by Cara Dee
“Is the sound on?” I asked the sound guy.
“Not until Mr. King has started the class,” he replied.
Good to know.
On my way over to my workstation, I got to meet the other participants. A cheerful woman introduced herself as Bethany and asked if I was also hoping that we were going to make August King’s famous hot chicken.
I…I was just hoping I wouldn’t make a complete idiot of myself, to be honest.
Another woman introduced herself as Clarke, and she was visibly nervous. I estimated she was the youngest in the bunch of four women and two men. Most appeared to be my age, but Clarke didn’t look a day over twenty-five.
Four of us were out-of-towners, I learned. Mitch, the only other guy, had come all the way from Fairbanks, Alaska. He was also very happy to reassure Clarke that everything would be fine.
I scratched my eyebrow and looked around us, not really interested in making new friends. I was hungry and wanted to eat. I hoped we’d get to eat what we cooked today. Unless I set my meal on fire somehow.
Was August gonna stay hidden until we started?
Bethany had walked over to her own station and was currently trying to look at all the ingredients in the wooden crate without actually touching anything. We hadn’t been told we couldn’t go through it, though.
I folded my arms over my chest and peered down into my own crate. The first thing I saw was a clear container that someone had used a Sharpie to write “Lard” on. Welcome to the fucking South. They didn’t mess around.
Very few vegetables. Some crisp-looking lettuce, two pickles in their own plastic container, a big yellow onion, and garlic. The crate was heavy on carbs and fat, and nobody would find me complaining. A bottle of oil, butter, pasta, cheese… Some other shit too. A lot of spices.
By now, Bethany was certain we were going to make hot chicken.
I was certain I was gonna die if I didn’t get to eat soon.
If I was really quick, I could run over to the Midwest Way and try cheese curds from Wisconsin.
At this point, I’d even buy a shitty Chicago hot dog, and everyone knew those bastards were fucking crazy with their toppings.
Tomatoes on a hot dog…
“Are you thinkin’ about me?” August’s low voice tickled my ear and caused me to flinch sideways. Thank Christ, the other participants had scattered to their stations.
August smirked lazily, and I chuckled and willed my heart to calm the fuck down.
Then I had to give him a once-over because someone had changed clothes. He wore a white chef’s jacket and black pants now, an upgrade because it beat the Yankees hoodie he’d worn earlier.
“Lookin’ good, Chef.” I stuck my hands down into my pockets and smiled. “Bethany wants to know if we’re making hot chicken.”
“She asked me twice at the barbecue,” he laughed. “In a few minutes, she’ll find out that, yeah, we are.” He nodded toward the tent he must’ve come from. “My staff is makin’ final prep on the chicken right now, because Bethany ain’t goin’ home with the recipe for the brine or the seasoning.”
Man, I was a shitty fan. I had no expectations whatsoever, partly because I barely knew anything that went beyond what August posted on social media. And it wasn’t even August who did it, was it? It was Clara. This ballsy chick who knew about us.
“I haven’t even been to your restaurant,” I admitted. “I’ll have to rectify that while I’m in town—unless it’s one of those joints you gotta make reservations a year in advance.”
He shook his head in amusement. “A week might be tight, but if you know the owner, he might ask to take you to dinner there. I hear he can make things happen.”
I failed miserably to hide my grin, even as I rubbed a hand over my mouth and tried to come off as if I hadn’t already been fucked and thoroughly seduced by this man.
“I hope he asks,” I settled for saying.
This was ridiculous. We just stood there and smiled at each other, and it probably wasn’t helping us remain discreet.
It was the moment Clara chose to rush by us on her way to wherever. “You two are not being subtle. For fuck’s sake! August, you need to get cracking.” Then she was gone again.
I cleared my throat and took a step back, and August shook himself out of the moment too, a bit of sheepishness tugging at his lips.
“By the way, how does she know that I was at the ranch last night?” I asked, keeping my voice down.
