Dallin looked down at his left hand. (He’d written his lines on his palm in case of, well, this.) “I mean, the dining experience of a lifferham…my hand’s sweaty.”
The people on the sidewalk responded with befuddled stares.
Dallin made an eh-forget-it! face. (If you’ve ever watched your uncle Bubba try to do a sit-up, you’ve seen it.) “You got mouths, we got food. Get on if you want some.”
In Trolley 3, Valentine & the Night Owls launched into a lively rendition of Duke Ellington’s “Take the A Train.” Knuckles played with sticks, and Valentine went after those high As. More and more onlookers gathered on the sidewalk. Some clapped to the music. An elderly couple started dancing. Then, one by one, couple by couple, group by group, the onlookers stepped aboard Trolleys 2 and 3.
Zoey watched through the serving windows as Dallin ushered customers to tables and handed them menus. At the back of Trolley 2, a serving window aligned with another serving window in Trolley 3. Through these windows, Zoey could see Gershwin greeting customers and jotting down orders on a three-by-six order pad.
The driver’s box door opened. Knuckles sat half turned, one hand on the steering wheel, the other hand holding open the door. “Go time?”
“Go time,” Zoey said.
Knuckles pulled the compartment door closed. Stainless-steel light fixtures swayed overhead as Zoeylicious rolled forward.
From Trolley 2, Dallin reached through the serving windows into Trolley 1, his pudgy fingers clasping a wrinkled ticket. “Order’s up.”
Zoey accepted the ticket, read it.
1 POPEYE MANGO TIGER PRAHN KRAPS CRAIPS RHYMES WITH DRAPES
Zoey chuckled. Note to self: teach Dallin how to spell “papaya” and “prawn” and “crêpes.”
“Great work, Dal,” she said.
Dallin gave a proud nod. “Knock ’em dead, Z.” He trotted off to get more orders.
Zoey clipped the ticket to the board above the stoves. Let’s do this.
She dashed to the other end of the kitchen. She plunged her hands into the saltwater tank. The icy cold produced goose bumps on her skin. Her fingers stiffened as they sifted past wriggling lobsters, crabs, and snails before locating a pair of foot-long tiger prawns. She drew the prawns out of the water. Their gangling legs scratched at her wrists.
Now for the unpleasant part.
Zoey placed one prawn on the counter. She took the other prawn’s head in her left fist, its body in her right. In one swift motion, she bent her wrists in opposite directions like she was wringing out a wet rag. The prawn’s shell went crackle, and its head popped off its spine.
Zoey tossed the head into the trash and laid the decapitated body on the counter. She picked up the second prawn and ripped off its head too.
With a fork and butter knife, Zoey de-shelled both prawns. She brushed a papaya glaze on the prawns’ pale gray flesh. When the prawns hit the 400-degree griddle, they steamed and sizzled like bacon.
While the prawns cooked, Zoey poured a creamy almond-white batter onto the center of a round griddle. She placed a T-shaped wooden spreader at the center of the bubbling batter and twisted the T in her fingers, causing the batter to spread out in a flat circle. When the circle of batter reached twelve inches in diameter, Zoey swapped the T for a spatula. She flipped the crêpe and prawns like they were pancakes.
The cooking crêpe smelled like a waffle cone, only milkier. The prawns smelled like shrimp, naturally, and with their claws removed, who could tell the difference? (Prawns have claws on three of their ten legs; shrimp only have claws on two—a distinction so fascinating its remembrance sent chills up Zoey’s spine.)
Zoey transferred the finished crêpe to a white glass plate. She spooned a dollop of homemade pineapple purée onto the center of the crêpe, then used the back of the spoon to streak the dollop evenly over the crêpe’s smooth surface. Upon this citrusy bed Zoey laid the prawns, their flesh fluffy and white with pink stripes. Upon the prawns she laid mango strips, coconut flakes, cilantro, and a squeeze of lime juice. She folded up the sides of the crêpe so it resembled a pudgy burrito, sprinkled powdered sugar on top, and voilà! One Papaya Mango Tiger Prawn Crêpe.
Zoey placed the dish, ready to run, on the window pass. From Trolley 2, Dallin reached through the windows and took the plate. He served the dish to a man in a cranberry turban, sitting alone at Table 1. The man’s fork cut through the crêpe like a hot knife through warm butter. The man raised the fork to his lips, blew on its steaming contents, and slotted the tines into his mouth. His eyebrows raised in delight, lifting his turban an inch.
