The World's Greatest Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops

by Ryan K. Sager

  “Good morning, Miss Kate. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Zoey sat down onto a metal foldout chair next to a filing cabinet and rested her hands on her knees. “I’ve come to report a series of heinous crimes.”

  Officer Haggis set the Danish on a stack of folders on his desk. He wiped purple goo off his chin with his pinkie finger. “What are the crimes?”

  “Slander, subterfuge, and sabotage.”

  “And the culprit?”

  “A nefarious villain named Chef Pao. You must arrest him at once. He’s at his restaurant right now. I’ll wait here until you get back.”

  Officer Haggis sipped his coffee and scratched his left eyebrow with the back of his free hand. “And how, exactly, did this guy commit slander, subterfuge, and sabotage?”

  “He blogged wicked things about me. He bugged my pantry…literally. And last night he tried to break into my trolleys.”

  “Do you have proof it’s him?”

  “All you gotta do is look into his eyes. You’ll see the darkness in his soul.”

  Officer Haggis set his cup on the desk and brushed buttery crumbs off his fingers. “I’m afraid the darkness of a man’s soul isn’t enough to press charges, Miss Kate. I need concrete evidence, something I can show a judge. Did you or anyone else see Chef Pao do these things?”

  “No, but I can show you the comment he posted online. It’s essentially a manifesto of his intent to sabotage me.”

  “I’m afraid an online comment isn’t enough, Miss Kate. If no one saw Chef Pao commit an act of sabotage and you can’t provide evidence, then I can’t arrest him.”

  “In that case, we’ll have to take matters into our own hands. Here’s what I suggest.” Zoey leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’ll go to my favorite Mexican eatery, where I’ll enjoy a lavish lunch of pulled pork enchiladas and fried ice cream. I’m there all the time, so it’s the perfect alibi. Meanwhile, you and your fellow officers will head over to New Shanghai. You’ll lure Chef Pao outside, then stuff him into the trunk of your car. You’ll drive Chef Pao out to the middle of nowhere and leave him there. When you’re done, you’ll send me a text that says ‘The stroganoff is ready to serve.’ Then I’ll know that Chef Pao is out of the way. For a few days, at least. Any questions?”

  Officer Haggis picked up his Danish and took a bite. As he chewed, he stared at a map of San Francisco taped to the wall. The silence bothered Zoey. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Maybe he didn’t like a part of the plan.

  “If you don’t like the stroganoff idea,” Zoey said, “we can use other dishes. Potato salad. Homemade chili. Alder-planked salmon. Any food will do.”

  Officer Haggis swallowed and looked at Zoey. “Miss Kate, for the next sixty seconds, I’m going to sit in this chair and enjoy the rest of my coffee and Danish. When I’m done, if you’re not out of this police station and on your way home, I’ll call your parents. I wonder how they’d react to news that their only daughter is under arrest for attempting to recruit a law enforcement official to aid her in a kidnapping.”

  “Since Chef Pao is an adult, is it still considered kidnapping?”

  “Zoey, go home.”

  Moments later, Zoey was stomping up Vallejo Street, dodging men with briefcases, women with bulky purses, boys on skateboards, and girls on frozen yogurt. Her iPhone rang. Still walking, she took out her phone and looked at the caller ID. The number had a local area code, but Zoey didn’t recogn—

  Smack!

  Zoey collided with something hard. Scents of tobacco and fermented soybeans attacked her nostrils. She stumbled backward, dropping her phone.

  “Clumsy girl,” said a cold, cruel voice.

  Zoey’s vision blurred. She shook her throbbing head. Her sight wobbled into focus on a face she had hoped to never see again.

  Chef Pao.

  His long black ponytail hung over his left shoulder, the bamboo and rat skull dangling at the end like charms on a witch’s bracelet. He fixed his eyes—one jade, one a wandering colorless orb—on Zoey and grinned like a wolf about to pounce on a tiny rabbit. He held a grocery bag with a stalk of flowering Chinese chives hanging out of the top.

  “This is surprise,” he said. “How is restaurant?”

  “It’s awesome, no thanks to you.”

  With his free hand, Chef Pao stroked his shriveled left ear. “I no understand your meaning.”

  “You sabotaged me.”

  “What sabotage mean?”

  “Don’t play dumb, Pao. I know it was you.”

