He casted a look of doubt masked by a bashful smile, polite in everywhere possible, “I’m sure it wasn’t that impressive.” It’s been a few years but the masterchef days were still fresh in his mind, a stark reminder for giving up everything, for family. He’s still deciding if it was the right choice, but his papa still lives, right? It started off with getting as far as he could to get a pro-rated fees, maybe 2nd or 3rd place prize. And now he stood in front another face that may have had a hand in picking him. The analogy felt strange purely because he still can’t be sure if on the same team is accurate here. But he simply bowed his head in thanks, “well- even though we’ve never met, thank you, I guess.. did you ever get to try my cooking?” Tomas asked hesitantly, curious to know, have the judging ever even really considered his skills at all.
“Oh– yes.. yeah, we’re quite a big family,” Tomas laughed it off, big, noisy, suffocating, but still family, still more than ever heightened to alert for his baby sister throwing herself at this. “Yes, that’s close, it’s ai-zer-kookieye,” Tomas slows down the pronunciation, “it’s an ancestral recipe for fishermen, this one, my parents are adamant it gets passed down for generations since well.. Visser, Fishermen.” If he hadn’t heard this same story over and over again since he could comprehend speech as a baby. Pretty sure his mama had to convince his papa not to make a fish pun with their bakery name. He couldn’t help but sneak his own piece and took a bite into it, a piece of home, never changing despite everything else. He paused, taking a second to process what he meant and nodded quickly, “oh- sure-” Tomas fumbled for his phone almost dropping it onto the counter, “let me know, if- if you need anything, for Prometheus or the bakery.”
"Modesty." He wags his finger like he's wine-tasting, detecting that particularly rare note of bashfulness. Don't correct him! He knows it when he sees it. He and the team didn't put in all that effort just for it to be washed away! The cooking element was such a small part of Tomas' potential, his story, that it barely registered to them, but for the sake of humoring him, Marc's smile is as wide as ever. "I'd love to," he nods to mean it. "Thank you for the offer. We all would appreciate you making a lunch out of it at the office. I'll text you all known dietary restrictions before we put this in motion. Jamil's birthday is next Friday. Can we count on you, then?"
Tomas' invite has not gone unappreciated! The power of what a few words will accomplish. Of course, there are more that follow that Marc continues to nod along to. Family. Cookies. Fishermen. All great things that can be summed up in bullet points for the next campaign should it arise. "Tomas, let's earmark this with a selfie together for our Slack channel," he tells him, bestows the honor on him as if there could be nothing better to return to him than pure recognition. The iPhone is already out, screen lit up with their faces like a mirror, even as Marc holds up his Dutch treat that will undoubtedly relate to the hashtag he'll put on it. "Say 'one smart cookie!'"