Zoey smiled. He loves it.
Zoey’s cell phone rang on her hip. She answered. “Bonjour, Gershwin.”
“Hi-de-ho, Zoey. I need two Maple Cinnamon Crab Fajitas, two Coconut Lime Pheasant Arepas, two Boysenberry Vanilla Sodas, and two Strawberry Rhubarb Sodas.”
“On it.”
Zoey whirled about the kitchen, her hands busy, her mind juggling recipes and temperatures and cooking times. When the fajitas, arepas, and sodas were ready, she passed them to Dallin in Trolley 2, who passed them to Gershwin in Trolley 3.
Zoeylicious cruised through Haight-Ashbury, Golden Gate Park, and the Presidios, stopping to pick up new customers and drop off full ones. Knuckles navigated with skill and grace, never accelerating or braking too fast, going slow around corners and avoiding potholes, so the ride was smoother than French vanilla pudding.
As twilight turned into night, and Zoeylicious cruised across the towering Golden Gate Bridge, the chilly breeze whispered through the trolleys’ open windows, as gentle as good-night kisses. In response, the heaters in Trolleys 2 and 3 kicked on, keeping the dining parlors at a cozy seventy-two degrees. Behind them, in the distance, the lights of downtown San Francisco looked like millions of yellow lanterns hung upon the darkness.
Hours passed like minutes. Orders came in. Dishes went out. Customers ate like royalty and paid like gamblers. Zoeylicious was bringing in as much as two hundred dollars per table. If tonight was any indication of the future, Zoey would be a millionaire by the age of sixteen. Now the prospect of paying back fifty thousand dollars to Mulberry Bank didn’t seem so daunting.
At two-ish a.m., Zoeylicious closed for the night. Knuckles parked Zoeylicious at the end of the Embarcadero on Fisherman’s Wharf. The docks and piers were empty. The sea was quiet, its glassy surface reflecting the yellow moon. Knuckles joined Dallin, Gershwin, and Valentine & the Night Owls in Trolley 3 to relax, drink Italian sodas, munch on Foie Gras Paté with Brie on Toasted Baguettes, and talk about whatever it is guys talk about at two in the morning when there’s a lady present.
Zoey, meanwhile, was in Trolley 2, seated at a four-top with a calculator and a pile of tickets and receipts. She had three envelopes: one marked “Dallin,” one marked “Knuckles,” and one marked “Valentine & the Night Owls.” She packed each envelope with cash, licked them sealed, and deposited them in her apron pocket.
Then she counted the receipts: 151 dishes served. That’s 151 customers plus the 330 who had already tried her cooking, for a grand total of 481.
She kicked off her purple Doc Martens, put her feet up on the table, and leaned back in her chair. Gazing out the window at the glimmering sea, she let out a slow, gratified sigh. 481 down. 6,999,999,519 to go.
Not a bad start.
Zoey stepped outside into the crisp morning air, rocking a white T-shirt with the words “GOOOOOO DALLIN!!!” hand-painted on the front. One side of her face was painted red. The other side was painted gold. Her hair was pulled up in a tight bun atop her head. The bun secured the base of a twelve-inch plastic field goal post with spinning green lights on top.
(Life lesson: Never google “What should I wear to a football game?” because you might end up looking like this.)
Zoeylicious was parked across the street, parallel to the sidewalk. Beyond the sidewalk rose a steep thirty-foot hill draped in leafy bushes and snaking vines.
For some
reason, a limousine was parked at the rear of Zoeylicious. The engine was running. Three people—one woman and two men—were standing in the street, peeking through Trolley 3’s speckless windows.
Zoey marched across the street. “May I help you?”
The woman turned to face Zoey. She wore sleek black clothes, big black sunglasses, and an Audrey Hepburn sun hat. “Hello, young lady. I’m looking for Chef Zoey Kate. Do you know if she lives around here?”
“She does.” Zoey was hesitant to reveal her identity until she knew who these people were and what they wanted.
The two men faced her now too. One was clean-shaven with immaculate gray hair. He dressed like an executive: designer shoes, power slacks, collared shirt with cuff links. The other guy hadn’t shaved or cut his hair in months. He dressed like a roadie for a rock band: ratty Ramones T-shirt with cutoff sleeves, chrome-studded belt, frayed jeans, combat boots.