  Chef Pao made an I’m-acting-aloof-and-harmless-now-but-you-and-I-both-know-I’m-evil-to-the-core face. (If you’ve ever looked a cat in the eyes, you’ve seen it.) “You have proof?”

  “No, but I will.”

  Chef Pao snorted. “In that case, I suggestion you be extra careful.”

  He strode past Zoey, bumping her—hard—with a meaty shoulder. “You keep out of way,” he said, disappearing into pedestrian traffic.

  On the sidewalk, Zoey’s cell phone rang again. She picked it up, checked the caller ID. Same number. Curious, she answered. “Oui?”

  “Chef Zoey,” said a voice as deep and thick as brown gravy, “this is Boarhead, editor in chief at Golden Gate Magazine.”

  Zoey froze.

  Her hero. On the phone. Speaking directly to her. Holy guacamole.

  “Hello, sir. To what do I owe the honor?”

  “You made quite the impression on Faruq. He’s been talking about you all morning. He swears your restaurant is the best in town.”

  “I’m flattered, sir.” She suspected good news was coming, but she was anxious nonetheless.

  “I trust Faruq’s recommendations above all others. Besides my own, of course.” Boarhead chuckled, amused by his own quip.

  Zoey chuckled too. She didn’t know a lot about men, but she knew this much: if you want to get on a man’s good side, stroke the ego.

  “At Faruq’s urging, I am nominating you as a candidate for the Golden Toque.”

  Zoey couldn’t believe it. She was so excited she wanted to throw her arms in the air, shriek with glee, and dance the hokey pokey. But she remembered something Dallin had told her once: “When you get to the end zone, act like you’ve been there before.” Zoey didn’t know what an “end zone” was, but Dallin had explained, “When you do something awesome, don’t act surprised. Act like, ‘Oh, was that awesome? I hadn’t noticed. I do awesome so often I forget to be amazed sometimes.’”

  Zoey played it cool. “I’m honored, sir.”

  “As you should be,” Boarhead said. “Your competitors are Chef Cannoli and Chef Pao. Are you familiar with their work?”

  At the mention of Chef Pao, Zoey gritted her teeth. “Oh, I’m familiar with it.”

  “This afternoon, I shall dine at Chef Cannoli’s restaurant. At six o’clock, I shall dine at Chef Pao’s restaurant. At nine o’clock, I shall dine at your restaurant.”

  “I’ll save you a table, sir. At nine o’clock, we’ll be at Polk and Pacific. Can you meet us there?”

  “I can.”

  “Great. I look forward to—”

  “I expect great things from you, Chef. Do not disappoint me.”

  “I won’t, sir.”

  “At nine, then.”

  Click.

  Zoey looked up at the sky, her heart a storm of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, she was excited to cook for her hero. On the other hand, she was nervous. She was anxious to crush Chef Pao. Try to, at least. But if she crushed Chef Cannoli too, what would happen to their friendship?

  The stakes were high, as were the chances of Chef Pao attempting another sabotage. Zoey would have to take preventative measures.

  She dialed Knuckles. He answered, “Yeah.”

  “Knuckles, it’s me. I want you to spend all day in the trolleys, keep an eye out for Chef Pao. Got it?”

  “I don’t wanna spend all day in the trolleys.”

  “Too bad. As chief executive of restaurant securit
y, it’s your duty to guard the trolleys today.”

  “Since when am I the chief executive of restaurant security?”

  “Since twenty seconds ago. I just promoted you.”

  “Pay raise?”

  “No.”

  Knuckles grumbled. “I’ll head over.”

  Zoey ended the call then dialed Chef Cannoli. He answered. “Buongiorno.”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Zoey Kate, my dear bambina. Come stai?”

  “I’m fantastic! You’ve heard the news, I assume?”

  A pause. “News?”

  “Royston Basil Boarhead nominated me for the Golden Toque.”

  A long pause. Then, “Congratulazioni.”

  “Thanks. Heads up. Last night, Chef Pao sabotaged my restaurant. Odds are he’ll try again tonight. I suspect you’re a target too. Be on guard.”

  Chef Cannoli gave a quiet grunt, the kind elderly people make when sitting down. “Why have you to warn me? You no want the award to win?”

  “Of course I wanna win, but I wanna win because Royston Basil Boarhead loves my cooking, not because Chef Pao tipped the scales. Besides, you’re my friend. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

  “Grazie, Zoey. I’ll keep the eye out for Chef Pao and his plays afoul. Buona fortuna tonight. May the best chef win.”

