have that and a bottle of Sprite, and
for dessert a plastic container of
custard with caramel on top.
A good chunk of those
afternoons would pass in silence.
My dad didn’t talk much. He was
caring and devoted, attentive to
detail, always a card on my
birthday, always my favorite food
and toys when I came for a visit.
But at the same time he was a
closed book. We’d talk about the
food he was making, talk about the
F1 racing we’d watched. Every now
and then he’d drop a tidbit of
information, about a place he’d
visited or his steakhouse. But that