“Do you know which house is hers?” asked Clean-Shaven.
Zoey pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “That one.”
Audrey Hepburn Hat said, “Oh, is she your mother?”
“She’s me,” Zoey said, annoyed by the woman’s ageist presumptions.
Audrey Hepburn Hat’s eyes scanned Zoey from head (er, goalpost) to toe.
“I don’t normally dress like this,” Zoey said.
Audrey Hepburn Hat nodded to the two men. Clean-Shaven turned and took out his phone. Roadie made for the limo.
Zoey said, “What’s this about?”
Audrey Hepburn Hat smiled. Her gorgeous teeth were even straighter and whiter than Zoey’s. “I beg your pardon, Chef.” She extended her hand. “I’m Kim Chi, New York Times.”
Zoey shook the reporter’s hand with enthusiasm. “Enchantée.”
“Likewise.”
“What brings you to the West Coast?”
“Well…” Kim Chi sighed like she was tired. “We had intended to do a story on the history of Italian cuisine in San Francisco.”
“Ooh, you have to meet my friend. His name is Chef Cannoli. His restaurant is La—”
“La Cucina di Cannoli, I know. I sat down with him yesterday. Three-hour interview.”
“Did he do the kiss-you-on-the-cheek-to-say-hello thing?”
“He did.” Kim Chi folded her arms and shivered. “A lot.”
Roadie was unloading heavy-duty equipment boxes from the limo’s trunk. Clean-Shaven was twelve feet away, back still turned, his phone to his ear. “Look, we’ll shelve the Italian piece, go back to it later. This one’s too hot to sit on….”
“What’s your interest in my restaurant?” Zoey asked. “It’s not Italian.”
“Your restaurant,” said Kim Chi, “is the talk of the town. Who cares about old Italian restaurants when there’s one of these…” Kim Chi motioned to the trolleys. “…and one of you…” She pointed to Zoey. “…on the scene? We’ve been tracking you down for three days now.”
Turning, Clean-Shaven cupped his hand over his phone’s mouthpiece. “Ya need a website, kid.”
“Working on it.” Zoey didn’t bother mentioning that a team of skilled developers in Kandahar was hard at work on a website that would smell and taste like chocolate chip cookies. The technology was new. Development was slow.
Clean-Shaven went on, “We only found you because our driver passed your street on the way to the airport and I happened to look out the window.”
“I’m happy you found me,” Zoey said. “How can I be of service?”
Kim Chi said, “We’d love an interview.”
“Awesome. I’m on my way to a scrimmage. Meet me here in two hours?”
Clean-Shaven said, “Our flight leaves in two and a half.”
“What if you drove me to the football field, interviewed me on the way?”
Kim Chi said, “We prefer video interviews.”
Clean-Shaven said, “Videos get more eyeballs.”
Roadie returned from the limo, a pro-grade video camera in one hand, a box with a handle in the other. “We’ll shoot in the kitchen. Sit-down Q and A. Quick and dirty. Natural light. Camera mic. Then a walk-through of cars two and three. I’ll go handheld to save time. It’s too bad we can’t be there tonight. I’d love some action shots.”
Too bad, indeed, Zoey thought, but for a different reason.
“Ya need a website, kid,” Clean-Shaven said for the second time.
Kim Chi said to Clean-Shaven, “What if she cooks for us now?” Then, to Roadie: “You’d get your action shots.”
Roadie looked at Zoey. “Can ya flambé?”
“Of course.”
“How big can you get the flames?”
“An inch shy of the ceiling,” Zoey said. She couldn’t shake the feeling that by answering these questions, she was committing to an interview.
Roadie looked at his colleagues. “I like it.”
“Me too,” Kim Chi said.
Clean-Shaven looked at Zoey. “Can ya lose the face paint and goalposts?”
This was it. Decision time.
Dallin’s scrimmage or the New York Times?
Watch Dallin warm a bench for two hours…or take the publicity opportunity of a lifetime?
Be a friend. Or disappoint a friend.
Kim Chi folder her arms and arched her eyebrows. “Well…?”
Zoey thought a moment more, then made her decision.
“I’ll get cleaned up,” she said.
She would explain it all to Dallin later. He would understand. He’d have to.
