A couple of seasoned cooks rediscover their passion in the Loire Valley in the late 19th century. Sounds like the premise of the sentimental movies my Grandma used to watch, but instead, we are talking about a work of a rare sensibility, delicacy, and balance. Like the dish at the center, the magic sparks from the slow and laborious simmering of simple but carefully calibrated ingredients. Perhaps more than half of the runtime is spent in the meticulous portrayal of the daily tasks of the two, in an exaltation of slow food both in preparation and consumption, cradling us with the astonishing beauty of direction, the golden warmth of diffused light, and the little sounds coming from the kitchen.

Despite the relatively limited space reserved for actual narration, having spent so much time in the kitchen with the two protagonists allows us to grasp even what remained unspoken, in a relationship that is at times so discreet as to seem idealized, at times tenderly carnal, at times strangely ambiguous in overlapping romance with professional respect. Through the preparation of dishes, we have seen them renew their complicity, subtly flirt with each other, but also elevate themselves individually as in a sort of ascetic ritual.

Undoubtedly, one of the best uses of food as the main expressive and communicative vehicle for a human story, without being excessively condescending or unnecessarily artificial. Between this and "Perfect Days," I am rediscovering a considerable cathartic potential in the depiction of manual labor in film. It might lack the emotional waves of a melodrama, but it makes you lose track of time in the same way as when you spend hours on YouTube watching people build bamboo houses.