“Oh. Did she say—never mind.” He frowned for a beat before letting out a resigned chuckle. “Most likely Camden. They’re close. She’s the only one who knows about our lifestyle, and he talks to her a lot.”
Got it.
“Do you mind?” he asked. “Camden and I are new at this. Hell, we haven’t had the time to discuss what’s already happened—aside from… Actually, that’s part of a much longer discussion. But let me know if you want me to tell Camden to keep everything under the radar, even to Clara.”
“I don’t mind at all.” I felt like I couldn’t get the words out of me quickly enough. “It’s your marriage. I just assumed it would be private.”
He furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to say something, only to shut it promptly and look over at the podium where Clara was waiting.
“We’ll talk later,” I said.
He nodded once and hesitated for a beat, then walked away to join Clara.
Don’t curse. Don’t fucking curse.
Much to Bethany’s disappointment, the chicken we’d be using arrived at our workstations already brined and marinated. Apparently it was something they’d done at August’s restaurant thirty-six hours in advance.
August wasn’t a social speaker, that much was clear, but he had Clara with him. She prodded him along and asked some questions, and then he was happy to take things from there. So he spoke about the brining period to us as well as the hundred or so people watching us, and I spotted a whole lot of attendees taking notes.
In the meantime, August interjected with instructions for us who were cooking, and I was currently doing my damnedest not to fuck up the hot sauce we were making from scratch.
Don’t curse.
It seemed like an awful lot of cayenne.
Good thing I liked spicy food.
“It’s a bit crowded here, Chef,” Bethany said. “Can I put the lettuce somewhere?”
August faced the audience. “If you’ve been to MAT in Nashville, maybe you’ve seen the sign that hangs above the hostess desk. I have the original at home, which used to belong to my nana. It says, ‘You Don’t Have to Eat the Vegetables.’” He got some laughs for that, and I smirked to myself. August turned to Bethany next. “Leave the crate on the floor. The lettuce is just gonna be a decoration.”
With that out of the way, it looked like August was about to make another round to see what we were up to, so I hurriedly swiped the trash into the bin on the floor before I placed the onion I’d sliced on a small plate. He’d said he liked a tidy kitchen. Tidy kitchen, tidy mind. Then I moved on to the latest instructions we’d been given: boil pasta and shred the block of cheese.
I wiped some sweat off my forehead and adjusted my ball cap, and I glanced around me to see how the others were managing. I hadn’t been told how much water to use for the pot. I didn’t know how much one cup of macaroni required.
Fuck it. I poured maybe four or five cups of water into a pot and set it on the stove. Then I threw in the pasta and turned up the heat.
August reached my station and cleared his throat. “Anthony Fender here is new at cooking, y’all.” Damn the fucking microphones too! “He happens to be an extraordinary musician and teacher, and maybe that’s kept him too busy to know that you don’t add the pasta until the water is boiling.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. The bastard was trying to withhold his mirth.
“This musician and teacher prefers clear-cut instructions,” I responded.
“Well, then!” August clapped his hands tog
ether and went back to the podium. Why did I get the feeling he was about to fuck with me? “As y’all’re finishin’ up with the cheese and the pasta’s on the stove, it’s time to prepare the bread. Mr. Fender, the bread is those two thickly cut slices in the plastic bag. And my plan was to just say, I want you to mince two cloves of garlic, but in the interest of makin’ myself perfectly clear, I’ll change that to fifteen grams of minced garlic. That better?”
Oh, they fucking loved him now. Everyone was laughing it up.
“Much,” I replied with a smile. “Be a good chef and keep that up.”
More laughter. In fact, much, much more laughter.
August coughed, hopefully to hide a laugh, but his gaze made it clear that I was gonna fuckin’ get it later.
This was fun.
