Mia arrives with a megawatt smile that could probably be seen from space. She looks like sunshine in human form, with wild wavy hair and silver rings on every finger and an energy that makes you feel like you've had two coffees just by standing near her.
"The more the merrier," I say.
Mia skips the handshake entirely and pulls Isabelle into a hug, which catches Isabelle completely off guard for half a second before she gives in to it. Then Mia hugs me with the same enthusiasm.
"So nice to meet you both!" she says, stepping back and clasping her hands together. "Also, oh my God, you are stunning. You have hair like a shampoo commercial. I think we're going to get along wonderfully."
Isabelle laughs, looking surprised and a little flustered, and touches her hair self-consciously. "That might be the best compliment I've ever gotten."
"I mean every word," Mia says, and links her arm through Isabelle's like they've been friends for years. I get the impression Mia is one of those people who makes friends with everyone she meets within the first thirty seconds of conversation.
We finish loading everything into the SUV. The women climb into the back, and Lark immediately leans forward between the seats. "So tell me about the menu. Alex mentioned the halibut is one of his favorites."
"It’s one of mine too." Isabelle lights up, gesturing with both hands the way she does when she's excited about an ingredient. "We're doing this lemon, well I just changed it to yuzu, beurre blanc that I've been testing all week, and the balance is finally working."
"Oh my God, I love yuzu," Mia cuts in. "There's this place in LA that does a yuzu kosho vinaigrette that changed my life."
"Well now you’re going to have to tell me everything that’s in it," Isabelle says, and then they're off, the three of them talking over each other about food and restaurants and flavor profiles. Lark mentions a place in Mexico City, Mia counters with somewhere in Boston, and Isabelle is nodding along, asking questions, laughing at something Mia says.
It's loud and chaotic and nothing like the distance Isabelle usually keeps from people she's just met. Jack catches my eye as we close up the trunk. He tips his sunglasses down and looks at me, then at Isabelle in the backseat laughing at something Mia just said, then back at me.
I shake my head.No.
He pushes the glasses back up and nods, but the smirk on his face says he's not buying a word of it.
We grab dinner in the Mission at a tiny Peruvian spot, cumbia music playing low through the speakers and a hand-chalked menu on the wall behind the bar in Spanish and English. I can smell the aji amarillo and the char from the grill as the five of us crowd around a corner table. The energy in here is exactly right. Not too loud, not trying too hard, just good food and good music and people enjoying themselves.
"So let me get this straight," Mia says after we order, leaning forward with her elbows on the table, looking between me and Isabelle. "Her dad hired you to spy on her, you're supposed to be enemies or at least professional rivals, and instead you're here having dinner together in San Francisco on a Monday night." She shakes her head, rings catching the light. "That is wild. It sounds like a comedy movie."
"More like a horror movie, maybe," Isabelle says drily, taking a sip of her pisco sour.
"Complete with near alien abductions," I add, glancing at her, and she snorts into her drink hard enough that she has to set it down and cover her mouth with her hand.
Mia looks between us, delighted and confused. "Wait, what? Am I missing something?"
"Inside joke," I say, waving it off. "Long story. Involves a vineyard and the dark and our mutual conviction that extraterrestrial life is hiding in the Napa hills."
"It's a reasonable concern," Isabelle says primly, straightening in her chair like we're discussing something serious. "The silence out there at night is suspicious."
"Exactly," I say. "Too quiet. Something's going on."
Lark is shaking her head, laughing. "You two are ridiculous."
"Ridiculously right," Isabelle corrects.
The pisco sours keep coming and the food starts arriving in waves, each plate better than the last. Ceviche with a leche de tigre so bright and acidic it makes my eyes water. Anticuchos with a charred aji panca glaze. A causa layered with avocado and crab. Lomo saltado with beef seared so hard the edges are almost black, tossed with tomatoes and red onion and piled over fries that have gone soft and golden from the sauce.
Jack and Lark tell the story of how they got together—the fake dating PR scheme that turned real—and it's always a crowd pleaser since it's such an absurd way to fall in love. We're all laughing and eating and talking over each other and I haven't had this much fun since the last time the whole family was together at Theo's place for Thanksgiving.
At some point the conversation turns to first kitchen disasters and Isabelle and I start competing for worst. She goes first with a crème brûlée incident from Le Cordon Bleu that involved a blowtorch, a smoke alarm, and an instructor whoapparently didn't speak to her for a week. It's a good story, well told, and everyone at the table is cracking up.
But I've got her beat.
"Thanksgiving when I was twenty-one," I say. "I was convinced I was ready to cook for the entire Midnight family. Full holiday spread, everything from scratch. Turkey, sides, desserts, the works."
"Oh no," Lark says, because she knows where this is going.
"My mom kept sugar and salt in these identical glass jars on the counter," I continue. "And I grabbed the wrong one and used it foreverything. The mashed potatoes, the turkey brine, the gravy, the green beans. Every savory dish that called for salt got sugar instead."