“With a fork, like everyone else.”

“But noodles are supposed to be eaten with chopsticks,” the would-be gourmet whined. “What kind of Asian restaurant doesn’t have any?”

“The kind serving food from a country that doesn’t use them.”

At his blank look, I added, “We don’t really use chopsticks in the Philippines. We mostly use a spoon and fork or our hands.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. I served food, not history lessons. If he really wanted to know, he could google it.

Lola Flor came up at that moment and set a plate of suman and a bowl of ginataang bilo-bilo on the table. Mr. Long stopped gorging on the soy-sauce-vinegar-and-garlic marinated meats long enough to lean forward and say, “Ooh, that looks tasty. What is it, Mrs. M?”

He always called my grandmother “Mrs. M,” which Tita Rosie thought was him being friendly. She said it reminded her of the Fonz referring to Mr. Cunningham as “Mr. C” on Happy Days. My lola and I were pretty sure he just didn’t know how to pronounce our last name.

Lola Flor pointed to the suman, saying, “Sweet sticky rice cooked in coconut milk and steamed in banana leaves. The banana leaves give the rice its distinctive flavor. They’re garnished with latik. Caramelized coconut curds,” she added at Derek’s confused look. “In the bowl is ginataang bilo-bilo. Chewy rice balls, tapioca pearls, jackfruit, purple yam, and saba banana cooked in sweet coconut milk. The best thing to eat on a cold day like this.”

“That’s a lot of coconut,” Derek said, glancing at Mr. Long, who was looking oddly forlorn.

“I’m allergic to coconut,” he explained. “Do you have any desserts without it?”

My grandmother just raised her eyebrow and said, “Not today,” before walking away.

Remembering the amount of effort she put into hand-grating the coconut—the bench she used had a special coconut scraper attached to it—I could understand her impatience. However, it wasn’t Mr. Long’s fault he was allergic, and it was our duty to accommodate our customers’ dietary needs. She needed to start taking these things seriously, but she was so inflexible when it came to her recipes.

Seeing the ube, or purple yams, in Derek’s dish, I realized this was the perfect chance to test my creations on a customer.

“This is your lucky day, Mr. Long. I’ve been working on a fusion dessert for the restaurant, and you could be the first customer to try it. Would you be interested? There’s no coconut in it, I promise.”

He agreed, and I hurried back to the kitchen to grab the batch of ube crinkles I’d baked earlier that morning. I piled the cookies, their lovely violet color peeping through a light coating of powdered sugar, on a plate. I studied the offering, then added a small bowl of vanilla ice cream as well as a serving of my ube halaya, the purple-yam jam I’d used to create the cookies, to the dish. Perfect.

When I made it back to the table, Derek had already consumed the plate of suman and was preparing to tuck into the ginataang bilo-bilo. His eyes widened as I set the plate of cookies on the table.

“What’s that?” He’d broken into a sweat and was tapping an offbeat rhythm on the table with his fingers as he eyed the plate greedily.

“I call them ube crinkles. I used condensed milk instead of coconut to make the jam, so they should be safe for you, Mr. Long. I like to think of them as a Filipino-American hybrid.” I watched as Mr. Long and Derek each helped themselves to a cookie. I chewed on my lower lip as I waited for their reaction.

And waited.

And waited.

“So . . . how are they?” I finally ventured.

“Not sure what to think, actually. I’ve never tasted anything like it. Very delicate,” Mr. Long said, helping himself to another cookie.

Derek added, “I think it’s cute that you still dabble with baking, but it’s way too sweet. You’d think all those years practicing at that fancy school would’ve taught you better.”

And just like that, bitter memories of my ex-fiancé, Sam, critiquing my baked goods flashed through my mind. I remembered all the little jabs I had suffered at the hands of my ex, Mr. Big Shot Chef, as he condescendingly patted my hand, saying he was glad I had a hobby, but maybe I should stick with the business side of the restaurant and leave the food to him. Only to find him later stuffing down another of my date and walnut bars, or deconstructing one of my fusion biscotti flavors.

He knew I was good. But in his kitchen, there was no room for me to be great.

Shaking the flashback away, I looked at Derek, who was smearing ube halaya across the bottom of a cookie. He then added a scoop of ice cream and sandwiched it with another cookie before chowing down.

Was this dude seriously shoveling down the entire dessert platter despite insulting my food—to my face—a mere five seconds ago?

I snatched the plate away from him. “If the cookies are so disgusting, maybe you should stop eating them.”

Derek rolled his eyes and grabbed another cookie. “I never said they were disgusting. God, you’re so sensitive. If you can’t take the criticism, you don’t belong in the kitchen.”

Mr. Long frowned, eyes darting back and forth between us. His gaze lingered on Derek’s sweaty, pallid appearance as he handed Derek a handkerchief and then gestured for me to hand him the cookie plate. “Lila brought these cookies for me, son. I think you’ve had enough to write a proper review of them. You’re supposed to be watching your sugar levels anyway, remember? Did you take your insulin?”

Derek glared at him, but accepted the handkerchief and wiped the sweat and crumbs from his face. “Of course I took my insulin. I’m not a little kid, Ed. I can take care of myself.”

The stare-down between the two of them was making me uncomfortable, so I started to clear the plates from the table. When I grabbed the untouched bowl of ginataang bilo-bilo, Derek stopped me.

“I haven’t tried this yet. I can’t write a full review if I don’t taste everything on offer.”

I shrugged and slid it in front of him. “Knock yourself out. It’s one of my favorite cold-weather treats, so I hope you enjoy it.”

Usually consumed for breakfast or at snack time for meryenda, it had all the comfort of a warm bowl of oatmeal but enough sweetness to qualify as dessert. While it wasn’t the most Instagram-worthy dish, the various textures of soft and chewy with a bit of bite, combined with the sweet creaminess of the thickened coconut milk and my lola’s deft touch made it the Filipino culinary equivalent of hygge. Pure coziness and warmth in a bowl.

Derek spooned up a large portion, his eyes widening as he experienced the delicious interplay of all the different ingredients. For once, he was speechless.

I grinned as he seemed to squirm with delight. “Good, huh?”

He let out a long, drawn-out sigh but didn’t answer.

I put my hands on my hips. “Oh, come on. Would it kill you to say something nice for a change?”

He responded by convulsing violently, then face-planting right into the dish.

Chapter Three

Dude, that’s not funny. Quit it.”

My first instinct said Derek was playing around. He’d been an infamous prankster when we were in high school, and this looked like another one of his unfunny jokes. I was too annoyed about the mess he’d made, with gobs of coconut milk splattered all over the table, not to mention my apron, to take him seriously.

But when Derek didn’t immediately pop up and grin like I thought he would, I looked over at Mr. Long. He stared at Derek, facedown in our chipped ceramic bowl, with an odd mix of horror and some other emotion I couldn’t quite place.

The hair on the back of my neck rose as I leaned over Derek and started shaking him. First gently, then harder and harder as he refused to respond. Did he pass out? Have an allergic reaction or something?

With effort, I pulled him up and leaned him against the back of the chair so he could breathe easier. Not that I could actually see him breathing. Oh, dear Lord, was he dead?

I hadn’t even noticed Ninang June making her way over till she shoved me aside. “Call an ambulance!” she yelled as she felt for his pulse. I shook myself. She was right. He could still be saved and my standing around gaping at him wasn’t helping anyone. I whipped out my phone and called 911, giving them the restaurant address and explaining what happened. As I talked to the operator, Ninang June wiped off Derek’s face to clear his airways, had Mr. Long help her lay Derek on the ground, and began administering CPR.