Mango Panna Cotta

Treziel Mae Mayores

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My first time eating at a restaurant wasn’t even at a restaurant, it was fine-dining—oh who am I kidding—it was a pizza chain, but it was equally as expensive as a 5-star one. I was young. And I remember those three seconds of silence when I accidentally cut the crust a little too hard, it flung, and my knife—oh my lovely knife—let out a loud clang. The world froze and I felt all eyes stick to my skin, like a tattoo. On the side of our table was a menu. I was young, and I wanted to brag that I had eaten at a restaurant too. So I skimmed and skimmed until I found a name that would stick with me like glue—that would smoothly roll off my tongue as I lied. Mango Panna Cotta, a yellow sea on a plate with a white-creamy island floating in the middle of it—like a flan. I never ate it—it was expensive—but glibly, to my friends, I said I did, and that it tasted too sweet. They never doubted it. I was young. I wanted to pretend to be somebody other than who I was.

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