Spicy Pickle (Fake Engagement)

by J J Knight

  “Magnolia, tell us how you’re going to beat the hottest pickle in America.”

  The double entendres are off and running. Milton is not awkward like Anthony. He’s doing it on purpose.

  I’d like to smash a ghost pepper in his face. But instead, I open my eyes wide as if I haven’t the faintest notion that beating a pickle might mean anything other than winning this contest. My family’s deli is on the line, so I have bigger pickles to beat.

  “Well, Milton, I have a secret weapon right here.” I pat the lump in my apron pocket. “But I think we should let Anthony demonstrate how to make his modest pickle before I improve it.”

  Anthony isn’t laughing. “Magnolia, there isn’t anything hotter than the ghost pepper. It’s at the top of the Scoville scale.”

  I anticipated this answer. “There’s Carolina Reapers, remember.”

  “We’re making food, not pepper spray. Is that what’s in your pocket?” He looks genuinely flummoxed.

  Milton can’t resist that one. “Or is she happy to see you?”

  Whew, boy. I should have known this would happen. Milton has a reputation. But I’m here, and I have to see this through.

  I bat my eyelashes exactly the way my sister taught me in our lessons before I came on the air. I’m not the least bit ditzy, flirty, or doe-eyed normally. I stick pencils in my hair to hold it out of my way when I’m working, and my coke-bottle glasses have a coating to protect me from blue light and eye strain while I run figures.

  But today I have a blowout, contacts, and look like a Swedish pretzel girl. It’s for a good cause. Our deli means everything to my family, and I’m going to fight fire with fire.

  I tilt my head. “You’ll have to wait to find out what I’ve got in my pocket.”

  Milton is eating this up. “Getting cold feet, Anthony?” He nudges the taller man’s ribs. “Afraid this porcelain princess will do it better?”

  Porcelain princess? This is too much. I contemplate stomping his Italian leather shoe. But I simply paste on the fake smile I’ve practiced all week.

  Anthony shakes his head. “Not at all. I’m dying to find out.”

  He picks up one of the bright red peppers. “The ghost pepper has a rating of one million on the Scoville scale, which rates the heat level of food,” he says. “And while it is dangerously potent…” He meets my eye. “…it’s also a beautiful flavor on your tongue.”

  My neck blossoms with heat. Maybe he’s not as awkward as I thought. I feel off balance, like I’m not sure of anything anymore.

  Milton fans himself with a potholder. “Is it getting warm in here?”

  “It’s about to,” Anthony says. He picks up a wicked knife and tosses it into the air. It spins above our heads, the light winking on the blade. He catches it easily on the handle, and even I have to gasp.

  “It’s fun to eat dangerously,” he says.

  Anthony wields the knife like a master swordsman in a duel. Whack, whack, swish, swish, chop. The pepper falls into neat, even pieces, its sharp aroma bringing tears to my eyes.

  Okay, pause.

  I have a confession to make.

  I’ve never eaten anything with ghost pepper. I’m a spice wimp. Just the thought of it makes my eyes water.

  No matter what happens on the show, I have to avoid tasting Anthony’s pickle or mine. Smoke will come out of my ears.

  I’m not here to embarrass the Boudreaux name. No one can know about my weakness.

  So, shhhh.

  Milton tugs a checked handkerchief from his breast pocket and waves it over the peppers as if to ward off the burn. “I can’t believe people eat this!”

  Anthony slides the knife along his palm, leaving behind a bright line of red. I inhale sharply, thinking he’s cut himself. The rest of the crew must think so, too, because there’s a collective gasp.

  “Just the pepper,” he assures us, tapping the blade until four perfectly square bits of red are revealed, starkly bright against his skin.

  He can manage a blade, that’s for sure.

  He lifts his hand close to my nose. “Always make sure you don’t have any knicks or cuts, or you are in for the burn of your life.”

  I can only nod. He blows lightly over the pepper, and the fire in the aroma burns my nostrils. When I lift my hand to block the vapors, he grins and rinses his hand. “Always be aware when you’ve touched the pepper juice. Whatever you touch next will get a good dose. Don’t let it be your eye.” He gives me a grin that makes my belly flip. “Or anything else sensitive.”

