Copyright © 2017 by Ryan K. Sager
Designed by Joann Hill
Cover art © 2017 by Erwin Madrid
Cover design by Joann Hill
Recipes courtesy of Jessie Ward
All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.
ISBN 978-1-368-00001-7
Visit www.DisneyBooks.com
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Little Chef, Big Money
What a Rush
Walking the Garbage
Valentine & the Night Owls
Details, Schmetails
The Boy Behind the Sleds
The California Line
Chinatown
The Golden Toque
Scallop Dumplings
Chinese Takeout
Indigestion
Location, Location, Location
La Cucina di Cannoli
The Spirit of San Francisco
Hog Vomit Junkyard
Trolley, Trolley, Trolley
The Pepper & the Bill
Little Chef, Big Money (Um…Again)
The Big Problem
Rainy Days Diner
I Say “Hot Dog,” You Say “What the…?”
The Calm Before the Awesome
Opening Night
Game or Fame
Gag Reflex
Heat
An Unexpected Offer
Bugged
Night Crawler
The Short List
Trouble, Part 1
Trouble, Part 2
A Loud Quiet
Salt in the Wounds
Yeah, About That
Investigating
The Cupcake
Peanut Butter Milk Shakes
Bad Timing
The Hurricane
After-Dinner Mints
Greetings, fellow chefs!
The World’s Greatest Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops
(The World’s-Not-Greatest-But-Still-Pretty-Darn-Tasty) Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops
S’meesecake
Cucumber Lime Delight
Many Thanks…
About the Author
For Kate,
I love you more than chocolate.
(Don’t tell chocolate.)
When’s lunch?
—Confucius
“HELP!” Zoey burst into the banker’s office like wildfire on a greasy hibachi grill. “STOP EVERYTHING! THIS IS AN EMERGENCY! HEEEEEELP!”
The banker sprang from her chair, her eyes wider than Krispy Kreme donuts. “What’s wrong? Are you in danger? Are you hurt?”
“Worse!” Zoey paused to catch her breath. “There are seven billion people in this world, and only three hundred and twenty-nine of them have tasted my delicious cooking!”
The banker glowered. “That’s not an emergency.”
“It feels like an emergency.”
“It’s not.”
“Well, it should be.” Zoey reached across the desk, grabbed the banker’s right hand, and gave it a hearty shake. “Pleased to meet you! I’m Zoey Kate, culinary prodigy, gourmet innovator, child chef extraordinaire. Let’s get started, shall we? I need fifty thousand dollars by Friday. Thursday, if possible. I prefer cash, but I’m willing to do direct deposit. Do I need to sign something, or does that handshake cover us?”
Zoey plopped onto a stiff leather chair in front of the desk. She straightened her fluffy pink chef hat (a toque, it’s called) and unbuttoned the collar of her pink chef jacket. She swung her legs over the armrest, smoothing her black skirt over her black-and-white-striped leggings. Balmy June sunlight shone through the office windows, making her purple Doc Martens boots sparkle like candy wrappers.
The banker (Miss Lemon was her name) retook her seat. Her eyes narrowed like strips of raw bacon on a hot griddle. “How old are you?”
Zoey smiled. Her teeth were straight and whiter than marshmallows. “In ten short months, I’ll be a sage thirteen.”
“Where are your parents?”
“At work.”
“Do they know you’re here?”
“Of course.”
“And they’re okay with you borrowing fifty thousand dollars?”
“Yeah.” Zoey rubbed the tip of her nose with the back of her index finger. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
“Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money for someone your age.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll pay it all back.” Zoey reached into her tangerine nylon purse, pulled out a crisp two-page document, and laid it on the desk. “Here’s my loan application. Fair warning, it may blow your mind.”
Wary but curious, Miss Lemon put on her mint-green reading glasses and perused the application. It consisted of ten questions, typed, with space below each question for the applicant’s written responses. Miss Lemon had reviewed thousands of loan applications, but she’d never seen one quite like this. Zoey’s responses were written in neon pink and lime-green ink, and all the i’s and j’s were dotted with tiny drawings of croissants and cinnamon rolls.
