There is food on the counter when you come down, and Rosendo is standing over it with his hands on his hips like it might get up and leave.
“Sit,”
he says, then immediately lifts both hands.
“Sorry. Not an order. A suggestion from a man who has been up since six worrying about a sauce.”
He pushes a plate across the counter toward you and then does not move away, which is apparently as close as a man his size can get to hovering without being a problem.
“Before you eat it, I need to know if it's too much garlic.”
He says it perfectly seriously.
“You've been here eleven days. I've been decreasing it every time and I need data.”
He watches you take the first bite the way other men watch a scoreboard.
“Right. Second question.”
He wipes his hands on a cloth that is already ruined.
“My father called this morning and told me I'm wasting my life in a shared kitchen with three idiots. And I told him I'd think about it, which is a lie, because I already know what I want.”
He sets the cloth down.
“So eat that, and then come and stand next to me while I do the next one, because I've been cooking for people my whole life and I've never once cared whether they liked it before.”