  Okay, never mind. He’s not the least bit awkward.

  Everything in my body is already stirring.

  Between his knife work and his cleverness, he’s got everyone mesmerized. A tendril of doubt unfurls in my gut. Can I get the better of this man?

  “Show us how it all comes together,” Milton says. He’s switched allegiances, I can tell. I must wrestle this show back to my favor.

  “There’s more to a pickle than pain,” I interject, crossing my arms over my apron front.

  “But the pain is what people want,” Anthony says easily, rapidly mincing a few more bits of pepper and sliding them into a clear glass jar. He moves on to a clove of garlic. “An ordinary pickle wouldn’t inspire people to challenge friends and foes to upload videos.”

  I’m losing here. I have to do something.

  “What if it was both painful and delicious?” It’s too soon, but I have to play my hand.

  His knife goes still. “You can do that?”

  I stand straighter. “I can.”

  “There you have it!” Milton cries. “The gauntlet has been thrown. Will Magnolia’s adjustment to the famed Pickle family recipe make it better?”

  Anthony quickly adds the rest of his spices to the jar and fills it with vinegar and oil. He tugs a girthy cucumber from a basket and slips it inside the glass. “And now it’s ready to cure.” He screws on the lid.

  “How long should it remain there?” Milton asks.

  “Seven days,” Anthony says.

  Milton lifts the jar and examines the cucumber. “So, Magnolia, should your addition to the recipe also sit for a week?”

  “No, Milton,” I say. “Simply add it to the mix and wait about two hours.”

  “Did you already do this?” Milton asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “I stole one of the jars of Anthony’s pickles from your very own fridge.”

  Milton’s hands smack on the counter as if he’s shocked, but it’s only theatrics. This was always the plan. “You tampered with the set?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, show us your secret weapon!”

  I slip the jar from my pocket. The clear glass reveals the pale green sauce inside. I pass it to Milton.

  He opens the lid and sniffs. “Does it make it spicier?”

  “It amplifies the flavor by opening your taste buds,” I tell him.

  Anthony snatches the jar. He passes it beneath his nose. “Tomatillo?”

  I nod. “Betcha didn’t even think of that.”

  “I didn’t. It’s brilliant.” His eyes meet mine. “It will do everything you say.”

  My breath halts. He’s looking at me like I’m a genius, the one true thing he’s always looked for.

  “It will?” I shouldn’t ask the question. On this show, I’m the chef, the one who will win the pickle war.

  Not an accountant who picks peppers off pizza.

  But Milton frowns. “We won’t know until we taste it! Who will win this family rivalry? The longstanding Boudreaux family whose title as the favored deli of Boulder has gone unrivaled for sixty years? Or this upstart with his tawdry pickle, all bite and no flavor?”

  Crap. Milton’s right. This is war.

  I shake myself to ward off the spell Anthony’s somehow put on me.

  “Prepare to go down,” I say.

  Anthony’s eyes hold mine as he gets in the zinger.

  “With relish.”

  3

  Anthony />
  I’m way out of my comfort zone with Magnolia.

  The first double entendre was an accident. Put my pickle against what she’s got.

  The second was all the show’s host. Beat his pickle.

  But I’d thrown propane on the grill with going down with relish.

  And it was all recorded for posterity.

  Hello, meme-ville. I’m your latest resident.

  I’ll have to go into hiding when this segment airs. My brothers are going to have a field day.

  Magnolia turns to the refrigerator and pulls out two jars.

  Ah. This is why I was told to bring a spare. So she could doctor one.

  I’ve been played.

  The tomatillo sauce has clearly been added. Instead of the pinkish brine of my ghost pepper jar, hers is grayish green. It looks pretty gross, the shriveled cucumber sunk into the cloudy oil and vinegar.

  In fact, Milton looks like he’s about to say something nasty about it. I get in a word first. “So, two hours in the tomatillo will do it?”