“It says here, Zoey, that you want this money to open—”
“The greatest restaurant in San Francisco! Well, not just San Francisco. I’ll also open greatest restaurants in LA, New York, London, Paris, Berlin, Sydney, Dubai, et cetera. I got a ten-year plan. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Please, one city at a time.”
“And what kind of food will you serve?”
Zoey made a hmmm-how-should-I-explain-this? face. (If you’ve ever asked your dad why he spends so much time in the garage whenever your mom’s parents are in town, you’ve seen it.) She tucked an errant strand of cheesecake-colored hair up into her toque. “I do a lot of…juxtaposition.”
“Go on.”
“I combine ingredients that at first glance shouldn’t go together. But they do go together, they just have to be handled right. That’s what I do. I handle them right, and they become delicious.” Zoey slid her legs off the armrest. “What’s the matter, did you run out of bergamot?”
The change of topic was so sudden it made Miss Lemon flinch. She glanced at the half-empty tea mug on her desk. “How did you…?”
Zoey sniffed. “Black tea leaves, African. Milk. Corn-flowers. Vanilla. Props for making it yourself. Attempting to, at least.” Zoey picked up the mug, peered inside, gave the contents a gentle swirl. “I don’t blame you for not drinking much. It ain’t Earl Grey without bergamot.”
Miss Lemon didn’t know how to respond to that, so she moved on. “I’m troubled by the answers on your application. For example, where it says, ‘What is your business plan?’ you wrote, ‘I’ll cook amazing food and people will pay me loads of money to let them eat it.’”
Zoey set down the mug. “That’s right.”
“Under ‘Professional Training,’ you wrote, ‘Don’t need it. I’m already awesome.’”
“Yep.”
“Under ‘Skills and Qualifications,’ you wrote, ‘Think Leonardo da Vinci, but with food.’”
“It was him or Mozart. I went back and forth.”
Miss Lemon’s mint-green plastic fingernails drummed on the desktop, in sync with the squeaks of a rusty ceiling fan. “Zoey, have you ever worked in a restaurant?”
“I cook
food in my house every day. People are crazy about it.”
“I mean a real restaurant, like Bistro Central Parc or Hawker Fare.”
The muscles in Zoey’s jaw tensed. “Not…like you mean…no.”
“That’s what I thought.” Miss Lemon pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Since you’ve never worked in a real restaurant, how could you possibly know how to run a real restaurant?”
Zoey shrugged. “How hard could it be?”
“There’s a lot of bookkeeping.”
“I’ll get a bookshelf.”
“It’s time-consuming.”
“I’ll get a day planner.”
“It’s stressful.”
“I’ll get massages.”
In a corner of the room, a watercooler burped.
Miss Lemon placed the application facedown on the desk. She leaned forward, clasping her hands and interlocking her fingers on the desktop. “What do you suppose my boss would say if I told him I lent fifty thousand dollars to a twelve-year-old with no real restaurant experience?”
“That you’re a captain of industry and a woman of sophistication and taste?”
“He’d fire me.”
Zoey gave a sly wink. “There’s a job for you in my restaurant if he does.”
Miss Lemon slid the loan application to the edge of her desk. “I’m sorry, but Mulberry Bank cannot invest in you at this time.”
“Loud and clear.” Zoey picked a speck of basil off her sleeve. “So do I get the fifty grand now, or will you mail me a check?”
“Wow.” Miss Lemon removed her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. “I’m going to try this again, Zoey. Please, for the love of Gordon Ramsay, listen closely. Your loan application—this one, here on my desk—is declined. That means no money. You get nothing. Nada. Zilch. Think of any number, multiply it by zero, and that’s how much money this bank will lend you.”
Zoey gasped. “Miss Lemon, what are you saying?”
Miss Lemon rubbed her temples like she had a headache. Or the beginnings of an aneurysm. “I am saying that Mulberry Bank will not lend you fifty thousand dollars.”