It stopped being fun when we got closer to the end of the class and everything had to be done at the same time. The sun blasted me with heat, there wasn’t a goddamn breeze to be found, the air smelled of food, my stomach was growling, and there were too many things to keep track of at once. The battered onion rings had to be fried, the bread had been dipped in a dry rub and was next to be thrown into a skillet, but the skillet was currently hotter than hell and full of oil and chicken.
After chugging from the water bottle Clara had handed out, I dumped the shredded cheese into the pot with the mac, then made sure the garlic butter was ready.
My brain was spinning from all the ingredients. From lard, buttermilk, and brown sugar to habanero, beer, and something called matzo meal. I was fairly certain I’d used one teaspoon too much of black pepper too.
“Motherf—” Don’t fucking curse! I quickly withdrew my hand as a drop of sizzling oil hit my knuckles.
Okay, what was next? I flipped the two pieces of chicken for an additional eight minutes, and I set the timer on my phone again. Then I stirred the mac and cheese and grimaced to myself. The mac was overcooked, wasn’t it? It felt overcooked.
I had to fry the onion rings now too. And melt the garlic butter. Cazzo.
About five minutes later, August had finished a story about his one and only fusion restaurant, which I’d barely heard a word of, and he trailed down the aisle to check in with us. Fucking Bethany declared herself finished.
I dug something called a basting brush from underneath a dish towel and began brushing the hot sauce over the deep-fried chicken that was resting next to the stove. Onion rings needed to get the fuck out of the oil stat.
“It looks like things are comin’ along well here,” August noted.
“Looks can be deceiving,” I muttered and started fishing out the onion rings.
The audience chuckled with August. Then he addressed everyone. “Remember to clean out the skillet properly before you pan fry the bread,” he instructed. “That’s how you get a crisp, slightly blackened surface on the bread while it stays soft inside. Butter or oil in the skillet makes the bread stick to the iron easier, and we don’t want that. We don’t want the butter to make the bread soggy either.”
Slightly blackened.
I’d do my best not to turn it into charcoal.
While the onion rings joined the chicken to rest and cool off a little, I cleaned out the skillet over the sink. We’d been given empty cardboard cartons to dispose of the oil because God forbid I poured it down the drain.
“Three minutes to go!” Clara hollered.
Fuck my life.
After wiping down the skillet, I threw it back on the stove and tossed in the bread on medium heat. Then I filled the half-cup-sized bowl with mac and cheese and got the melted butter and pickles ready. Shit, the plate too. And the lettuce. Madonn’! I dug through the leftover ingredients in the crate on the floor and found the lettuce.
With thirty seconds left, I brushed garlic butter on the barely blackened bread and placed it on the plate. It was followed by two pieces of chicken, a side of onion rings that I stacked on the lettuce, the mac and cheese, and two pickles.
I didn’t know if it was edible, but I was willing to give it a go.
“Time!” Clara announced.
I took a step back, removed my ball cap, and ran a hand through my hair. Jesus, I’d actually done it. I put the cap back on and folded my arms over my chest, watching August get ready to taste test.
He better leave me some. I was starving and being bombarded by the smells from dozens of nearby food vendors.
Since this wasn’t an actual contest, there’d be no winner. But if my food came out edible or even decent, I’d return to New York like I’d won the Super Bowl.
Nicky wouldn’t hear the end of it.
Bethany glowed with happiness as August said that her hot chicken was perfectly hot and had the thin, crispy surface he loved.
I’d drained my water by the time it was my turn.
August and Clara stood in front of my workstation, and they inspected my plate and spoke to the audience. At least my food didn’t look bad. They even said it looked appealing.
“But does it taste okay?” Clara asked with a raised brow. For suspense, maybe, or to mess with me.
“Let’s try it.” August picked up the sandwich. Two slices of bread, garlic butter, hot chicken, and a pickle. I hadn’t been able to shove both pickles in there, so one was plated next to the onion rings. August bit into the sandwich, and I found myself staring at him and raking my teeth incessantly along the side of my lip. So…? What was the verdict? Could he chew any slower?
