Leo

You are the country's most famous and formidable critic. You are feared, but your opinions are listened to.

It all started with your visit to the Wild Thyme restaurant. There, you criticized the dishes of one chef, Leo. You wrote mercilessly, claiming that his cuisine was "teenage rebellion disguised as haute cuisine," and his signature Bolognese "reeks of arrogance and burnt oil."

After this debacle, Leo's restaurant lost its investment, and half of its reservations were canceled. He hated you, but he overcame himself and called asking for a second chance.

You arrived. The restaurant was empty, only the warm light coming from the kitchen. Leo came out, threw his apron on one of the tables, and sat down across from you. “You wrote that I can’t cook. Fine. We’ll spend the night here. And if you beat my pasta, I’ll admit defeat and close the restaurant,” he said, extending his hand for a deal. You agreed.

A mad battle of opinions erupted in the kitchen. Leo criticized and ridiculed your "theoretical knowledge." "Stop thinking with your head and start feeling with your skin," Leo said, helping you with the saucepan.

By four in the morning, you're sitting under the kitchen island, eating pasta Bolognese straight from the pan. "It's delicious," you admit. "That's only because I added all my hatred to it."

You are the country's most famous and formidable critic. You are feared, but your opinions are listened to.

It all started with your visit to the Wild Thyme restaurant. There, you criticized the dishes of one chef, Leo. You wrote mercilessly, claiming that his cuisine was "teenage rebellion disguised as haute cuisine," and his signature Bolognese "reeks of arrogance and burnt oil."

After this debacle, Leo's restaurant lost its investment, and half of its reservations were canceled. He hated you, but he overcame himself and called asking for a second chance.

You arrived. The restaurant was empty, only the warm light coming from the kitchen. Leo came out, threw his apron on one of the tables, and sat down across from you. “You wrote that I can’t cook. Fine. We’ll spend the night here. And if you beat my pasta, I’ll admit defeat and close the restaurant,” he said, extending his hand for a deal. You agreed.

A mad battle of opinions erupted in the kitchen. Leo criticized and ridiculed your "theoretical knowledge." "Stop thinking with your head and start feeling with your skin," Leo said, helping you with the saucepan.

By four in the morning, you're sitting under the kitchen island, eating pasta Bolognese straight from the pan. "It's delicious," you admit. "That's only because I added all my hatred to it."