I looked over the menu, paralyzed by indecision. Since I’d moved back home, I’d mostly been eating my aunt and grandmother’s cooking. Don’t get me wrong, I loved it and I’d bet good money my family could cook circles around anyone in town, but once in a while you crave something different. And good ol’ greasy American diner food was something I missed from my late-night drunken college jaunts.

“You want a recommendation, go for the meatloaf. With a side of mashed potatoes and gravy, and maybe some green beans if you’re one of those girls who needs something green with each meal,” Stan said as he slid the bacon double cheeseburger he’d been grilling onto a toasted bun and topped it with a perfectly fried egg. “Order up!”

I smiled at him, figuring this was the perfect opportunity to get on his good side. “Usually the greens aren’t a prerequisite, but I’m definitely ordering dessert, so I have to pretend to be at least somewhat virtuous.”

He laughed. “I like that. In that case, go for the peach cobbler or apple pie. If you don’t like fruit, there’s plenty of other options and they’re all great. My wife makes all the desserts.”

He jerked his thumb toward the woman at the cash register. Ha, I knew she was his wife. Next to her sat a dessert case to rival some of Chicago’s best bakeries. If I weren’t trying to get my life back on track and prove to my family that I was an adult, I would’ve just skipped straight to dessert. There was a lemon icebox pie with my name on it sitting in that dimly lit case.

“So should I put in that order for meatloaf or what?” Stan asked.

I hesitated. I never really understood meat loaf—just dense, dry lumps of ground meat and bread topped with . . . ketchup? Even embutido, the Filipino version, never appealed to me.

It wouldn’t hurt to butter the guy up though—might make him more talkative. Plus, I hate when people ask me for recommendations and then don’t take them. If you already know what you want, why even ask me?

OK, so technically I hadn’t asked Stan, but as the owner, he should know what he’s talking about, right?

“Yes sir!” I saw they had Filbert’s root beer and ordered one as well. Adeena asked for her waffles and some coffee.

“Comin’ right up.” Stan got to work prepping our order: mixing the batter and ladling it onto the waffle iron, slicing the meat loaf and hitting it with a nice sear, then plating everything up. Extra gravy on the side for me, with a mini carafe of real maple syrup and cup of whipped butter for Adeena. Oh my gulay . . .

The steam rising up from the platter enveloped my face in an oddly comforting, lightly herb-scented aroma. I took a deep breath, detecting a hint of rosemary and tarragon.

While I was participating in my olfactory delight, Adeena wasted no time in tucking into her plate of tasty breakfast treats. Waffles were her desert island food—as long as you switched up the flavor or toppings once in a while, she could easily eat nothing but waffles for the rest of her life.

My desert island food was just as versatile: crepes. Both savory and sweet, from the classic Filipino lumpiang sariwa to the simplicity of a sprinkle of sugar and squeeze of lemon, I couldn’t get enough of them. Maybe I could convince my family to do a Filipino-themed crepe bar on Sundays. Might be a good way to pick up new business.

“You just gonna sit there smelling your food or you gonna eat it?” Stan stood over me, hands on hips, still gripping his spatula.

“I’d think as the chef you’d want people to appreciate and savor your food,” I said, finally forking up a chunk of meat loaf.

“As the cook, I just want people to clear their darn plates. How fast or slow they eat the food is none of my business.”

“So why are you heckling me if it doesn’t matter how long it takes to eat?”

“’Cause you weren’t eating. Different story.”

“You’re a difficult man, Stan.”

He shrugged. “Tell me something I don’t know. Now go on, eat your food.”

I rolled my eyes, but obediently popped the piece of meatloaf into my mouth. My eyes instantly widened and then closed in pleasure as I chewed. “Wow. I was expecting something dense and heavy, even a little dry, but this . . . I didn’t know it was possible to make meatloaf that was so tender and fresh-tasting.”

He nodded. “It’s the herb mélange, plus my secret ingredient. And don’t even ask, you’re just wasting your time.”

That was rather presumptuous, as my mouth was full and I hadn’t planned on asking anyway (I hated handling raw meat), so his secret was safe from me. Well, about his ingredients, anyway. But about his involvement with Derek and the health inspector . . .