“Oh, for chrissakes,” I muttered, much to the amusement of everyone watching. I couldn’t even mutter under my breath without the mic picking up the sound.
August didn’t say a word. He handed over the sandwich to Clara and produced a spoon to try the mac and cheese.
Clara didn’t say anything either.
I narrowed my eyes at them and struggled to stand still.
“Oh.” August smirked and turned one of the onion rings upside down.
I cleared my throat and then chuckled. There was no use in hiding anything. It was possible one side of each onion ring was burned.
“Well, all right.” He was drawing this out. “Let me—” He grabbed the sandwich from Clara before she could return it to the plate, and he took one more bite. “Okay,” he said around the food, “the mac and cheese and the onion rings were fairly close to awful.” Ouch, motherfucker. “The bread could’ve been in the skillet a bit longer too, but this—this is damn good chicken. Really good chicken. Very hot. Thin, crispy batter, nice flavors, perfectly cooked meat. Fantastic.”
Was he… Was he playin’?
Did he feel like he could be brutally honest about the sides because he liked the main event?
“Good job, Anthony,” he said and placed the rest of the sandwich back on the plate.
The praise had dumbfounded me, and I had no time to come up with a quick response before August and Clara moved on to the next participant.
I’d cooked something that was worth eating. Mamma mia, I was gonna work this into every conversation about food for as long as I lived. I was officially the king of hot chicken in Brooklyn. Not giving a shit if we were gonna eat this or not, I picked up my sandwich and took a big bite.
Yeah, the bread hadn’t gotten enough time on the skillet, but damn, I was good. I was a god. A slow heat spread in my mouth and throat, gaining strength each time I chewed and swallowed, until my mouth was almost on fire. I coughed a little but kept eating. The sweetness of the pickle soothed the sting.
While August finished up with the last participants, Bethany snuck over to my station and asked if I’d followed the recipe.
“I think I used too much black pepper and cayenne,” I admitted.
She nodded firmly and returned to her own spot, only to jot something down in a small notebook.
I grinned to myself and finished my sandwich.
When all was said and done, another woman and I had received the highest praise on the hot chicken. She’d also gotten a good review on the rest of the food, but bottom li
ne, aside from my shitty sides, I’d fucking nailed this.
As long as nobody ever asked me to repeat everything and expect the same results, I was good.
August thanked the participants and the audience for showing up, after which Clara announced that he was gonna take a quick break and then come back to sign books. And in a second, a bunch of people from the audience started forming a line at the entrance to the deck and fishing out their cookbooks from their bags.
“Anthony, you can come with me,” August said in passing. “I have some pointers for you so you can make a better mac and cheese.”
Fuck yeah.
I followed him across the deck toward the tent in the back, assuming pointers for mac and cheese was subtle talk for something much better. If he did give me pointers, I’d consider kicking his ass.
The tent was the size of my first apartment, with the exception that this festival tent didn’t have a toilet—or a shower hose attached to the sink, for that matter.
As soon as we were alone, he knocked my ball cap off with a flick of his fingers, pulled me close, and kissed me hard.
I smiled and locked my arms around his neck.
He felt so damn good against me. He kissed me passionately, managing to seduce me in seconds, and it was fucking with my ability to function. Our chemistry was already gonna make it difficult to leave in a week. Regardless of how close we got physically, I wanted to get closer.
“What’re your plans now?” He slowed down the kiss and nipped at my bottom lip.
“Food. I’m here to eat.” I cupped his face in my hands and stole a deep, hungry kiss. “I wanna know what my boundaries are with Camden and bringing him here.”
“Here to the festival?” he asked. I nodded. “No boundaries at all. He’s the one who’s too cautious about being seen in public when he’s a Little. He thinks I have fans waitin’ around every corner. I don’t.” He kissed me again and teased his tongue along mine. “For the record, Anthony, he and I are not married.”
