Hmm... it is nice, yes. But I think fifteen minutes is... not enough time for the flavor, the essence of the olive oil to... uh... penetrate the fish," Chef Pao sighed, sharing my initial sentiments exactly.

"Done correctly, this would've tasted amazing, no doubt. The result would be buttery, flaky perfection," I added, dabbing a napkin over my lips. "The fish was cooked, but... you would have had to dial up the heat given the limited time you have. Which defeats the purpose of slow-cooking, or poaching, that is gives leeway for the cook on the fish. Some parts of the fillet are slightly overcooked. I am, of course, being very specific. Overall, your dish tasted good. A fine example of classic technique. Just... time was an unfortunate factor."

Chef Garland took our advice very well, nodding as we spoke and eventually returning to her station with the dish after a brief note of thanks.

Just as Chef Pao called for the next chef, I caught him popping something into his mouth. A cherry tomato. By the time he'd come up to us with his dish, he'd chewed and swallowed.

"Chef Cox. You seem like you're starving all the time." Chef Streisand said as he removed the cloche and unveiled five beautiful crab crostini. Thinly-sliced, fine texture bread toasted in the oven. "Is this normal?"

"Depends," was his vague and unbothered answer that had Chef Pao laughing from its sheer lack of decoration. The complete opposite of someone like Andre. "It's a basil pesto crab crostini. Dig in." He gestured to the plate and at once, picked up a serving as though he, too, was joining us for the tasting.

I picked up a set of cutlery and was about to cut myself a portion when the chef himself reached out to stop me.

"Use your hands."

I stared at him. "Oh."

"Ay, fellow believer of 'tastes better if you use your hands' like me. Some food, yes. True true, this is an appetizer. What's wrong with using our hands, Banilla?" Chef Pao said, picking up a crostini and waiting for Chef Streisand and myself to do the same.

"I could... feed you," offered the absolute criminal of a human being as soon as I'd paused a moment too long and before I could properly recover and hide the look of sheer alarm on my face, everyone else burst out laughing.

At once, Chef Pao returned his crostini to its original position on the platter. "If you're offering, I don't see why not! Okay, come. Feed me."

"Pao!" Chef Streisand was seized with laughter. "What would your wife say?"

"Amelia, my wife would be the one taking pictures! Hot firefighter feeding service, you know? Not every day you get something like that."

"Line up, guys." Leroy played along until the atmosphere came down from its high and I finally recovered sufficiently to even say a word.

The four of us dug in at the same time. There was the simultaneous crunch of the slice of toasted bread and afterward, a moment for the flavor to settle.

The savory combination of garlic and basil in the delightful texture of ground pine nuts was the perfect base for a handful of sweet, fresh crab tossed in garlic chives and a hint of lemon amidst crème fraiche. He'd used the Ligurian extra virgin. The dish was faultless.

"Most people, when then make pesto, they use a blender," Chef Pao remarked out of the blue, holding off on the actual critique.

"I learnt it that way too," said Leroy. Honest. "Last night, I went out for a run with my dog. I saw someone using the mortar for the pesto."

"Yes. That is how they do it, traditionally." Chef Streisand nodded, finishing the latter half of her crostini in one go. "This is the stuff that olive oil is meant for. The Ligurian Taggiasca extra virgin is perfect for pesto. And drizzling a little bit of that on top of the crab just enhances its flavor. And adding crème fraiche to the crab too... it's creamy, fresh, savory, and all under fifteen minutes!"

"Yes, indeed," I said under my breath. "Simple, and yet, flawlessly executed. I suppose I should thank your dog for the delightful dish?"

He turned to me with the hint of a smile on his lips. "He'd like that."