I turned to Adeena. “Can you believe Derek gave this place a bad review? The food here is amazing!”

She’d been too busy shoveling waffles into her face to get my cue, but she quickly caught on. “What? Oh, right! Yeah, this has got to be the best waffle I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a lot of waffles. They’re so packed with flavor, you don’t even need the butter and syrup.”

Stan grunted. “Doesn’t hurt though, right?”

“Real maple syrup and proper butter? Too much of a good thing is still a good thing.”

He refilled our water glasses, then raised the pitcher in salute. “Cheers to that.”

Darn it, he didn’t take the bait. I elbowed Adeena to continue.

She cast around for something else to comment on and her eyes fell on her mug. She picked it up and took a sip of coffee. “Hmm, he was right about the coffee, though. Your food is prime, but your coffee-brewing skills could use some work.”

He frowned. “Oh, and you’re some coffee expert?”

“Well, I’m the barista at Java Jo’s, so yes.”

“Ah, so you work at that hoity-toity coffee shop across town? No wonder I’ve never seen you in here before. You girls too good to stop by my place?”

Adeena said, “Dude, chill. We literally just said that your food is fantastic. These waffles don’t need your negativity stinking up the joint.”

Stan laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. And you’re right about the coffee, too. I never got into that fancy stuff. It’s hot and caffeinated, and that’s all you need, in my mind.”

He went to rub the back of his head and realized he was still holding the spatula. He put it down, saying, “It’s just that hearing that guy’s name still makes me so mad. What was his deal?”

“You mean, why the bad reviews?” I asked.

He nodded.

“I don’t know. Maybe you had an off day? Got his order wrong? I can’t remember what he said in his article, but he never seemed to review restaurants he actually liked, so . . .”

He stiffened. “I have off days like everyone else, but not in the kitchen. That kid called my food ‘tired and generic, lacking flavor as well as class.’ I can take criticism as well as anyone, but that was just for starters. It’s one thing if he doesn’t like my food. Everyone has their own tastes, right? But then he started outright lying about what happened here. Said I served him chicken that was still raw in the middle and hinted that he saw something running around in the kitchen, and how those had to be health-code violations. And the one day, the one day that my freezer is on the fritz is the day the health inspector decides to pay me a surprise visit. Because of what that liar wrote. Had to pay a huge fine and hire a contractor to fix my freezer ASAP. The inspector wasn’t going to let us operate until it was done. Even tried to get me to hire a specific contractor, but I told him it was fine, I knew a guy. It didn’t scare away my old customers, but it sure ain’t bringing in any new ones.”

I said, “Yeah, I know what you mean. When he set his sights on you, it was like he didn’t care that he was trashing real people and harming their livelihood. The truth meant nothing to him. He just wanted a reaction out of people. What a sad way to live.”

I’d decided to go the commiseration route to see if that’d endear him to me, but the more I spoke, the more the truth of my words hit me. That really was the person that Derek had become. And I didn’t mourn that. But I did remember the person he was. The kid who’d cared for his mother through all of her troubles. Who’d had a wicked sense of humor and was always up for a good prank. Who’d been the first person to try all my baking experiments and make me feel like I really did have some talent in the kitchen, despite everything my grandmother said. And that filled me with immense sadness.

Stan leaned his elbows on the counter. “Sounds like you’re familiar with his brand of reviews.”

I shook off the curtain of gloom that was threatening to descend upon me. “Yeah, my family owns Tita Rosie’s Kitchen, which has been his latest target. In fact . . .” I trailed off, not knowing how to finish that sentence. I needed him to open up to me, but I couldn’t afford to be too honest.

Unfortunately, the rumor mill, as well as the daily paper, had already made its way to this side of town.

“Wait, why does that sound familiar? Oh sh—” Stan cut himself off and called his wife over. “Hey, Martha! Get on over here.”

She bustled over, annoyed at being interrupted mid-conversation with a departing customer. “What do you want, Stan? Can’t you see I’m busy?” She turned around and waved to her customer. “Come back soon, you hear? Bye, sweetie!”