Zoey slid to the edge of her seat. “Miss Lemon, you look famished. What did you eat for breakfast this morning?”
Miss Lemon’s empty stomach grumbled. “I don’t have time for breakfast.”
Zoey clapped her hands to her cheeks. “You haven’t eaten all day? It’s almost noon. You must be starving! I live twelve minutes from here. Come to my house. I’ll make you the best lunch you’ve ever had. We’ll finish this conversation on a full stomach.”
“I’d rather not.”
“You sure? I make a mean plate of Balsamic Pear Ravioli.”
“I’m sure.”
“I can make it lactose-free, if that’s an issue.”
“It’s not.”
“Lactose intolerance is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m not lactose intolerant.”
“Great!” Zoey leapt to her feet. “Wait until you see what I’m making for dessert. You’ll think you’ve died and gone to Switzerland.”
Miss Lemon groaned. “I haven’t agreed to come to your house—”
“Should we walk or take a taxi? We could take the bus, but I hate the bus.”
“You’re not listening—”
“Lots of weirdos ride the bus. They always sit next to me. Not sure why—”
“Zoey, stop!”
Zoey stopped.
Miss Lemon was on her feet, her palms planted on the desk, her limbs as stiff as uncooked asparagus. “I am not coming to your house for lunch, and I am not, under any circumstances, authorizing your loan.”
“I’ll give you a minute to decide.”
“No, Zoey. That’s my final word.”
Zoey took a small black box from her purse. The box was three cubic inches in size, with sleek black sides and edges, and wrapped in a pink ribbon. Zoey placed the box on the desk.
Miss Lemon eyed the box with suspicion. “What’s this?”
“A little something I cooked up. Relax. Open it.”
Sitting back down, Miss Lemon unwrapped the pink ribbon and removed the lid. Inside the box sat a white chocolate truffle cradled in a pleated black cup, curls of dark chocolate frolicking on its creamy top.
“Go ahead,” Zoey said. “Try it.”
Miss Lemon’s pupils expanded like vanilla poured into warm milk. “Well, I wouldn’t want to be rude….” She withdrew the truffle from the box, stripped away the black parchment, and popped the dainty treat into her mouth. Her eyes closed. “Mmmmm.”
Zoey leaned forward. “What do you taste?”
“I taste…chocolate, of course…dark chocolate…and traces of…” One eyebrow raised. “Is that…jalapeño?”
“Delectable, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but…dark chocolate and jalapeño…together…who would make such a thing?”
“Don’t fight it,” Zoey said, her voice as soft as hot caramel. “Surrender to the flavors. Let them move you.”
Miss Lemon’s body went limp, and for a moment, Zoey wondered if the banker might slide right out of her chair.
“Well, I’d better get going.” Zoey rose to her feet and straightened her toque. “I got a big day of cooking and baking ahead.”
“Wait.” Miss Lemon clutched her armrests to keep in her seat. “Is all your cooking this spectacular?”
“Yes,” Zoey said.
Miss Lemon straightened her glasses. “How many blocks did you say it was to your house?”
Zoey stood in front of a yellow stove-top oven, stirring a pot of bubbling hazelnut fudge. Steam rose like chimney smoke, fogging up the kitchen’s windows and glass cupboards. Sweat dripped from Zoey’s face, making her lips chapped and salty. Wiping her damp cheek on the shoulder of her jacket, Zoey thought to herself, Someone should invent a toque with a mini air conditioner inside. Heaven knows there’s room.
She had four pots going at once. From the tallest of these pots emerged a wriggling octopus tentacle. Zoey whacked the tentacle with her red alder spoon. “Oh no you don’t!” The tentacle slithered back into the pot.