  I hold up her sauce jar next to the cucumber jar so it’s clear that the green sauce is what caused the odd color. Otherwise, it looks like snot, bits of loose tomatillo floating around the pickle.

  “I’m sure we could play with the timing for optimum flavor,” she says. “But two is enough.”

  She’s wrong, I think, because the spices take time to penetrate the cucumber and should all be placed together at the same time. But I don’t think she’s here about the purity of the recipe.

  It’s revenge.

  She’s on this show to make me suffer for entering the deli market.

  This is my fault. I should have reached out and asked for a Tasty Pepper item to expand the TikTok challenge. But the truth is, I had no control over what happened. I was so blindsided by the whole thing that I barely kept up with demand. Ghost peppers aren’t common, and I depleted my suppliers. I could barely keep my head above water as this played out.

  Involving other delis never even occurred to me.

  Milton takes both jars. “Should we give them a whirl?”

  There’s no telling whose allegiance he’ll land on. If it was so important to Magnolia to be here that she challenged me, then something’s forcing her hand at her deli.

  But it’s not my show, and it’s not even about me. It never was. Magnolia is about to reap the reward or the doom of what she’s done.

  “You definitely want to try hers before mine,” I say. “It can take your taste buds a while to recover from a ghost pepper if you’re not used to that level of burn.”

  “So, ladies first?” Milton winks.

  “She’s the chef to beat,” I say.

  This doesn’t placate Magnolia. In fact, I sense a tremble in her hand, fisted by her side. She’s nervous. She shouldn’t be. The tomatillo is a brilliant choice. I wish I’d thought of it.

  I steal a look at her face, and I see it. Beneath that upturned chin, that defiant stance, is pure fear. Why? Is there that much riding on her pickle beating mine?

  An urge to protect her rushes through me. Who is putting pressure on her? Her father? The family? Are they in money trouble like my brother Jason was for a while with his deli? Restaurant margins can be thin.

  Milton opens both jars and reaches for a fork to stab one of the pickles.

  “I’ll do the honors,” I say quickly. I remove both pickles and place them on the cutting board, careful to keep plenty of tomatillo juice on Magnolia’s. It hasn’t had time to cure, so keeping the sauce on the slice will help her case.

  I make a big show of sliding knives across each other and spinning the blades. Then I chop both pickles so quickly that only a slow-motion replay would reveal how they fell apart.

  I can totally nerd out with knives.

  “Now that’s a show,” Milton says, and I realize I’ve pulled him back to Team Anthony. That’s not what I’m after.

  I step back to allow Magnolia access to the cutting board. “Would you like to do the plating?”

  She gazes up at me with those blue eyes that could bring a man to his knees. “You’re the showman.”

  “And you’re the chef.” I pick up one of the clear plates and slide a pickle slice on it. I take care to keep it well coated with tomatillo.

  I pass the plate to Milton, and he holds it up to the camera. One of the operators pulls in close. “Magnolia’s tomatillo-enhanced ghost pepper pickle!” he says.

  I place my own slice on a second plate.

  “And Anthony’s original viral spicy pickle!” Now both plates are aloft.

  “Magnolia’s first,” I remind him.

  Milton sets both plates on the counter in front of him. “You sure are pushy about that.” He sends his gaze to the camera, as if he’s talking to the viewers. “I think Anthony has something up his sleeve. Perhaps it’s to his advantage if I do his last.”

  He stabs my pink-tinged pickle. “I say Anthony’s first.”

  Damn. I can’t stop him. I hope he’s used to fire, because if my ghost pepper burns his taste buds to dust, he won’t even taste the difference between Magnolia’s version and mine.

  “Here comes the burn!” Milton says, then pops my pickle in his mouth.

  His eyes go wide. “Oh no,” he says, removing the fork with the pickle still attached. “Cut! Cut! Cut!”

  He falls off his step and pushes me out of the way to make it to the sink, blasting the water and leaning under the faucet. I step back, close to Magnolia, as he turns his head sideways to run the water directly into his mouth.

  His heavy makeup begins to melt onto the stainless steel. I glance over at Magnolia. She’s grimacing and when our gazes clash, she shrugs.

