He considers this for a moment. "That's not a rating. That's a verdict."
"It's the only rating that matters. Everything else is supporting evidence. The verdict is: would you walk through that door again."
"Then it goes after the weighted average."
He typesRETURN?in the final cell.
We enter La Marea as the first row. The ceviche holds at six-eight versus seven-one. The lamb gets debated and settled. His hands are careful on the keyboard, deliberate, the same patience he brings to everything I've watched him do for days.
"The bread," I say. "Five."
"Five-two."
"You're giving the bread a five-two?"
"There was olive oil." He says this as if olive oil alone can rescue the bread from what it is.
"The olive oil was the only thing keeping the bread out of the fours. That bread basket was the restaurant saying: we bought this from someone else and we're not going to talk about it."
"It's bread, Berger."
"It's a five."
He looks at me for a second longer than the bread warrants. His eyes are dark in the lamplight and very still. Then he goes back to the screen and the bread keeps its row.
The key lime gets a six-three from me, a six-eight from him. The coffee gets a seven flat from both of us, which is the first number we have agreed on all night. He turns his head when I say "seven" at the same time he does, and the look between us holds for a beat before we both go back to the screen.
He adds a Notes column. Types in the first row:B claims plantain chip is "infrastructure." Under review.
I read it over his shoulder, a few inches closer than I need to see the screen. "Under review? By who? Who is the review board?"
"I am." He turns and looks at me. We are close enough I can see the light sprinkle of freckles across his cheeks and the green in his hazel eyes.
"We are co-founders of this spreadsheet. I have veto power."
"You have veto power on ratings. You do not have veto power on editorial notes." He doesn't look away. The laptop screen is still glowing between us, casting a blue shadow over his face. His hands are still on the keyboard but they have stopped moving. He watches me like I might have the answer to a question.
I don't.
Or I do, and the answer is the reason I haven't called my realtor back, and the reason I know what soap he uses, and the reason I am sitting on this couch at midnight arguing about bread ratings. Then something shifts behind his eyes and he turns back to the laptop, and his fingers start moving again like nothing happened.
"That is a rule you just invented," I say, because someone needs to say something.
"I am writing it down." He opens a second tab, labels it Rules, and then types:
1. Berger has veto power on ratings.
2. Mercer has editorial discretion on notes.
3. Disputes settled by dessert quality at the next meal.
I read the third rule twice. "Disputes settled by dessert quality?"
"If we can't agree, we go out again. Whoever's dessert is better wins the argument."
"That incentivizes arguing."
"Does it?"
