The World's Greatest Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops
Page 9
“Wait. What if I turn it inside out?”
Dallin stopped. He looked around to make sure no one was watching. “I’ll allow it. Hurry.”
Zoey took off her jacket, turned it inside out, and put it on again. “Happy now?”
Dallin let out a loud, forced laugh. Then, in a loud-enough-for-everyone-to-hear voice, exclaimed, “FUNNY PRANK, Z, PRETENDING TO BE A RAIDERS FAN! WE ALL KNOW YOU BLEED RED AND GOLD. HA-HA! NATURAL LAUGHTER!” He leaned in close. “We never speak of this again.”
As Zoey and Dallin weaved through the unwashed mass toward the stage, Zoey took out a neon green plastic wristband and fastened it to Dallin’s wrist. “This bracelet is your ticket to the contest. It cost me three hundred bucks. Don’t lose it.”
“So all I gotta do is eat more hot dogs than everyone else?”
“That’s it.”
“Sounds easy.”
“Way easy.”
Los Siete Carlitos finished their song and walked offstage. A man with curly red hair, white sunglasses, and a Barry Bonds jersey appeared. Holding a gold microphone to his lips, he threw back his head and howled like a wolf. The crowd howled in response.
“Hey, hey, hey!” the man said. “This is DJ Wolfman from ninety-eight FM, coming to you live from AT&T Park. We’re getting ready for PETA’s Twenty-fifth Annual ‘Hot Dog’ Eating Contest. Get onstage, contestants. It’s showtime.”
Ten contestants climbed onto the stage. Dallin was the only kid. A woman in a headset arranged the contestants in a straight line, shoulder to shoulder.
Arms folded, elbows resting on the stage, Zoey gave Dallin an encouraging smile. Dallin didn’t smile back. He had his game face on.
Stagehands placed podiums in front of each contestant. Each podium held a pyramid of a hundred hot dogs and a glass of water. DJ Wolfman said, “Ladies and gents, give it up for our returning champ, Big Masi.”
The man next to Dallin raised his mighty fists into the air. He was Samoan and seven feet tall, with a belly so big he looked pregnant. He had bushy white dreadlocks and a ratty beard that hung to his chest. He wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt, a Samoan-print lavalava, and Birkenstock sandals.
“It’s simple, folks. Each contestant has three minutes to eat as many hot dogs as he or she can. Whoever eats the most wins. Any questions? If so, you’re a moron. Clocks ready, judges, three minutes starts in five, four, three, two…STUFF YOUR FACES, PIGGIES!”
Cheers rang from the crowd as the ten competitors commenced packing their mouths with hot dogs.
Dallin grimaced like he’d bitten into a cat’s tail. He spat out a wad of goopy bread and masticated brown stuff. “Nasty!”
“Dal! What’re you doing? Eat the hot dog!”
“This ain’t a hot dog,” Dallin said.
“It’s a tofu dog!” DJ Wolfman said. “Meat is murder, so we make our hot dogs from all-natural vegetarian ingredients!”
Dallin backed away from the podium, mortified.
Big Masi was on his tenth hot dog.
Zoey cried out, “Just eat it!”
Dallin took another step back. “No way! It’s unnatural.”
“I cook with tofu all the time!”
“Not in hot dogs, you don’t!”
“Tofu is a delicacy in the Orient!”
“This is America!” Dallin placed a hand over his heart. “We make hot dogs the way nature intended, with meat and stuff. If I eat that, I’ll betray my heritage!”
Zoey had to clap her hands against the sides of her head to keep her brain from exploding. “You’re killing me, Dal!”
Big Masi was on his twenty-fifth hot dog.
“One minute down,” DJ Wolfman announced. “Two to go.”
Zoey wasn’t about to lose ten thousand dollars on account of some coagulated soybean curds. “Dal, if you don’t start inhaling those tofu dogs, I’ll…” Her mind raced. How do I get this kid to start scarfing, already?
Then she remembered.
The jacket.
“…I’ll become a Raiders fan!”
Dallin shuddered like he’d been shot in the stomach. “You wouldn’t.”
“Go silver and black!”
“Not funny, Z.”
Big Masi was on his thirtieth hot dog.
Zoey tapped her chin, pretending to consider a provocative new idea. “I think I’ll invent a new drink. I’ll call it Raider-ade.”