  A woman in a crisp, tan suit hurries forward. “Milton? Are you all right?” It’s Shelby, his assistant. She showed me around earlier today.

  Milton leans against the counter, breathing hard. “Cameras off!” he rasps, then sticks his head back in the flow.

  “Cameras off!” Shelby calls. A flurry of activity ensues off stage. One by one, the red lights on the cameras wink out.

  Two more crew members rush onto the set. “Mr. Creed? What can we do for you?”

  I step forward. “Do you have some milk? Cheese? Something high fat?”

  The curly-haired prop woman says, “I think so, in the green room.”

  “That will calm it the fastest,” I tell her.

  She takes off running.

  Milton pulls back from the spray again, lapels soaked, hair dripping, his face streaked with makeup. He looks like a mannequin that’s been dunked in acid.

  Magnolia and I edge away until we reach the end of the counter. I don’t know what will happen to the segment. I thought Milton knew what he was getting into. We had just watched the videos of people running in a panic after biting one of my pickles. Maybe he thought they were pretending.

  I’m glad he tried mine first. I wouldn’t want Magnolia to take the blame for this.

  Shelby pulls a kitchen towel from the rack and places it around Milton’s neck. “We’ll get you some cheese. It will be all right.”

  “Should I turn this off?” Another crew member reaches for the gleaming faucet.

  Milton smacks his hand away and sticks his mouth in the flow a third time. Everyone watches as he gargles the water and spews it into the sink. Then he shuts it off and leans forward over the counter, his forehead resting on his hand.

  Shelby turns to me, her face contorted with anger. “What did you do to that pickle? Are you trying to embarrass the head of America’s Spiciest Chef?”

  “No. It’s—it’s the same as all the ones I make.” But then, I hesitate. What if Magnolia tampered with mine when she doctored the other jar? Did she set me up?

  Her eyes are wide and innocent when I turn to her. My anger flares, and I lunge for the cutting board. I snatch my knife with such a fury that several crew members jump back.

  I stab another slice of my ghost pepper pickle and lift it with the blad
e.

  Milton seems to know what I’m thinking and raises his head to watch. The curly-haired woman arrives with a plate of cheese.

  He snatches a piece and shoves it in his mouth, visible relief on his face as the burn eases. “Eat it,” he rasps at me. “I want to know.”

  I was born with a spicy pepper in my mouth, so unless something has gone terribly wrong, the pickle will be fine for me. Hot, sure. But fine.

  I slide the slice off the knife with my teeth, feeling the burn on my lips from the pepper juice.

  But when I bite down—good Lord. I cough, sending the pickle slice into the sink. My mouth burns like I’ve tried to extinguish a hot coal inside it.

  A murmur slides through the room.

  The prop woman moves the cheese closer to me. I take a piece and bite down, sliding it to the part of my mouth that hurts the most. Someone did this to my pickles. And there could only be one culprit.

  I turn to Magnolia. “What did you do?”

  Her face drains of color. “Nothing! I just added tomatillo! I was escorted by a crew member. She can vouch that I only changed one jar!”

  Shelby glances around. “Amber! Where are you?”

  A tall, slender figure emerges from the gloom into the light of the set. “Yes, Ms. Shelby?”

  “Did you leave Magnolia alone with the jars?”

  Magnolia lets out an indignant harrumph, but Shelby silences her with an upturned hand.

  Amber’s chin trembles. “No—no, of course not. We came on set. Opened the fridge. She took out one jar and added the green sauce. We didn’t move the other.”

  Shelby taps her cheek with a long, red-painted nail. “Did you escort her in and out?”

  Amber wrings her hands. “We were together the whole time. I never took my eyes off her.”

  Milton wipes his forehead with the towel. “You’re fired anyway. Get off the property. Where is the security guard who let this woman in?”

  Another man steps up to the corner. “He’s by the door.”

  “Bring him here.”

  Amber sniffles, and when Milton sees she hasn’t moved, he shouts. “Get off my set!”

  Amber jumps and hurries away from the kitchen.