REMI'S POV
On the sixth night Dax cooked.
This requires context: Dax did not cook. He was capable of cooking — he had the intelligence and the precision and the patience, all of which were the necessary prerequisites — but he had, in the ten months of our cohabitation, cooked exactly three things: eggs (twice), a sandwich (once, at two in the morning, which I maintain counts), and toast (borderline). He had a position on this, which was that cooking in the penthouse was an unnecessary expenditure of energy given that the penthouse had a kitchen that could produce anything and a restaurant in the building that delivered.
On the island there was no restaurant in the building.
There was a kitchen stocked by whoever staffed the house, which was excellent, and there was a grill on the terra
