But three years into his economics degree at Stanford, Josh splurged on a meal at the French Laundry. Some dormant passion reignited that evening when he dipped his spoon into an impossibly silky egg custard. The subtle elegance of the presentation in a precisely cut eggshell, with one pin-straight chive blade providing a burst of sharp flavor. It wasn’t just food; it was a sensory experience, offering a completely different set of possibilities than his dad’s salty corned beef hash.
When Josh announced his plan to drop out of Stanford to attend the Culinary Institute of America, Danny shook his head in that specific disappointed way that only fathers can. “You want to pay thousands of dollars so someone else can teach you how to dice an onion?” he’d muttered.
Josh’s mother, Abby, agreed to foot the bill, with the tacit understanding that Josh would one day apply his knowledge by taking over the deli. But Josh had no desire to be the heir to a fading pastrami empire: He had much more ambitious plans. After completing the program, he left for Europe to work in some of the world’s greatest kitchens.
Josh and his dad haven’t spoken since his return to the city. Abby acts as their go-between.
“The two-sided humans were so physically powerful,” he continues, “that they became a threat to the gods. So Zeus sliced them down the middle.” He draws a violent slash through the center of the circular body. “Now they’re all running around on two legs, confused and distraught, trying to reconnect with their other half.”
Ari leans forward, dropping her elbow onto a few square inches of empty real estate on the counter. “The soulmate?”
“Exactly.” He nods once, throwing the towel over his shoulder.
* * *
FOR ONE SECOND, in the excitement about agreeing on something, Ari sees a glimmer of why Natalie finds him attractive. His voice is so much more pleasant when he’s telling a story instead of arguing. And there’s something annoyingly hot about men with towels on their shoulders and rolled up sleeves.
“That’s pretty dark,” she says, staring at the ink slash. “No wonder Hallmark rebooted this concept as a Candace Cameron Bure rom-com.”
Josh’s expression darkens. He stands up straighter, making her feel shorter than five feet five. “Your soulmate gives you the greatest possible sense of belonging,” he says with genuine conviction. “They heal your existential wound. It’s the basis of modern love.”
Her brief flicker of interest in him must have been ninety percent towel-on-shoulder related. “You honestly think there’s one person somewhere on this planet who can fulfill every single need you’ll ever have?”
“Yes. And eventually you’ll get sick of searching for your underwear at two in the morning!” His accent is poking through again. “You’ll start looking for the person who won’t bore you. Who makes sacrifices for you even when you don’t deserve it. Who you want to hold all night until your arm falls asleep. Who’s required by law to bring you matzo ball soup when you get a cold. No one with an eggplant emoji next to their name is ever going to care about you that way.” Ari stares at him, mouth open, slightly alarmed by the volume of his impromptu monologue. He focuses his gaze on a chip in the laminate countertop and clears his throat softly. “What?”
“You’re completely delusional.”
Josh’s phone vibrates across the kitchen counter.
Natalie: hey! So sorry.
Gonna be later than i thought
Just getting to manhattan
The voice in Josh’s head unleashes a burst of creative expletives. The cod is already poaching. The orange sauce vierge will be gelatinous in thirty minutes. By the time Natalie arrives, he’ll be a sweaty mess.
Sometimes in his therapy sessions, Josh’s emotions overtake his ability to answer questions like “what are you experiencing right now?” He can’t take a clearing breath or do a fucking leaves-on-the-stream exercise. At this point, his therapist will inevitably advise him to “anchor.” The idea is to focus on your physical surroundings: things you can touch, hear, smell. Forcing himself to be still and concentrate on the minutiae around him doesn’t exactly come easily.
Except in the kitchen.
In no other place are all the senses so tightly interwoven. There’s nothing but the present in the overpowering scent of rosemary or the gentle gurgle of water coming to a slow boil. The knife sliding easily through the flesh of a perfectly ripe pear.
So it’s lucky that he finds himself in front of a cutting board, holding a plump heirloom tomato for the panzanella when Natalie’s text comes through.