Storytelling Saturdays: A Pinch More Salt

By Braheim Gibbs

“A Pinch More Salt” By Braheim Gibbs

The first time Sloane heard Malik hum in the kitchen, it annoyed her. Not because he was off-key—he wasn’t—but because he was too comfortable. She’d only been at Sage & Vine for six weeks, still earning her place in the line-up. But Malik? He moved like the kitchen belonged to him. Fast hands, calm eyes, humming like he had a playlist in his chest. Old-school soul, mostly. Al Green. Minnie Riperton. Once, she caught a hint of Maxwell and almost smiled. Almost.

They started speaking in the language of cooks—quick nods, knife clinks, plate passes.

“More salt,” he said one night, tasting her roasted carrots.

“I salted them,” she replied, a little sharper than she meant.

He didn’t flinch. Just said, “A pinch more wouldn’t kill ’em. Trust me.”

She didn’t—but she tried it anyway. He was right.

Weeks passed. She began to notice small things: how he prepped twice as fast when he was thinking, how he tied his apron like a sash, not a knot. How he said “Behind you” like it meant “I got you.” Sloane had come to this job fresh off a bad gig in Atlanta, one that had burned her out. She wasn’t looking for friends. Definitely not flirtation.

But one slow Tuesday, she stayed after close, helping him break down a stubborn sauce. The moment was quiet, heavy with potential.

“You always this picky about your reductions?” she asked.

“You always this nosy about someone else’s pot?” he shot back, smiling.

Something shifted. They laughed. And that night, for the first time, they walked out together instead of apart.

They didn’t rush it. Their first date wasn’t even a real date—just drinks at her place, talking kitchen horror stories and watching him pull together a perfect grilled cheese from what she called “bachelor leftovers.” They kissed on her fire escape, soft and slow, while the city buzzed below them.

In the kitchen, things stayed professional. Mostly. Except for the way he always saved her the last crab cake. Or the way she touched his wrist just slightly too long when handing off a plate.

One night, after a slammed Friday dinner, they ended up alone again. Sloane leaned against the prep table, her arms folded, hair falling loose from the bandana.

“Wanna cook something just for us?” she asked.

He blinked. Then grinned. “Yeah. Let’s make something nobody else gets.”

It wasn’t fancy—pasta tossed in butter, garlic, and the last of the staff meal wine. But they ate it like it was sacred. Sitting on milk crates, drinking from to-go cups, sharing forks.

He looked at her like she was already his future.

“You still don’t salt enough,” he teased.

“And you still hum like you’re in a slow jam video,” she shot back.

But she smiled this time.

And so did he.

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