She stepped forward, in front of the table, and addressed a different camera. “Our chef-judges, Simon Rideaux, Cary Catlin, and James Melville, have eaten at each establishment. They’ve had the experience and they’ve tasted the chicken, and then they’ve gone back to each restaurant with exactly that question in mind. Fried chicken, they say, sounds simple. But execution is everything. And only one of the restaurants can win our hundred-thousand-dollar prize.”
Amanda felt Mae squeeze her hand. In the doorway, behind Sabrina and the cameras, Kenneth and Jay stood ready to carry in the sign she had painted last night. The sight of it made her feel better. It was a good sign, and this was a good thing. And Sabrina couldn’t ruin it.
Finished with her opening speech, Sabrina turned. This was what they’d been unable to plan for. Would she start with Mae, who would then throw it to Amanda, or come straight to Amanda? Would she ask them to talk before the judges, or after? It varied, on previous episodes; plus it would be clear to Sabrina that something out of the ordinary was going on, so who knew what she’d try.
In the moment when Sabrina began to walk back toward Mae and Amanda, Amanda saw a challenge in her eyes and knew that Sabrina was coming straight to her, to the weak spot. There was no wink in her eyes, either, as she took up that weird stance that meant she was talking to you and to the camera at the same time.
“Amanda, you grew up with Mae at Mimi’s. And then you married Nancy’s son, Frank, and started work at Frannie’s, where you’ve been ever since. Of everyone here, you know most about what goes on behind the scenes at both restaurants. What are you thinking now, when we’re about to declare one the winner?”
Amanda squeezed Mae’s hand back, and then, resolutely, let go. “I’m thinking we all win, Sabrina,” she said, to the camera, not Sabrina, as Mae had coached her. This actually made it easier. “When we found out our recipes were the same, we found out something else. The feud between the sisters that we’ve built our own feud on never existed. Mimi wanted Frannie’s to succeed. Frannie wanted the best for Mimi’s. There was room for two chicken shacks in this one little town.” She had to take a breath, and Sabrina jumped in.
“But there’s no room for two winners of Food Wars,” she said. “One of you is going to take home a hundred thousand dollars, and the other gets Miss Congeniality. We’ve seen a lot of strife between you two sisters over the course of the last week. You look like you’ve settled things now—but are we going to see something different once the winner is revealed?”
She left her microphone hovering between them, giving Mae a chance to jump in, but Mae, as they’d agreed, didn’t take it. Amanda had two points to go.
“When we say we both win, we really mean it. Times have changed since it made sense for Frannie and Mimi to each run their own place. So one of us will win, yeah, but we’re going to move forward together.” She glanced at Mae, who nodded. She was ready. “There’s room for two chicken restaurants, and Mimi’s and Frannie’s aren’t going anywhere, but there’s only room for one business.”
Kenneth and Jay walked in, right in front of the cameras, and set down the sign for Frankie, Gus, and Nancy to hold up, with Barbara nearby, as smoothly as though they had practiced it a dozen times. It was perfect, and although Amanda was meant to keep going, she suddenly couldn’t speak. Mae must have guessed, because she sailed in to make the third point, speaking as though they had planned it exactly this way.
“Whether Mimi’s or Frannie’s wins today, we want to introduce everyone to the Chicken Sisters, our new joint venture. From now on, whether you eat at Frannie’s or Mimi’s, you’ll know you’re getting Food Wars–winning fried chicken and service as we take what we’ve learned from working with Sabrina and Chefs Cary, James, and Simon and apply it on both sides of town.” Mae smiled out over the sign, which held Amanda’s drawing of two chickens, wings around each other in perfect harmony.
Sabrina’s eyes narrowed, but she beamed as though all Food Wars had ever wanted was to become Food Peace. “Still, there’s a verdict coming, and a winner to declare before you all skip off into the sunset.” She turned. “Judges, are you ready?”
From the chefs’ table, Simon Rideaux stood and clapped his hands, drawing everyone’s attention, as he no doubt meant to. “We’re ready, Sabrina,” he announced, and pointed to his fellow judges. This would be the infamous vote.
Sabrina struck a pose and pointed. “Cary Catlin, let’s start with you. Who’s the winner of this Food War?”
“Mimi’s,” said Cary Catlin, and Amanda froze. It didn’t matter. Of course it didn’t matter. She cast a glance over at Nancy and saw that she, at least, was managing to look as though it really didn’t matter, although Barbara was beaming and Frankie looked so much like she would cry that it was all Amanda could do not to rush over to her.
Sabrina pointed again. “James Melville, your vote?”
“Frannie’s.”
The room seemed to hold its breath. Rideaux would decide it, then. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, she told herself—but her racing heart and pounding head were telling her that it did.
Rideaux smiled straight into the camera and raised his eyebrows—then turned to Amanda. “You,” he said. “Does this mean chicken will be your life, then?”
Shocked, Amanda let her mouth drop open, then shut it with a quick breath. What? He was supposed to say who won, and instead—he was waiting, a challenge in his eyes.
