The World's Greatest Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops

by Ryan K. Sager

  The Spirit of San Francisco

  Dallin pulled his arms into his shirt, giving his forearms and hands some relief from the cold. “Hey, do you think the cable car sells hot chocolate?”

  “Nah.” Zoey blew on her fingers. “Those folks must’ve bought them before boarding.”

  “Bummer,” Dallin said. “I’d pay five bucks for a hot chocolate right now.”

  Something curious happened then. The cable car changed. Its colors, maroon and silver, transformed into bold shades of red, black, and gold. Inside the car, men and women sat at square tables draped in white linen. They dined on filet mignon, prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, and garlic croissants stuffed with Brie cheese. And there was Zoey, in an open-view kitchen nook, dressed in a red, black, and gold jacket and toque, ladling strawberry sauce over a freshly baked cheesecake. On the front of the car, the gold letters rearranged themselves into a new name. One word. Simple. Beautiful.

  Zoeylicious

  The name sank into Zoey’s psyche like butter on a hot croissant. Mesmerized, she whispered the name. “Zoeylicious.” It tasted sweeter than blueberry crêpes.

  Spellbound, Zoey waved her hand to the side until it hit Dallin’s arm. “Hey, Dal, you seeing what I’m seeing?”

  “A homeless guy screaming at a parking meter?”

  “No, I mean the—Wait. What?”

  Dallin pointed across the street. A man in tattered clothes was wringing a parking meter’s neck, so to speak. “They’re onto us, Claire! They know about St. Louis—the money, the fire, the mannequin, everything! We’ll burn for this, Claire! BUUUUURN!” The man ran away, weeping.

  “Not that.” Zoey pressed her hand against Dallin’s cheek, redirecting his gaze to the cable car. “That.”

  Dallin made an either-you’re-nuts-or-I’m-missing-something-here face. (If you’ve ever showed a friend your “groundbreaking” invisible stamps collection, you’ve seen it.) “Is something behind the cable car, or…?”

  “Not behind the cable car. It is the cable car.”

  “What is the cable car?”

  “It’s Zoeylicious!”

  “Zoey-what-now?”

  Zoey didn’t know if she was dreaming or hallucinating or having an out-of-body experience or what. But there it was. Not a cable car; those are bound to a fixed route. But a trolley. With wheels and a dining parlor and kitchen nook. And heaters, presumably. The mobility and convenience of a food truck with the comfort and trappings of a five-star restaurant. The ultimate fine-dining experience. It was perfect. It was glorious. It was…

  My restaurant.

  Adrenaline shot through Zoey’s muscles like electricity. She threw her arms around Dallin’s broad shoulders and squeezed him like he was a giant lemon. “You, Dallin Caraway, are a genius.”

  Dallin was a tackler, not a hugger, so he didn’t respond well to hugging. His entire body went rigid, his cold cheeks turned redder than enchilada sauce, and his heart stopped pumping blood. Zoey released him so he wouldn’t die.

  “Thanks.” Dallin thumped his fist on his chest, jump-starting the blood flow. “Uh, why am I a genius?”

  “A restaurant on a trolley. It’s brilliant and classy and timeless, and you led me right to it.”

  “I did?”

  “You did!”

  Dallin brightened. “I did!”

  Zoey threw her hands in the air like she just didn’t care. She jumped and clicked her heels and shrieked with delight. Dallin whipped off his shirt, swung it above his head like a lasso, and galloped in circles like a cowboy.

  Zoey stopped. “Dude, what’re you doing?”

  Dallin stopped too. His shirt landed on his head. “Celebrating.”

  “This isn’t Niners stadium. Put your shirt back on.”

  “Right.” Dallin put his shirt back on. “Whoo, that was cold.”

  The cable car stopped. No passengers got off, and no passengers got on.

  Dallin, who always let Zoey board first, said, “We doing this or not?”

  “Not,” Zoey said. “We got work to do.”

  She motioned to the conductor to keep on moving. The cable car glided down Hyde Street and disappeared into the fog.

  “Do you feel that, Dal?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “It’s purpose. As in ‘this is my purpose in life.’ This is what God sent me to do. To share my food with the world. To make people happy. To give friends and families a reason to sit down together, put away their phones, forget about their worries, and live for an hour. All that stuff Chef Cannoli was talking about: Code Browns, taxes, injuries, lawyers, insurance—it’s in the weeds. What matters is the people. I will not rest until every man, woman, and child (minus those with severe allergies and enzyme intolerances) partakes of the work of my hands, and experiences a little bit of gastronomic heaven.”