  “May the best chef win,” Zoey said.

  Royston Basil Boarhead looked bigger in pictures than he did in real life. He stood on the corner of Polk and Pacific, next to an arthritic old woman who was taller than he was. As Chef Zoey stepped off Trolley 1 to shake his tiny hand, she found herself looking down at him. The only things big about Boarhead were his handlebar mustache and the gold watch chain on his wool vest.

  “Thank you for coming, sir. It will be my honor to cook for you.”

  Boarhead brushed an invisible fleck of dust off one shoulder of his wool suit. “Yes, it will be.”

  Zoey wanted to ask him about his experiences at La Cucina di Cannoli and New Shanghai, but she worried such an inquiry would be inappropriate. So she said, “I hope you saved room.”

  Boarhead patted his pudgy belly. “I have a highly efficient digestive tract. There’s always room. Which car is mine?”

  “Trolley Two, s’il vous plaît.”

  Boarhead brushed past Zoey (he smelled of hair wax and cherry mouthwash) and boarded Trolley 2. As Dallin ushered Boarhead to Table 1, Zoey hopped aboard Trolley 1. She gave the driver’s box door a staccato two-knuckle knock, and the restaurant started forward. In Trolley 3, Valentine & the Night Owls eased into a smooth 9/8 waltz, and Valentine’s sanguine trumpet floated over the rhythm section like steam over a boiling pot.

  Washing her hands, Zoey was glad she didn’t have to worry about Chef Pao interfering again. Knuckles had spent all day in the trolleys, keeping watch and searching for anything amiss. Having found “no signs of foul play,” Knuckles was confident that the previous night’s 3:00 a.m. break-in attempt had failed and the trolleys were in fine working order.

  Dallin came to the serving windows. “Okay, Boarface wants the Choc Chops.”

  “And to drink?”

  “He asked what I recommended. I said you had something special planned for him.”

  “Well done, Dal.”

  “Thanks. Oh, and the lady at table five requested Balsamic Pear Ravioli with Rose Petals. It’s not on the menu. I told her I’d ask.”

  “Scoot.”

  Dallin stepped aside so Zoey could see Table 5. There she was, by herself, dressed in a mint-green executive skirt and blouse; Miss Lemon of Mulberry Bank.

  Zoey said, “Did she sound calculating and vengeful or kind and gentle?”

  Dallin said, “Um, kind and gentle, I guess.”

  “Did she say anything about pit bulls?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Tell her we’re out of rose petals, but I got something even better planned. Something special, just for her. And if she tries to hand you a sealed envelope, don’t take it. And it’s Boarhead, not Boarface. If in doubt, use ‘sir.’”

  “Boarhead or sir. Got it.”

  In Trolley 1, a chain dangled from the ceiling. At the bottom of the chain, a metal hook. Attached to the hook, a tin drum.

  Zoey lit a match and dropped it in the fire pit. WHOOSH! A massive blue-and-yellow flame shot up like a geyser, engulfing the bottom half of the suspended tin drum.

  Zoey slid her hands into a pair of insulated leather gloves. She opened a hatch at the top of the tin drum. Heat rushed from the opening, stinging Zoey’s face and arms. Taking care to not bump or graze the tin drum with any part of her body (even a split second of contact would’ve burned through her clothes and skin), she poured a sack of cacao beans into the drum and closed the hatch.

  Gloves off, she fetched a brick of butter from the walk-in, unwrapped the brick, and plopped it into a hot saucepan on the stove. While the butter melted, Zoey sliced up six Pink Lady apples and tossed them into the pan.

  The cacao beans in the tin drum began to crackle and hiss like popcorn. Gloves back on, Zoey unfastened the tin drum from the metal hook. She flipped the drum upside down, pouring a mess of husks and nibs onto the counter. She put the drum back on the hook, then shed her gloves.

  The anvil was under the counter. It was heavy, but not so heavy that Zoey couldn’t lift it. She raised the anvil over the pile of husks and nibs, and let it drop.

  CRUNCH!

  She moved the anvil aside. The husks were cracked and broken, but the rock-hard nibs—those opulent brown orbs of cacao—remained intact.

  She took a blow-dryer from a drawer, plugged it in, set it to max, and aimed at the pile. The cracked husks winnowed away like sawdust. The weightier nibs stayed put.