Dallin trembled. “Don’t say that name!”
“The Raiders are way better than the 49ers.”
Dallin wiped his fingers over his eyes. Was he crying? “You’re crossing a line, Z!”
“I wonder if the Raiders’ defensive end has a son my age…”
“AGHHHHHHH!” Dallin threw himself at his pile of tofu dogs. His hands moved between the tray and his mouth in a blur. Four at a time, he sucked down tofu dogs with the efficiency of an industrial vacuum cleaner.
Big Masi, who was leading the other contestants at forty-six dogs, took notice of Dallin’s hustle and increased his intake to two dogs at a time. Dallin increased his intake to five hot dogs at a time, smashing them tight in his fist before stuffing them into his mouth.
“You better watch your back, Big Masi,” said DJ Wolfman. “The kid is gaining on ya!”
Big Masi increased his intake to four dogs at once. This tactic slowed him down because he couldn’t close his mouth all the way.
Zoey clapped and hooted. “Keep going, Dal!”
Dallin pressed on, smashing and chomping and swallowing like a high-speed wood chipper.
“I don’t believe it!” DJ Wolfman said. “The kid and Big Masi are tied at sixty tofu dogs! With one minute to go and ten grand at stake, who will be this year’s winner?”
Big Masi’s face turned eggplant purple as he struggled to choke down three dogs at once. In this endeavor, he was no match for Dallin.
Dallin didn’t slow. He stopped chewing altogether, gulping down tofu dogs like they were Jell-O.
Zoey cupped her hands around her mouth. “Almost there, Dal! Keep going!”
“Thirty seconds to go,” DJ Wolfman said. “The kid is leading the pack at eighty-five tofu dogs. What’s that kid’s name, anyway?”
Zoey called out, “DALLIN CARAWAY!”
The crowd began to chant. “DAL-LIN! DAL-LIN! DAL-LIN!”
Dallin stopped and waved at his newfound fans.
“KEEP GOING, DAL!” Zoey hollered, barely audible above the chanting crowd.
Dallin resumed stuffing hot dogs into his mouth.
“Ten seconds left,” said DJ Wolfman. “Can Dallin hold his lead? Ten…nine…eight…”
Dallin swallowed his one hundredth hot dog. Big Masi ate as fast as he could, trailing at a meager ninety dogs.
“Seven…six…”
Having finished all the hot dogs on his tray, Dallin swiped three dogs from Big Masi’s tray. The crowd laughed and clamored.
“Five…four…”
Dallin tossed a tofu dog high into the air, caught it in his mouth, and with outstretched arms sucked it down in one gulp.
“Three…two…WE HAVE A NEW CHAMPION!”
Red, yellow, and orange confetti shot over the stage like fireworks. Triumphant orchestral music blared from the speakers. Big Masi bent over, pulled his beard to the side, and vomited onto his Birkenstocks.
(Miles away, Jambalaya Barbos lay on a futon in his parents’ basement, clutching a copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People and sobbing.)
Zoey climbed onto the stage. She flung her arms around Dallin’s shoulders and kissed him hard on the cheek. “You rock, Dal! I owe you one.”
Dallin blushed. “You owe me ten thousand, actually.”
DJ Wolfman presented Dallin with a check the size of a highway billboard. Putting his arm around Dallin, DJ Wolfman spoke into his microphone. “Dallin Caraway, you just outate nine grown adults and won ten thousand dollars. What are you going to do now?”
DJ Wolfman held the microphone to Dallin’s lips.
Zoey walked to the back of the stage, took out her cell phone, and dialed Knuckles.
Knuckles answered. “Yeah.”
Zoey stuck her finger in her left ear to block out the noises onstage. “Hey, Knuckles, what’s the name of that company that makes those titanium tires? I’m ready to make a purchase.”
Two weeks later-ish, on a warm, breezy Friday evening, in a sleepy alley near Fisherman’s Wharf, three trolleys stood in a straight line, their pristine facades boasting fresh coats of red, black, and gold, their sturdy titanium wheels glimmering in the tangerine dusk.