  Dallin picked a piece of cheddar out of his nose. “So where do we get a trolley?”

  Zoey peered through the gaps in a tall barbed-wire fence at the hugest junkyard she’d ever seen. (Not that she had a lot of experience with junkyards, but still…) The lot was the size of Giants stadium. Busted automobiles, expired appliances, and mountains of scrap metal formed a metropolis of rot and ruin. All that was missing was a lovable robot named WALL-E.

  “It smells worse than it looks,” she said, a bitter metallic odor filling her nostrils.

  Dallin stood beside her. In his dirty, tattered clothes and the gloom of a cold, foggy night, he looked like a zombie. (Minus the I-wanna-eat-your-brains stuff.) “Does he work here or live here?”

  “Both, I think,” Zoey said.

  “It doesn’t look safe.”

  “Of course it’s not safe. That’s why you’re here, Dal, to protect us.”

  Dallin tapped his fingertips on a porcelain toilet seat bolted to a slab of sheet metal bolted to a wood pole. “Is this the…?”

  “Must be.” Zoey rapped the toilet seat against the sheet metal like it was a door knocker. The metallic CLAAAAAAAANG ricocheted through the junkyard like a clumsy bullet. A murder of crows sprang from the broken windows of an upside-down ambulance, cawing like banshees, wings flapping hard and fast.

  They waited.

  Dallin said, “Do you think he heard it?”

  From the greasy bowels of the junkyard, an engine roared to life.

  “Yep,” Zoey said, “he heard it.”

  A plume of dust spun upward from behind a wall of oil drums and trash cubes, accompanied by the sound of rubber tires on dirt and gravel.

  The engine’s growl grew louder and louder as the spiral of dust raced toward Zoey and Dallin like a hungry tornado. A black Harley-Davidson screamed into view. Astride the motorcycle sat Knuckles Andwich, his bald head and tattooed arms glinting in the moonlight.

  Knuckles rode to the fence, skidded to a stop, and planted both feet on the ground. The Harley’s chrome engine purred like a panther enjoying a foot massage. (If that doesn’t win me a Pulitzer, nothing will.)

  Knuckles raised his hands above his head. “I didn’t know they was stolen, officers! If I had, I woulda never hid ’em in a place you’ll never find, at a location I can’t recall. Swear on the Bible!”

  “Knuckles, it’s me, Chef Zoey.”

  Knuckles reached into a gear bag mounted on the rear fender. He took out a flashlight, aimed the beam at his visitors. “Chef Zoey?”

  “Hey. This is my friend Dallin.”

  Dallin put his arms through his sleeves like normal. Then he fake-yawned, fake-stretching his arms to show off his biceps. “Yeah, I’m getting a tattoo soon. Something with skulls and blood on it. My mom says I’m too young to get a tattoo, but I’m getting one anyway. I’m a rebel. People don’t wanna mess with me.”

  Knuckles dismounted, leaning the Harley on its kickstand. He strode to the gate, flashlight fixed on the two youths. “It’s eleven o’clock. What’re ya kids doin’ out ’ere? Why aren’t ya at home? Where’re yer parents?”

  Zoey held up a hand to shield the
light from her eyes. “My parents are jazz musicians. In my house, eleven o’clock isn’t late.”

  Dallin said, “My mom has a loose parenting style.”

  Knuckles lowered the flashlight. “Why’d ya come?”

  “I need to procure a trolley and turn it into a restaurant,” Zoey said. “You and your gang are always collecting and restoring old vehicles and stuff. Can you help me out?”

  “Sorry, kiddo. That kinda job’d take some serious cabbage.”

  “Is fifty grand serious enough?”

  Knuckles nearly dropped his flashlight. “Ya got fifty g’s?”

  “I need to keep some for ingredients, but yeah.”

  Knuckles ran his oil-stained fingers through his bushy black beard. “Come on in. I got sumthin’ t’ show ya.”

  In a well-lit corner of the junkyard, behind a heaping wall of hubcaps and old mattresses, Zoey and Dallin stood shoulder to elbow gawking at three dilapidated trolleys. The trolleys were linked together like train cars. Their tires were flat, their windows broken, their paint faded and peeling.