Amanda met them and was surprised to feel support, not ridicule, there. But Sabrina, who followed up, had mockery in her tone. “Yes, Amanda, does this mean you’ve decided to stick to chicken after all?”
No, you witch, it does not. Amanda spoke to Rideaux, ignoring Sabrina. “No,” she said. “I’m going back to school.” She pointed to the sign, which still filled her with pride. “That’s my contribution for now. Mae, Nancy, my mom, and Andy are going to run the show.” With Jay as executive producer, but they had decided no one needed to know that. Why complicate things? “There will be plenty of time to sort out what happens after that.” After she graduated. After she finished what she started. After she made some choices of her own.
“Excellent,” he said. “Well, we’ve discussed it among ourselves.” He glanced at his fellow judges, and they nodded. “We’d like to do something new and offer your new venture—the Chicken Sisters—our ideas for taking the best of both Frannie’s and Mimi’s.”
Amanda didn’t think he was done, but Sabrina managed to cut him off, holding up her hands as though besieged on all sides. “Hold on, hold on,” she said. “This clearly means great things to come, but first, we need to declare our actual victor. Will it be Frannie’s? Or will it be Mimi’s? Will the sister returning from Brooklyn and bringing New York flair to her small-town roots triumph, or will it have paid to stay home and build a business and a life here in Merinac from the very beginning? Simon, your vote?”
He grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “The winner is”—big pause—“everybody. Just as Amanda said.”
Sabrina stared at him, then quickly gathered her face together and turned to the camera. “More when we come back.” She beamed, holding her pose for one short interval, then dropped both the hand holding the microphone and her delighted expression.
“What the fuck is this?” She turned on Amanda and Mae, then on Simon Rideaux. “This is not how we end Food Wars, and this is not what you signed up for. What was all that yesterday, if you’re all lovey-dovey today? What the hell kind of Food Wars ends up in a truce? Simon, you do not abstain. You vote, and somebody wins. That’s the deal.”
Rideaux stepped up and put an arm around Sabrina’s shoulders, and suddenly Amanda knew something she had not known before. She raised her eyebrows at Mae, who nodded confirmation. They were together, Sabrina and Simon. That didn’t really explain anything, but it was somehow satisfying. No one deserved each other more.
“Now,
love,” he said, and Sabrina kicked him in the shin.
“Don’t ‘now, love’ me,” she said. “We can start this over, and we can do it right, because you all agreed to provide conflict, and conflict is Food Wars’ bread and butter. I don’t care what stupid shit you do on your own time. You can nail your two crappy chicken shacks together, for all I care. But this is not what the network wants, and it’s not what we’re giving them.”
Jay stepped forward, smiling as though he wanted nothing more than to meet a famous television personality having a tantrum worthy of a three-year-old. “Sabrina, so nice to meet you.” He extended his hand, and Sabrina took it as if she didn’t know why she was doing it. “I’m Jay Mallick, Mae’s husband. I thought you might be a little distraught that things aren’t working out as you’d planned, so I went ahead and took a look at the contracts the participants signed with the network before filming. You, of course, have the right to frame the footage you record into any narrative you wish. But there’s no requirement that anyone here will do anything specific in the way of continuing a conflict or not.”
Sabrina turned, furious, to her head cameraman. “Is this true? Do we need to double-check this?”
“It’s true, love,” purred Simon, although he took a step away from Sabrina’s stilettos as he spoke.
“Confirmed,” agreed Gordo, remaining safely behind the camera. “They do what they do, we get to film it, you get to cut it however you want. That’s the deal.”
“That’s the deal,” said Sabrina, sticking out her perfect bottom lip and tapping her shoe thoughtfully. “From their contracts. Which I had nothing to do with. And Simon? Doesn’t he have to vote? I thought he had to vote.”
“I’ll worry about me, love,” Simon said.
“Well, then.” Sabrina shook her head a little, curls bouncing, and turned back to Mae and Amanda, this time with that same old friendly smile, so perfectly brought off that Amanda nearly stepped backward in shock. “You took me by surprise, but that’s fine. We’ll make this work. No, we’ll make it great. Why don’t you all come up here together, in front of the chefs’ table.” She stepped back and had a look, then began arranging them as though into a family portrait, tucking Jay unobtrusively behind Mae and moving Andy between Mae and Amanda with a wink, moving Nancy over to Mae’s other side and bringing Barbara to stand next to Amanda, then flanking them all with Gus and Frankie.
“Wait,” she said, and turned to one of the many minions just offstage. “There were other kids, right? Get the other kids.” Amanda saw Mae glance quickly at Jay, and he shrugged as Jessa handed Ryder to him as Madison, released from behind the cameras, ran to her mother. Sabrina surveyed the girl critically, and Mae smoothed the hair that was so like hers and placed her daughter on her hip.
“Perfect,” said Sabrina. “If you’re going to do it this way, we’re going to make it look good. Just one minute.” She stepped away, took her bag off a table, and began the now-familiar routine of freshening her lips and makeup. Mae took a lipstick from her own pocket with her free hand and did the same, then passed it to Amanda, who hesitated.
