And The Heart Wants…
written by: TL
I have a deep love for food. Not just for the way chilies ignite a dish with fire, or how cream softens the sharpest edges of garlic—but for how it connects. A perfect bite can make strangers laugh, lovers linger, lonely hearts forget they’re alone. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I chop, stir, and plate, night after night.
Although I could talk about how much I love food for hours, it is hard to run my own restaurant as the head chef. The kitchen is ceaselessly noisy, relentlessly hot. I lead my staff through the chaos—shouting over the fryer’s roar, dodging swinging oven doors—while the air itself sizzles with heat from the ovens. My shirt clings to my back, the starchy fabric fused to my skin like a second layer I can’t peel off.
My restaurant attracts varied customers because of its affordable and extensive menu options. At my restaurant, you may find a wide array of cuisines, including Chinese, Italian, Thai, Indian, and more! Some people come here for partying, and some come for quality time. It is easy to forget the hustle and bustle of their lives while enjoying my food. Rarely do people come alone and sit here, as this is a quite busy place—not something a loner would prefer. But today she came alone.
She has been a regular customer of mine since the early days of this restaurant. When I first started this restaurant, she showed up with her college friends. It was no mystery that she was the one who convinced her friends to come here, practically every day. Her dish of choice? Chicken-Alfredo Baked Penne. The first time she ordered it, she left a note that read, “Dear Chef, I may not be a food critic, but this pasta has captured my heart.” Over time, I found myself developing feelings for her. It’s funny, isn’t it? How preparing someone’s favorite dish could lead to unexpected affection. But maybe that sounds strange—I don’t know.
As the days went by, I braced myself to reveal my true feelings to her. But life, as it often does, played its cruel tricks. On her college graduation day, she arrived as usual, but this time with a man. This man was also a customer of mine; he worked in the office building opposite the restaurant. Instantly, it felt like a scene pulled straight from a movie—a piece of fiction came to life. It became clear to me that perhaps she started to come to my restaurant to get a glimpse of him, and then she had him with her. I was getting ready for her favorite dish, as usual, the wooden spoon trembling in my hand as I stirred the Alfredo sauce. The habit of making pasta dishes for her over the last four years did not die immediately. But that day her order changed, and it was fried rice with chili chicken. It was the man who ordered on her behalf, and she ate that. In the last five years, I watched their relationship development, their proposal party, and their marriage anniversaries, and she never ordered Chicken-Alfredo Baked Penne again.
For a long time, that question lingered in my mind: “Did the last pasta she tasted not live up to her expectations?” “Had she decided cheese was suddenly bad for her health?” “Was she simply tired of the same dish?” Whatever the reason might be, there was no way for me to know. As I experimented with the pasta recipes, my efforts had mixed results. Some turned out to be hits, while others were missed. Originally, my menu featured just two pasta options; now it showcases 30 diverse varieties. While I poured my heart into these dishes, the one person I wanted them to try out never bothered to order.
Today, she seemed different; she hadn’t been here for the last two weeks. For the first time in nine years, she was alone, with no sign of her friends or her husband. It’s hard for me to keep an eye on her; the kitchen always demands my attention. Yet, everything halted when I overheard the order for “Table 8, Chicken-Alfredo Baked Penne.” My hands trembled slightly—the penne noodles slipped briefly from my tongs before I steadied myself. I brushed it off; there was no time to dwell on it. As the waiter carried the dish away, I paused for a brief moment, lost in thought, before resuming the hectic rhythm of my work.
She left another note today. I took it from the waiter, carefully unfolding the paper to reveal her words, penned in quick, neat strokes:
“When we love something or someone, we often express our love in different ways. I gave up my favorite pasta and allowed him to order the food for me, hoping it would be appreciated. But when that love faded, I was left with myself, realizing that the emptiness of my heart couldn’t be filled by mere habits adopted for appearance and appreciation. Because the heart wants what it wants—and for me, it has always been your Chicken-Alfredo Baked Penne.”
- And The Heart Wants… - May 12, 2025
