We don’t use words like naive. We say honest instead. Tomas de Visser. There’s that honest boy we want to know more about. He’s the type you’d trust with anything, especially a cheese souffle. Oh, were there rounds of laughter that day in the office, pure lightning in that brainstorming session when his file reached the department. There was never a reason to question Cora; it wasn’t even an action that was considered. To shed any light on the why was a fool’s errand, but he could provide some moral support, at least. “She saw something special in you. We all did, and we still do!” An uplifting turn delivered in a one-two punch before Marc is able to take a drink from his order. “No, no. We never met. You were our Ronaldo on the field while we were stationed at the goalpost. On the same team, but paths never meant to intersect.” Sound analogy. He’ll recycle it for a wider audience.
“Yes, a brother, thank you for refreshing my memory. Skylar? And… sisters. Twins?” He remembers that in the profile quite distinctly. There’s still untapped potential in that family, but their file has not circled back to his desk to do much more. Besides, the offer of a cookie is rude not to acknowledge. “How do you say that again? Ishercookie? That sounds outstanding, thank you…” His eyes drift off of it slowly before popping back to Tomas. “Why don’t I airdrop my contact info?”
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."
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