  Into the grinder went the nibs. The grinder rattled and hummed as it worked the nibs into cocoa liquor.

  Dallin came to the window. “Yo, Chef, trouble at four.”

  Alarmed, Zoey bolted to the serving windows. At Table 4 sat two young men dressed in matching red tracksuits, their heads shaved to the skin. One guy had his legs propped up on the table. He was juggling a fork and butter knife high in the air, using grandiose gestures befitting a circus clown. The other guy pounded his fists on the table, chanting in Chinese, “JIĀ-YÓU! JIĀ-YÓU!”

  “They’re Chef Pao’s men,” Zoey told Dallin. “I recognize their faces.” The messy, mostly empty plates and glasses on the table meant the men had already dined. “How long have they been acting like this?”

  “Just started.”

  “That means they were waiting for Boarhead to arrive. That’s Pao’s plan: send in two jerks to cause a ruckus, ruin Boarhead’s dining experience, make it impossible for him to enjoy himself, and impossible for me to win high marks.”

  The juggler bounced to his feet. He pranced up and down the aisle on his feet and knuckles like a monkey making threatening noises.

  In a surprising (if not awkward) show of bravery, Royston Basil Boarhead rose to his feet, throwing a napkin to the floor for dramatic effect. “That’s enough, gentlemen. Either find your manners or find your way to the door.”

  The men were unfazed, and with reason. Zoey had seen bagels more intimidating than Boarhead.

  Zoey said, “Dal, can you get rid of them?”

  “Easy,” Dallin said. “Unless they know kung fu.”

  The monkey guy performed a cartwheel and backflip, landing in a crouched position with one hand raised in a fist, the other bent like a monkey’s paw. The second rose from the table and whipped off his red jacket, exposing two tattoos of green-and-yellow dragons on his cut chest and abs. With a mighty “Hai!” he jumped and flipped, kicking the air above his head. He landed legs apart, hands curled like claws.

  Dallin gulped. “This one’s above my pay grade, Z.”

  Zoey hollered to the driver’s box, “Knuckles, crowd control!”

  The restaurant screeched to a halt. Knuckles erupted from the driver’s box with fire in his eyes. He tit
led his head to one side. The bones in his neck went pop-pop-pop-pop! like crushed Bubble Wrap.

  “Time to take out the trash.”

  He hopped over to Trolley 2. When Miss Lemon saw him, she recoiled in fear, as did her fellow diners. Boarhead dropped to his knees and crawled under Table 1. Pao’s men altered their battle poses. They flexed their muscles, breathing through flared nostrils and clenched teeth.

  “I’ll make this simple,” Knuckles said. “You can walk outta here or fly outta here. Yer choice.”

  “Hai!” Monkey Guy lunged forward, leading with a bent knee and cross-elbow. He struck Knuckles in the chest and face. When Knuckles didn’t budge, Monkey Guy attacked him again. Knuckles stood there, absorbing the blows, looking bored and underwhelmed. After Monkey Guy had worn himself out a little, Knuckles said, “Nice try, bumpkin.” He seized Monkey Guy by the seat of his pants and pitched him out the door, onto the street.

  Miss Lemon fanned herself with a menu.

  Now the second guy charged. With deft force, he leapt into the air, extending one leg and hissing like a dragon.

  “That’s cute,” Knuckles said, catching the guy midair, grabbing the seat of his pants, and throwing him out on the street too.

  The diners applauded. Someone shouted, “Dinner and a show!”

  Boarhead crawled out from under the table and brushed off his knees. “Well, that was exciting, wasn’t it?”

  Miss Lemon marveled at the tattooed hero standing in the doorway, muscles bulging. She had a now-that’s-what-I-call-a-man! look on her face. (If you’ve ever been to a Chef Curtis Stone book signing, you’ve seen it.)

  As Knuckles turned to leave, Miss Lemon cried out, “Wait! You never told me your name.”

  Knuckles glanced back over his tattooed shoulder. “They call me…Chrome Justice.”

  Miss Lemon fainted.

  A minute later, the trolleys were back in motion, Dallin was helping Miss Lemon off the floor, and Zoey was about to make Golden Toque history.

  After that rejuvenating chapter break, Zoey poked the sautéed apples with a fork. Juice oozed from the apples’ soft flesh. She added cornstarch, cold water, brown sugar, cranberries, and ground cinnamon to the pan, making the kitchen smell like cranberry apple pie.