Flan de Amor

Love Flan

The food critic gave me two stars out of five.

"'Uninspired flan. The custard is technically sound but lacks soul.'" I read aloud, furious. "What the hell does that even mean?"

"It means she didn't like it," my sous chef said.

"She didn't taste the love."

"Maybe she doesn't believe in love."

Victoria Reyes was the most feared restaurant critic in the city. Her reviews made and destroyed careers. Her palate was legendary.

And she thought my flan was uninspired.

I'd show her inspiration.

I invited her back—a personal invitation, a promise of something new.

"You have one chance," she said when she arrived. "Make it count."

"I intend to."

I made my grandmother's flan. Not the restaurant version—the real one. The one I'd learned kneeling on a kitchen chair at age five.

She tasted it in silence. I watched her face for any sign of reaction.

"Where did you learn this?" she finally asked.

"My grandmother. In Puebla."

"It's... different."

"Is that good different or bad different?"

"It's the best flan I've ever had."

She came back the next week. And the next. Not to review—to eat. To talk. To sit at my counter after closing while I tested new recipes.

"Why did you become a critic?" I asked.

"Because I love food but can't cook."

"Everyone can cook."

"I burned water once. Literally."

"That's... impressive, actually."

"Teach me," she said one evening.

"To cook?"

"To make flan. Your grandmother's recipe."

"That's family only."

"Then make me family."

It was the strangest proposal I'd ever received.

She was terrible at cooking. Gloriously, catastrophically terrible. Her caramel burned. Her custard curdled. Her timing was hopeless.

"How do you write about food?" I asked after her fifth failed attempt.

"Because I understand taste. Not technique."

"Then let me handle technique." I stood behind her, guiding her hands. "You just feel."

Her flan finally came out perfect. She cried.

"You're not what I expected," she admitted.

"You're exactly what I expected. Difficult, demanding, worth impressing."

"Worth impressing?"

"I've made flan for thousands of people. I only wanted one person's approval."

"You have it. In every way."

The relationship review sites would have given us five stars. Perfect chemistry. Unexpected pairing. Memorable finish.

"Write about this," I said. "About us."

"My critics would say I've lost my objectivity."

"Have you?"

"Completely." She kissed me over a cooling flan. "Best thing I've ever lost."

Flan de amor—where critics become converts, and the sweetest reviews are unwritten.