In Trolley 1, the engine rumbled like a sleeping grizzly bear waking up from a long winter of hibernation. The rumbling made the floor vibrate, but only a little. Thanks to a thorough mise en place, Zoey’s walk-in was stocked with fresh meats, produce, milks, creams, cheeses, barrels of whole grains, flours, sugars, yeasts, oils, spices, and a dozen pies and cakes made from scratch that morning. Her three conventional ovens were preheated to 350, 400, and 425 degrees, respectively. Flames glowed in the fire pit and brick oven. Pots of water boiled on the stovetop. Live crustaceans, plucked from San Francisco Bay, wallowed in the large saltwater tank. Racks of pork and beef ribs simmered in the smoker, tender, medium rare, and ready to serve.
In Trolley 2, bejeweled chandeliers cast a luxurious off-white glow upon two rows of tables draped in fine black silk. Silverware and wineglasses sparkled like diamonds. The red-velvet-cupcake-colored carpet was so plush and soft a queen could’ve slept on it and counted herself lucky.
Trolley 3 looked and felt like a nightclub. A small stage occupied one end. Tall tables and barstools occupied the other end. Between them lay a low-lit, hardwood dance floor.
Onstage, Valentine & the Night Owls warmed up. Fat Jo tightened his hi-hat, making the cymbals crisp and tight. Monk ran scales covering the full range of the piano. Four sat on a stool, holding up a massive acoustic four-string, and reading Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus. Bird adjusted his saxophone’s mouthpiece. Valentine put on ChapStick, raised her trumpet to her lips, and played the opening lick from Dizzy Gillespie’s “Salt Peanuts.”
Also in Trolley 3, wearing a white hat with a gold band and an all-black suit, shirt, and tie, Gershwin sifted through a stack of leather-bound menus, inserting 4 x 4 adverts for tonight’s dessert special: Caramel Blackberry Quesadillas with Pineapple Cream Cheese Filling.
Knuckles stood in the darkest corner, picking a scab on his wrist.
Zoey sat on a stool in a different corner, eyes closed, meditating, getting into her creative space. Dallin sat on a stool next to her, watching videos of the 49ers’ 1989 and 1994 Super Bowl wins. He wore a black suit jacket, white shirt, black tie, black sweatpants, and red Nikes. The sweats and Nikes were free of holes, tears, and grass stains, so Zoey let them slide.
At five till seven-ish, Zoey arose, put on her black toque with red trim, fastened two rows of red buttons on her otherwise black chef jacket, and tied on her sparkly gold apron. She strode to the center of the dance floor and clapped twice. “Line up, troops. It’s almost game time.”
Dallin, Gershwin, and the band didn’t line up, exactly, but they did gather around to listen.
“Tonight is a big night for me,” Zoey said, “and I’m honored to be sharing it with all of you.”
Seated on a barstool, Fat Jo clapped his drumsticks together. “Hear, hear.”
The others clapped too in an I-guess-we’re-supposed-to-clap-now kind of way. (If you’ve ever been to a kids’ piano recital, you’ve heard it.)
“Band,” Zoey said, “I want you to start with a bang. Something big and fast and catchy and loud. Make the people in Oakland hear you.”
The band members traded excited grins and glances.
“But,” Zoey said, “once we got a full house, your job is to fade into the background. The headliner here is the food, not the music. You must create an ambience that relaxes people, at a volume they can talk over.”
Excited grins and glances, gone.
“Fat Jo,” Zoey said, “that means brushes, not sticks.”
Fat Jo laid his sticks on the table. “Fine.”
“And, Mom, no notes over high A.”
Valentine flexed her pinkie against her trumpet’s finger hook. “Fine.”
“Dallin and Gershwin,” Zoey said, “you’re servers, not talk show hosts. Customers wanna spend time with friends and family, not you, so no chitchat. Your job is to take orders, run food, and be as inconspicuous as ninjas.
“When you approach a table, say, ‘Good evening. My name is such and such. What may I bring you to drink?’”
Gershwin raised his hand. “Should we say ‘How are you?’ first?”
“You already know how they’re doing,” Zoey said. “They’re in my restaurant, so they’re fabulous.”
Dallin said, “That makes sense.”
“If a customer asks if something on the menu is good, say, ‘No…’”
Concerned looks.
“‘…it’s amazing.’”
Relieved nods.
“If a customer asks what you recommend, recommend the Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops. It’s my signature dish, and my most expensive, so we wanna push that as hard as we can.
“If a customer orders a dish that’s eighty-sixed…”
Dallin and Gershwin raised their hands.
“That means we’ve run out of ingredients for it.”
