…slammed his fork down**, stood up from the table, and said, **“That’s ENOUGH.”
The room went dead silent. Even the rice cooker seemed to stop bubbling.
His friend blinked, confused. “What?” she said, like she hadn’t just insulted everything from our cooking to my *culture*.
He pointed at the trash can, where my carefully prepared dish—the lemongrass chili stir-fry I *knew* he loved—was half-smashed under a paper towel.
“You just disrespected the woman I love, in our home, after we’ve bent over backward to make you feel welcome.”
She scoffed. “It’s not disrespect. I’m just saying—he’s Italian, he should eat real food.”
“**I’m not in Italy anymore!**” he shot back. “And if I *wanted* lasagna every day, I’d be home with my nonna. But I *love* the way she cooks. I love the flavor, the variety, the way she makes everything from scratch—even the stuff that’s too spicy for me!”
I stood frozen. He’d never been this assertive with anyone before.
“She’s not here to entertain you,” he added, voice lower now, but firmer. “And if *you* can’t respect her, her cooking, or her culture, then I think it’s time you checked into a hotel.”
That woman went redder than a jar of marinara. She muttered something about needing fresh air, grabbed her designer purse, and left in a huff.
I still hadn’t said a word.
He turned to me, eyes softening. “I’m sorry I let her treat you like that. That dish smelled amazing. Can I try some—if there’s any left?”
I choked out a laugh and handed him a fresh plate.
He took one bite and closed his eyes. “God, I love you. And your dumb fusion food.”
He never took her out for lasagna.
Instead, **we made pad kra pao the next night.**
Extra fish sauce. Just to make the walls remember.