  “They’re pieces of junk,” Dallin said.

  “They just need a little TLC,” Zoey said.

  “More like CPR,” Dallin said.

  Knuckles leaned his Harley on its kickstand. “They’re old-school, all right. Built in the eighteen hundreds. Been here at Hog Vomit longer than I ’ave. I got no use for ’em, so, if ya want ’em, I’ll give ya three fer the price o’ one.”

  “Let’s have a look, shall we?” Zoey climbed aboard the first trolley. The cabin was long and empty, the carpet threadbare, the old light fixtures draped in cobwebs.

  “Guh,” Dallin said, stepping aboard. “Smells like the men’s bathroom at Levi’s Stadium.”

  Knuckles boarded next. “Smells fine t’ me. Of course, I used t’ live in the men’s bathroom at Levi’s Stadium, so, yeah, that was a rough summer.”

  “It’s perfect!” Zoey pranced through the cabin, giddier than a monkey at a banana farm. “The walk-in will go here…the conventional ovens here and here and here…the brick oven here…the Dutch oven there…the cocoa grinder there…the fire pit over—”

  “Fire pit?” Knuckles said.

  “How else am I supposed to make s’mores? Now, where to put my anvil?”

  At the front end of the cabin, Dallin opened a narrow door leading to the driver’s box. “Steering wheel’s gone,” he announced. “What are all these levers for?”

  Knuckles was leaning against a wall, cleaning his fingernails with the blade of a pocketknife. “The levers are the steerin’ wheel, kiddo, ’n the gas, ’n the brake. Like I said, old-school.”

  Dallin said, “Looks hard to drive.”

  Knuckles said, “It is hard t’ drive.”

  Zoey said to Knuckles. “Can you drive it?”

  Knuckles said, “I reckon I could.”

  Zoey said, “That settles it. You shall have the honor of driving my restaurant every night for the rest of your life. I’ll pay you well, but you’re on your own for health insurance. I’m still on my parents’ plan, so…”

  “No can do,” Knuckles said. “I’ve been avoidin’ a real job fer years now. I don’t like havin’ t’ show up on time t’ things.”

  “You’re hired!”

  “I don’t wanna be hired.”

  “Too late. I already hired you.”

  “Then I quit.”

  “You can’t quit, not without two weeks’ notice.”

  “Fine. This is my two weeks’ notice.”

  “Fine. In two weeks (from the day we open), you may begin the process of finding a qualified replacement. In the meantime, I expect your best efforts. No lollygagging. No back talk. No drinking on the job. Got it?”

  “Fine.” Knuckles scratched his bald scalp. “What jus’ happened?”

  At the back end of the cabin, Zoey opened a narrow door that led outside. Five-ish feet away, in the front end of Trolley 2, was another door. Zoey reached across the gap, opened the door, and hopped on over.

  The inside of Trolley 2 looked the same as the inside of Trolley 1, minus a driver’s box. Zoey glided through the cabin with outstretched arms. “This will be the dining parlor. I’ll put tables on both sides so diners can look out the windows while they eat. Deuces on the right. Four-tops on the left. For parties of five or more, we’ll push tables together.”

  Dallin hopped aboard Trolley 2. “How you gonna get your food from the kitchen in One to the dining parlor in Two?”

  Zoey shrugged. “Hop across, I guess.”

  Knuckles hopped aboard too, saying, “Not while the trolleys ’r in motion, you’re not. One slip and ya’d be roadkill.”

  “Plan B, then,” Zoey said. “Dal, get me a price on those ‘Beam me up, Scotty’ things from Star Trek.”

  “On it.” Dallin took out his phone and thumbed around online. “Can’t. Not invented yet.”

  Zoey gave a disappointed sigh. “There goes that childhood fantasy. What about those Vanishing Cabinets from Harry Potter?”

  Dallin thumbed around some more. “Can’t. Borgin and Burkes closed in oh-five. The only people with Cabinets now are Death Eaters.”

  “Hey, Knuckles, know any Death Eaters?”

  Knuckles said, “All ya gotta do is install some big windows at the ends o’ both trolleys. Ya can stand in One, reach through the windows, ’n hand off yer food to a server in Two.”

  “I’d rather have Vanishing Cabinets,” Zoey said.

  “An’ I’d rather not be the subject o’ fourteen restraining orders,” Knuckles said, “but ya can’t always get whatcha want.”

