He raided the pantry for things that had no business in a peri-peri rub. Cumin. A whisper of cinnamon. Dried mint, crushed between his palms. He toasted the subpar chiles longer, coaxing out a deeper, almost chocolatey note. He added the lemon zest in three stages—some ground fine, some left in larger flakes that would burst on the tongue. And then, on a gamble that made his heart race, he incorporated a single star anise pod, ground to dust.
The lines came back by Saturday.
The next day, he posted the recipe on the restaurant’s chalkboard for anyone to see. No secrets, no locked tins. Let the other chef copy it if he could—but he’d never have Leo’s hands, Leo’s memory of Sofia’s smile, Leo’s willingness to burn the first batch and start over. peri peri dry rub recipe