On Friday morning, July 10, the New York Times posted its twenty-two-minute video report titled “No Rules, No Limits: the Making of a 12-Year-Old Celebrity Chef.”
Zoey sat cross-legged on her bed, dressed in black silk pajamas and a pink robe, watching the report on her iPad. She looked good on camera (not as good as Kim Chi, but good). The editors had spliced her interview to include only the sound bites of Zoey at her sharpest.
Fifteen minutes in, Zoey became annoyed at the report’s focus on her age over her cooking. She took heart, though, when Kim Chi, perched on a black stool in a dimly lit New York studio, said the following:
The menu is progressive, intriguing, and a little bit insane. It boasts dishes like Bacon-Wrapped Pineapple Pheasant Shish Kebabs, Huckleberry Steak Tartare, and Blueberry Ratatouille Crisp with Garlic Chive Mashed Potatoes.
To the adventurous, I recommend the Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops. The chocolate sauce is similar to a mole, like Mexicans put on their chicken and pork, but with a heaviness characteristic of the chocolates of Switzerland and France. The meat is moist, tender, and grilled to perfection.
I don’t know if there are other Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops in the world, but if there are then I promise you this: Chef Zoey’s Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops are, without question, the world’s greatest Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops.
The video cut to Chef Cannoli, seated in his kitchen, dressed in his finest whites. “Zoey Kate is a brave cook and a friend,” he said.
The video cut to Zoey and Kim Chi strolling through Trolley 3, admiring Fat Jo’s drum set. Then back to Kim Chi in the studio, saying:
If you’re in San Francisco, and you see Zoeylicious roll by, hop aboard for the dining experience of a lifetime. Order the Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops, extra chocolate. From the New York Times, I’m Kim Chi.
Fade to black.
“Eh,” Zoey said, “I’ve had better.”
Had this been her first published review, she might’ve rolled onto her back, kicked her feet in the air, and shrieked with glee, but this wasn’t her first review. Since its grand opening, Zoeylicious had received an average of three reviews per day, all of them positive, most of them glowing.
Though pleased, more or less, with the New York Times’s report, she worried about her relationship with Chef Cannoli. Kim Chi had interviewed him for three hours, after all. No chef, no matter how generous, would give a three-hour interview, get four seconds of screen time (endorsing another chef,
no less), then whistle a merry tune.
On-screen, below the video, was the text copy of the complete Chef Zoey interview. Zoey tapped the Print button. On the dresser, a printer hummed to life, spitting out three pages of crisp, warm paper. Zoey set her iPad on the nightstand. She hopped off her bed and pinned them to the wall, adding to an ever-expanding mural of reviews.
Tucking her thumbs into her robe’s pockets, she admired her “wall of fame,” trying to derive a sense of satisfaction. But she couldn’t. Despite rave reviews from the San Francisco Chronicle, Bay Area Beatnik Weekly, Fog City Foodie, Eat. Purge. Repeat., and dozens of food bloggers, Zoey lacked a review from the critic who mattered most:
Royston Basil Boarhead, Golden Gate Magazine.
All in good time, she reminded herself.
There came a knock on Zoey’s door. The knock was hard and clunky, so it hadn’t come from Valentine or Gershwin. Valentine’s knock was staccato yet graceful, like a trumpet. Gershwin’s knock was smooth and steady like a walking bass. This hard, clunky knock could have only come from one person.
“Come in, Dal.”
The door opened. Dallin strutted into the room with a boisterous “Ha-ha!” He wore aviator sunglasses. A Bluetooth headset clung to one ear like a koala bear on a tree limb. Pressing a finger against the earpiece, Secret Service–style, he turned his back to Zoey, saying, “Sounds good, baby. Talk later. Ciao bello.”
“Ciao bello?” Zoey said. “When did you become the Renaissance man?”
With dramatic flourish, Dallin turned and whipped off his sunglasses. “Oh? Hey, Z. I did not see you there.”
“It’s my bedroom,” Zoey said.
Dallin hung his sunglasses on the neck of his 49ers T-shirt. (Today’s shirt was a Super Bowl XXIV champions commemorative, white, with caricatures of Steve Young and Jerry Rice holding trophies.) “Anyways, I bet you’re wondering why you haven’t seen me in a while.”
“I see you every night.”
“At your restaurant, yeah. But not here at your house. I haven’t been here in nine days.”
“Keeping a tally, I see.”
The World's Greatest Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops Page 10