“It’s just a tinted balm,” Mae said. “You can’t do it wrong.”
Amanda smeared it over her own lips, capped it, and then—why not?—handed it to Barbara, who took it even more reluctantly than her younger daughter had.
“Go ahead, Mom,” Mae urged.
Frankie took the balm, smiling. “Hold still, Grandma,” she said. “It will just look nice. Brighten you up a little.”
Barbara submitted, then turned back to Amanda, looking over at Sabrina. “She’s not ready yet?”
“No,” Amanda said. “She takes a while.”
“Hmm. Not a natural beauty, then.” Barbara smiled, and Amanda, a little tentative, smiled back, and, as their eyes met, laughed.
“Nope.” Amanda laughed, too. She felt warmer toward Sabrina than she had in days; she might be an asshole, but she was clearly surrounded by them as well. Better her than Amanda.
“Her and Mae,” said Barbara, shaking her head. “All this complication. Not like you and me.”
You and me. Amanda nodded, conscious of the cameras, wanting to hug her mother but not quite sure they were ready. She put out her hand instead, and Barbara took it. But her mother was still looking at Amanda as though she wanted to say something. “What?” Amanda rubbed her finger over her front teeth. “Did I get that stuff on me?”
“No,” said Barbara. “No, not that. It’s just—I was wondering if you wanted a puppy.”
“Oh—” Now Amanda did hug her mother. Hard, and probably smearing lip balm, or whatever, all over her shoulder. “Yes. Yes, I do want a puppy.”
Sabrina swirled back into their midst, pointing them back into their places, then went to stand between Simon and Cary. “Let’s turn this into good television, people.”
Sabrina held her practiced pause, bringing on that manufactured smile, but it was Mae who jumped in one last time, stepping out in front before Sabrina could even draw in a breath. With the faintest, fastest possible glance back at Amanda, Mae shot a wholly genuine grin at the camera and spoke. “And, we’re back.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m not going to lie, I thought about not having any acknowledgments. The risk, no, the probability that I will leave someone out is overwhelming. How can you thank everyone who makes it possible to do work you love? Start with the carpool and go from there, I guess.
Thank you to everyone who drove any member of my family anywhere ever, especially during NaNoWriMo 2017, when I first drafted this book, or over the next year and a half, when I was madly revising it. And thanks to those who helped mightily in that revision process, in particular my agent, Caryn Karmatz Rudy, and Jennie Nash and the Author Accelerator team. Down the road, thank you to beta readers Sarina Bowen, Lisa Belkin, and Wendi Aarons.
Thank you to Margo Lipschultz, who is proof positive that editing is alive and well and who made this whole story—as well as writing it—much more fun, and to her entire team at G. P. Putnam’s Sons, whose enthusiasm for “the chicken book” brought me much joy. You’re just the right number of cooks in this kitchen.
Into the writing of any book some rain must fall, and in the summer of 2019 I was diagnosed with breast cancer. There is nothing about that sentence that is not a cliché, but none of it felt like a cliché at the time. Thank you to the doctors, nurses, and radiation therapists at the Norris Cotton Cancer Center at Dartmouth-Hitchcock for being relentlessly and rightly optimistic, even when it must have been obvious that I was not entirely receptive to your good cheer, and for, we all hope, so thoroughly removing all traces of cancer that I will never again fall into your clutches. Thank you to Dwight Sperry and Kimberley Moran for providing unexpected support when I answered the question “How are you?” too honestly; to Mimi and Jason Lichtenstein (and Trevor) for striking just the right balance between understanding and distraction; to Kendall Hoyt for many much-needed walks, and to Sheryl Stotland, Nancy Davis Kho, Mary Laura Philpott, and Liz McGuire for being Team KJ in the form of cards and gifts and snark. That’s my love language, crew.
Thank you, too, to our Spanish family, Eva, Miguel, Ici, and Paula, for becoming such a joyful part of our life during that strange season; to Holly and to Judi, Nick, Natalie, Kira, and Tia for putting family and friends above everything else; and to Kristyn, Greg, Lyn, and Brittney for doing a whole lot of farmwork so that I wouldn’t have to.
Thank you, Mom and Dad, for never, ever not encouraging me in following this inexplicable career path, for supporting me at every turn and reading every word, although when it comes to that terrible novel draft from 2011, I really wish you wouldn’t. And thank you, Mom, for resisting the urge to tell me the real story behind Chicken Annie’s and Chicken Mary’s. I guess it’s okay now.
Thank you to Jess and Sarah. I probably could do it without you two, but I wouldn’t really
want to.
And thank you to the best possible husband and partner for me, Rob. I’m still sorry about your baseball glove. Finally, thank you to Sam, Lily, Rory, and Wyatt for apparently just accepting that some days, the people in my laptop would be as real to me as the ones outside it. I hope you all know there is no one more real, or more important, than you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KJ Dell'Antonia is the former editor of Motherlode and current contributor to The New York Times, as well as the author of How to Be a Happier Parent. She lives with her family on a small farm in Lyme, New Hampshire, but retains an abiding love for her childhood in Texas and Kansas.
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