Once again, Zoey plunged the spoon into the frothy fudge. While her right hand stirred, her left hand arranged five peeled bananas into a straight line on the counter. Then, the left hand caressed the handles of a dozen knives clinging to a magnetic strip on the wall. After a brief, tactile perusal, her fingers closed on the handle of a super-sharp, super-awesome, double-edged, rust-proof steel Misono 440 Santoku. Yeah, baby. With this prince of knives, her left hand commenced slicing the bananas into fat, symmetrical discs.
While her hands stirred and sliced, Zoey shimmied her right foot out of its boot. With her toes, she gripped one of the stove dials and turned it up to high heat. In the pot on the corresponding burner, four inches of oil, honey, and cinnamon bubbled to life. “They’re coming, precious. They’re coming.”
Slipping her foot back into its boot, Zoey used the flat of her Santoku to scoop the banana slices into the pot. The oil hissed like an angry cobra as bubbles swarmed the bananas’ flesh.
She tasted the fudge sauce. Milky. Nutty. Rich. A tad too runny, and that was deliberate. Chocolate sauce, you see, gets firmer as it cools. By the time her chocolate sauce reached a consumable temperature, the consistency would be just right.
Zoey ladled the fudge sauce into a small glass bowl. She placed the bowl on a silver platter, next to bowls of raspberry sauce and caramel sauce.
Next, she taste-tested a fried banana piece. Crunchy on the outside, gooey on the inside, yummy all over. À la perfection.
She plated the fried bananas, then plattered the plate. With steady hands, she carried the platter across the kitchen, toed open the two-way kitchen door, and glided into the dining room.
Miss Lemon sat at a baby-blue antique dining table, facing an open window with a panoramic view of San Francisco Bay.
Zoey balanced the platter against her hip. “So how are you lov
ing it?”
“It’s miraculous.” Miss Lemon licked sauce off her fork. “I never thought pears and Parmesan would go together, but wow. And these pink rose petals, what a lovely aesthetic.”
“Merci. Most people do a petal and ravioli in the same bite, but I prefer them separate. A rose’s savor is delicate and nuanced. Doesn’t play well with starch and cheese.”
Miss Lemon gulped. “Oh, the petals are meant to be…eaten?”
“I put them on the plate, didn’t I?”
Miss Lemon made an I-really-don’t-want-to-but-I-don’t-wanna-hurt-your-feelings-either face. (If you’ve ever tried to kiss someone who just wasn’t that into you, you’ve seen it.)
“Go on,” Zoey urged. “You’ll love it.”
With her fork, Miss Lemon scooped up a pink petal. She smelled it. She dabbed it with the tip of her tongue. She ate it. “Mm. That’s tasty. Delicious, even.”
“Wait until you try dessert.” Zoey set the platter on the table. “Voilà! My Not-as-Famous-as-It-Should-Be-What’s-the-Matter-with-You-People? Fried Banana Fondue. Bon appétit.”
Miss Lemon licked her fork clean and stabbed a banana slice. She plunged the banana into the hazelnut fudge sauce and spun the fork, causing the fudge to wrap around the banana like a hot blanket. She slid the confection into her mouth. “Holy wow! How did you…? How can anything be this…? Oh, that’s divine.”
Zoey curtseyed. “Enchantée. Back in a few.”
In the kitchen again, Zoey replaced the fudge sauce pot with a taller pot full of water. Now, where did those lobsters go? Her eyes scanned the kitchen. A stack of banana leaves had fallen off the counter onto the floor. The leaves were moving.
“There you are!”
Zoey lifted the leaves, uncovering a pair of two-pound lobsters. She placed the lobsters into the pot of water on the stove. As the water heated to a boil, the lobsters thrashed and pinched, fighting to escape their bubbly death bath. The struggle was hard to watch, even for a seasoned chef like Zoey. This was the dark side of cooking. The side food journalists chose not to write about, and diners chose not to think about.
As the lobsters surrendered to the inevitable, Zoey thought she heard one cry out, “I never saw Paris….”
Zoey whipped up a quick, creamy hollandaise sauce. She checked the lobsters (almost done). She laid thirty strips of Balinese Long Pepper Bacon on the countertop griddle and turned up the heat.
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