  Dallin said, “Dude, you gotta join a church or something.”

  They moved to Trolley 3.

  “This will be the live music room,” Zoey said. “Valentine & the Night Owls will go on a stage here. I’ll put tables here and here and here. People can watch the band while they drink Italian sodas and munch on Fried Avocado Rolls.”

  “Are you sure your mom will play?” Dallin said. “She’s not too thrilled with your decision to start a restaurant.”

  “She’s a musician,” Zoey said. “She’d play inside an F6 tornado if there was an audience.”

  Dallin pointed to a closet at the rear of the cabin. “What’s in there?”

  The closet had a red door with a brass handle. Zoey opened the door. Inside was a long metal lever jutting out of the floor.

  “What do you think that does?” Zoey said.

  Not one to pass up a good lever-pulling opportunity, Dallin scooted into the closet, took the lever in both hands, and pulled hard. The floorboards rumbled. Unseen gears shifted and shrieked. Dallin pushed the lever back to its original position, and the rumbling and shrieking stopped.

  Dallin looked crestfallen. “I was hoping candy would come out.”

  “It’s the emergency brake,” Knuckles said. “If the driver’s brakes stop working, ya pull that puppy and the trolleys’ll screech to a stop.”

  Zoey looked around the cabin, her eyes twinkling with joy. “Okay, Knuckles, let’s talk turkey. How much will it cost to fix up these trolleys, make one into a kitchen, one into a dining parlor, and one into a jazz club?”

  Knuckles rubbed two fingers over a tattoo of an eight ball on his wrist. “Fully furnished?”

  “Oh yes. I’m talking ovens, sinks, walk-in, cupboards, tables, chairs, lights, the whole shebang.”

  “Forty g’s,” Knuckles said.

  “Time frame?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “I’ll pay half now, half when the job’s done. Deal?”

  Knuckles cleared his throat. It sounded like a fork in a garbage disposal. “Before I commit t’ anything, I need yer word on a few things.”

  “Anything.”

  “One, ya gotta stay in school—”

  “Easy.”

  “An’ get straight As.”

  “Come again?”

  “Straight As or I’m out.”

  “Fine. I’ll get stra
ight As.”

  “Two, ya can’t run away from home at the age o’ sixteen t’ join a biker gang.”

  “Never crossed my mind.”

  “Three, if you’re ever stranded in Nova Scotia, and yer buddies dare ya t’ get a Darth Vader tattoo on yer lower back, you’ll say no.”

  “These demands are getting weirdly specific.”

  “Lastly, when ya wreck yer Harley in front o’ an old chapel in rural Kansas, and a pretty, young Presbyterian takes ya in, ’n nurses your wounds, ’n understands ya like no one ever has or ever will, ’n she begs ya t’ leave yer biker gang, marry ’er, ’n spend the rest of yer days on a picturesque zucchini farm, you’ll say yes….” Knuckles sniffled. “I got sumthin’ in my eye.”

  Dallin shook his head. “Dude, get a grip.”

  Zoey said, “We have a deal, then?”

  Knuckles wiped a single tear from his chiseled cheek. “We got a deal.”

  Zoey slept in until 7:30 a.m. Refreshed, she rolled out of bed, threw on her black-and-pink bathrobe, and went downstairs for a bowl of Cookie Crisp. (No chef, no matter how distinguished, is above Cookie Crisp.)

  Her father was at the kitchen table, in a robe and slippers, sipping black coffee and reading a newspaper. (A newspaper is like a laptop with news on it, only it’s made of paper. And if you press your finger on a word or picture to learn more about it, nothing happens. They were popular in the 1990s.)

  “Get this,” Gershwin said, tapping his forefinger on the column he was reading. “The hottest pepper in the world is called the Trinidad moruga scorpion. It measures two million units on the Scoville heat scale, whatever that is. There’s a guy in town who sells them. He has to handle them with tongs because the pepper’s juices would burn his fingers.”

  “That’s one hot pepper,” Zoey said.

  Gershwin sipped his coffee. “According to this, the Trinidad doesn’t burn much at first. It’s tart and sweet. Almost sour. The burn starts small and grows, like cancer, getting worse and worse until your entire head is numb. Its burn is persistent too. You could drink out of the Arctic Ocean, and the burn wouldn’t go away. Only one thing stops the burning: mayonnaise.”