Dallin and Gershwin lowered their hands.
“If a dish is eighty-sixed, don’t apologize. Say, ‘That dish is so popular we ran out already. Allow me to direct you to a menu item for more refined palates.’ Then point to any item on the menu and gush over it.”
Four said, “I cry in bed a lot.”
Everyone stared at him.
Four’s cheeks turned beet red. “Out loud?”
Bird placed a consoling hand on Four’s sagging shoulder.
“Sorry,” Four said. “Carry on.”
Zoey said, “You may have noticed an absence of salt and pepper shakers on the tables. It’s by design. Diners use salt and pepper to coax flavor out of bland food. My food is never bland, so salt and pepper shakers are never necessary.
“Now, a word about birthdays. If a customer says she’s celebrating her birthday, you may congratulate her, but no singing. This a first-class restaurant, not a Chuck E. Cheese’s.”
Valentine raised her hand.
“Yes, Mom, you may quote the ‘Happy Birthday’ song in a trumpet solo.”
Valentine lowered her hand.
Four said, “Out loud again?”
Since no one knew what Four was talking about, Bird said, “No, bro, that one was in your head.”
“Lastly,” Zoey said, “things may get stressful tonight. If I lose my temper and scream like a maniac and throw loud metallic objects, please remember: I’m a chef. That’s what we do. Any questions?”
Four said, “Will there be women here tonight?”
Zoey said, “I should hope so.”
Four and Bird bumped fists.
“Anyone else?” Zoey said.
Dallin raised his hand. “Next Wednesday, my team’s got a scrimmage against Aptos MS. Will you come watch me?”
Zoey said, “Oh, is the coach gonna play you?”
Dallin’s face turned whiter than clam chowder. Had her question merely embarrassed him, his face would have turned rhubarb pink. But she had done worse than embarrass him. She had humiliated him. In front of Knuckles, her parents, and the Night Owls, no less.
“Heck yeah, I’ll be there!” Zoey said with enthusiasm, hoping to divert from his embarrassment. “You’re gonna be awesome. I’ll scream my lungs out after every home run.”
“Touchdown,” Monk said.
“That too.” Zoey winked at Dallin. His face returned to its normal color. “Anyone else?”
Knuckles cleared his throat. It sounded like a lawn mower running over barbed
wire. “Anyone got a big metal hook I can borrow?”
Valentine’s mama-bear instincts kicked in. “For the love of Louis, why do you need a big metal hook?”
Knuckles considered the question for a moment, then said, “Forget I said anything.”
Zoey said, “Any other questions?”
Dallin raised his hand. “Hey, at my scrimmage, if I clobber the quarterback because I’m like a freaking hurricane on the field, and everyone’s cheering for me, and I point at you on the sidelines like, ‘That was for you, Z,’ that’d be pretty cool, wouldn’t it?”
“Um, sure, Dal.”
Dallin tried to fist-bump Monk. Monk ignored him.
“Other questions?”
Knuckles cleared his throat again. This one sounded like a tank driving through a concrete wall. “Anyone got a big, heavy-duty duffel bag you’re not using? Something you wouldn’t mind having buried in the woods for a few years?”
Silence.
Everyone took small steps away from Knuckles, like they didn’t feel safe standing next to him.
Zoey said, “Any other questions?”
Dallin and Four raised their hands.
Zoey said, “Any questions not about Dal’s scrimmage?”
Dallin lowered his hand.
Zoey said, “Or women?”
Four lowered his hand.
No other hands went up.
Zoey said, “Dal, how’s it coming with the speech we practiced?”
Dallin tapped the top of his head. “It’s all in there.”
Zoey put forth her right hand, fingers spread, palm down. “Bring it in.”
Gershwin, Dallin, Knuckles, and the band huddled around Zoey, placing their hands atop hers.
“Shock the world on three,” Zoey said. “One, two, three.”
As one, they raised their hands into the air with a mighty shout. “Shock the world!”
Zoeylicious slowed to a stop at the corner of Jefferson and Hyde. A crowd of curious onlookers gathered at the curb.
Dallin stood in the doorway of Trolley 2 and held out his arms. “People of San Francisco, Zoeylicious is now open for business! Step on in for the lifetime of a dining experience! Wait, I mean…”
In Trolley 1, Zoey clapped a hand to her forehead.