Page 53 of We Can Do
The first woman’s nose wrinkles. “Their sourdough is good, but didn’t you hear about the additives?”
“What? They use additives?”
My stomach drops like I’ve missed a step going downstairs.
“Mm hmm.” The woman nods with the authority of someone sharing insider information. “That’s why his first place closed down.”
“I thought it was that bad review.”
The hallway suddenly feels too warm, too close. That review. My review. The words I wrote three years ago still echoing, still causing damage.
“No,” the first woman continues, oblivious to my distress. “The health inspector found preservatives in his bread. I also heard he doesn’t pay his employees a fair wage. It’s such a shame, he’s so handsome.”
The scoff escapes before I can stop it. A health inspector wouldn’t even be checking for preservatives – that’s not part of their job. But the truth doesn’t matter when rumors spread faster than clarifications.
Both women turn to look at me. I quickly shift my gaze to an oil painting on the wall – a pastoral scene of cows in a field that suddenly seems fascinating.
They turn back around as the bathroom door opens. The first woman disappears inside, and I shuffle forward, my mind racing faster than my heart.
Noah used preservatives once. One time, when his kitchen assistant messed up the recipe and dinner service was starting. One moment of desperation that I happened to catch, that I reported on without knowing the context.
And now it follows him everywhere.
The bathroom door opens again. My turn. But even as I find relief, my mind is spinning, pieces clicking together.
The trolls online who never let up. The comments on every YouTube video he posts. The whispers that follow him from New York to Portsmouth. It’s like watching someone bleed from a thousand paper cuts, none fatal on their own but collectively draining.
And then – the idea hits me with such clarity I nearly gasp.
An article. Not just defending Noah, but exposing the whole toxic culture. The way competition has turned the food industry into a battlefield where rumors are weapons and truth is collateral damage. The bakery in England accused of using illegal sprinkles. The farm-to-table restaurant in California destroyed by false claims about their sourcing. The coffee shop in Seattle that closed after fake reviews flooded their page.
This could be bigger than just Noah’s story. This could actually matter.
I wash my hands quickly, my mind already structuring paragraphs, finding sources, crafting arguments. I’ll write it on spec first, make it so compelling that outlets will fight to publish it. Time it to come out right after my Rye Again review, use my credibility to give weight to the defense.
The walk back to our table feels lighter despite my physical discomfort. Noah looks up as I approach, and something inmy expression must show because his welcoming smile falters slightly.
“You okay?” He asks quietly as I settle back into my chair.
“Yeah, all the sitting is hard for me but it’s a lot better with you here. I’m really glad you came with me.”
This time his smile reaches his eyes, crinkling them at the corners in that way that makes my heart skip. “It’s my pleasure.”
He gestures to the plate that appeared in my absence. “Here, try this salad with walnuts, goat cheese, and cranberries. The goat cheese makes it savory, while the cranberries give a burst of sweetness. Then, when you get a bite with a piece of walnut, it adds the perfect crunch.”
His enthusiasm for food, his instinctive understanding of flavor and texture, makes me laugh. “I think you have a real future in food reviewing.”
“Just doing what I can to help.”
I reach across the table and squeeze his hand, feeling the calluses from years of kneading dough, the strength in his fingers. “I really do appreciate it, Noah.”
“There’s no other place I’d rather be tonight.”
The servers continue to bring out artfully designed dishes for us to sample, and my pen moves across the notepad with each taste. But my mind is elsewhere, already composing opening lines, considering angles.
I’m going to write this article. I’m going to write it so well that it changes the conversation. Not just for Noah, but for every chef, baker, restaurant owner who’s been crushed by the brutal machinery of public opinion.
He deserves this. He deserves success and recognition and freedom from the shadow of one bad night three years ago. And I’m going to help give it to him.
