"You can introduce yourself however you want. They're still going to call you the kid."
He goes back to the cutting board. I cross the kitchen to check the rice. My hand passes the small of his back on the way. He leans into it for half a second and then straightens.
"What should I know about them?" he asks. "That I don't already know."
"Austin will bring wine nobody asked for. Grant will sit on the couch and do nothing and be proud of it. Kevin will ask you real questions and actually listen to the answers."
"And if I say something stupid?"
"Austin says something stupid every fifteen minutes. You're covered."
The buzzer goes at six-forty. I hear Kevin's key in the lock before I reach the door, because Kevin has never waited for me to open the door.
Austin is behind him with two bottles of red and a grin. Grant is behind Austin, carrying nothing.
"It smells good in here," Kevin says. He sets his keys on the counter, the same spot he always puts them. His eyes move past me to the kitchen, where Berger is standing with the knife still in his hand and the onions in the bowl and his back a little straighter than it was thirty seconds ago.
"Hey." Berger sets the knife down and wipes his hand on the towel. "I'm Luca." He crosses the kitchen and extends his hand to Kevin.
"Kevin." Kevin grips his hand and holds it a beat longer than a stranger would. "I've heard a lot about you."
"All terrible things, I bet."
"Mostly food opinions. Wes says you have a spreadsheet."
"I have several spreadsheets. The restaurant one is the flagship."
"He has a flagship spreadsheet," Austin says from behind Kevin, already opening the wine. "I love this kid already."
"I'm Luca."
"Austin." He grabs a glass from the counter and looks at Berger. "Red?"
"Please."
Grant comes through last. He shakes Berger's hand without a word, nods once, and moves to the couch. His shoes are off before he sits down. His foot goes up on the coffee table near the camera I left there this morning.
"That's Grant," I say. "He doesn't do introductions."
"I do introductions," Grant says. "I did one. It was efficient."
Berger looks at me, and something in his face loosens.
We eat at the table. The pork is good. Berger gives it an eight-one and then revises to an eight-two after the second bite, citing the bark, which he says has improved since September.
"You rate his cooking?" Kevin asks.
"Everything gets rated. It's the system."
"What system?"
"The food spreadsheet," Berger says. "Restaurants, home meals, takeout on a separate index. Weighted scoring. Ambiance is fifteen percent."
"How do you rate ambiance of a home meal?" Kevin asks.
"Ambiance of a home meal is the lighting, the table, the company. This meal is getting a nine for company alone."
"He's smooth," Austin says to me.
