The World's Greatest Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops

by Ryan K. Sager

  Outside, Boarhead tugged on the bottom of his suit jacket, as if it would somehow serve to fix his spoiled appearance and restore his dignity. “My readers will hear about this.” He stomped off into the night.

  Gershwin brought his head inside the trolley. Turning, he laid his hands on Zoey’s shoulders, looked her in the eyes. “Are you injured?”

  “No.”

  “In pain?”

  “No.” She was numb, in fact.

  As Gershwin dashed over to Valentine, Zoey scanned Trolley 3—a wasteland of busted furniture, dishes, and instruments. Everyone looked frail and traumatized. (Except Four. He was still grinning like an idiot, those two trembling women clinging to his shirt.) Bird was on his knees, helping Monk sit upright. Monk blinked, slow and hard, like his eyes couldn’t focus. Dallin was still on the floor where he’d landed. His eyes were closed like he was in a coma or something. At least he was breathing. Valentine sat on the floor, legs straight, back against the wall, her fingers caressing the dents in her beloved trumpet. She looked up and her eyes met Zoey’s. The look on her face said it all:

  You just had to start a restaurant, didn’t you?

  2:00 a.m. Saint Francis Memorial Hospital. Room 304.

  Dallin lay on a hospital bed, his body draped in sterile white sheets. His eyes were closed. His chest rose and fell with each slow, silent breath. A gruesome lump of bumpy, knotty flesh sat on his forehead. The doctor had called it a “goose egg.” Zoey thought “goose egg” was a misnomer. She had worked with goose eggs before. (Goose Egg Omelets, Goose Egg French Toast, Goose Egg Streusel…) Goose eggs were smooth and round and pretty. They did not look like that thing growing out of Dallin’s forehead.

  Dallin had suffered a concussion. The doctor, bless her heart, had spent fifteen minutes explaining to Zoey the difference between a concussion and a coma. “A coma,” she had said, “is a state of deep unconsciousness lasting for an indefinite period of time. A concussion is temporary unconsciousness caused by a blow to the head. In twenty-four hours, Dallin should be as good as new.”

  The armchair was comfortable. Zoey was grateful for that. Just because her soul was in anguish didn’t mean her body had to be. She sat beside Dallin’s bed, watching him sleep, listening to the sporadic beeps of a brain-monitoring machine on the other side of the bed.

  The lights were off. Muted moonlight seeped through an open window, giving texture to the darkness, accentuating straight lines and hard edges and that volcano on her best friend’s face. Zoey could have turned the lights on, but she didn’t. The darkness was comforting for some reason.

  “Fumble,” Dallin mumbled. (He talked in his sleep, like Gershwin.)

  Valentine and Gershwin were in the hallway. The door was closed, but Zoey could hear their voices.

  “I’ve called her cell six times,” Valentine was saying. “She’s not answering.”

  Gershwin said, “What’s the name of the diner she works at?”

  “I’ll recognize it if I hear it.”

  “Orphan Andy’s.”

  “No.”

  “Sharky’s.”

  “No. It’s an L word, I think.”

  “Lori’s?”

  “No.”

  “Lucky Penny?”

  “No. What was the first one you said?”

  “Orphan Andy’s.”

  “I keep thinking of a tree for some reason.”

  “Pinecrest?”

  “That’s it.”

  Silence. “Bad number,” Gershwin said.

  “What number did you call?”

  “The one on Pinecrest’s site.”

  “Did you dial it in right?”

  “I didn’t dial anything. I pressed the link. It started ringing.”

  “Try dialing instead.”

  “How is that different?”

  “Maybe the link is bad.”

  Silence. Then, “See? Bad number.”

  “Try SFoodie. Maybe it lists a different number.”

  “Why would SFoodie have the correct number and the official site have a bad number?”

  “Hand me the keys.”

  “You’re in no condition to drive. Look at your hands, Val. They’re shaking.”

  “We can’t not tell her. Her son has a concussion, for the love of Louis!”

  “Shh! You’ll wake Zoey.”

  “Ms. Caraway has to know.”

  “Fine, but I’m driving.”

  “What about Zoey?”

  “We’ll be back before she wakes up.”

  Footsteps started down the hall. They disappeared into an elevator with squeaky doors.

  Zoey propped her feet up on the bed, crossed her ankles, and clicked the heels of her boots together. “Your mom’s gonna blame me for this, you know.”

  Dallin’s chest moved up…and down…up…and down…

  “She’s scary when she’s mad,” Zoey added. “I should leave the country.”

  …down…and up…down…and up…

  “The doc’s gonna do a lobotomy,” Zoey said. “I told him, ‘While you’re in there, why not swap out his brain for a monkey brain?’ If you wake up craving bananas, that’s why.”

  …down…and up…

  Zoey chuckled, not in response to anything funny, but in response to the anguish eating her soul. Laughter felt and sounded absurd and inappropriate, and yet, for that same reason, it felt and sounded so darn good.

  …down…and up…down…

  …still down…

  Waiting for up.

  …still no up…

  The brain-activity machine began beeping, loud and fast.

  “Dal…?”

  Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

  She slid her feet off the bed and sat upright. “You okay, buddy?”

  Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

  She shook his arm. No response.

  The beeps grew louder, more staccato. Bee-bee-bee-bee-bee.

  Panicked seized her. Is he dying? Is he dead? She had to do something. Quick.

  So she jabbed her finger in his eye.

  “Dude!” Dallin awoke with a start. He clapped both hands over his right eye. “What is your problem?”

  “I thought you were dead.”

  “So you stabbed my eye?” Dallin removed his hands from his face, blinked a dozen times. “Agh! I’m blind!”

  “Settle down, Head Injury. The lights are off.”

  “Why are the lights off?

  “To help you sleep, dummy.”

  “Was stabbing my eye supposed to help me sleep?”

  The door opened. Hall light poured into the room. A nurse hurried in. He checked the brain-activity machine. He pressed a button, and the beeping stopped. “Is something wrong with your eye?”

  Dallin pointed an accusing finger at Zoey. “She stabbed me.”

  The nurse looked at Zoey, concerned.

  Zoey moved a finger in a circular motion around her ear: the international he’s-crazy sign. She mouthed the word “concussion.”

  The brain-activity machine beeped.

  The nurse patted Dallin on the shoulder. “Can I bring you a Pepsi or some cookies?”

  “Nah,” Dallin said.

  Zoey was so shocked to hear Dallin turn down a sugary snack that she almost fainted.

  The nurse left the room and closed the door. Darkness surrounded Zoey like a heavy blanket, making her feel snug and safe.

  Dallin closed his eyes. “I’m going back to sleep. Keep your fingers out of my eyes, will ya?”

  “Of course. Sweet dreams.”

  She watched his breathing slow down…and up…down…and up…

  She tried to take comfort in Dallin’s still-aliveness. She told herself everything was fine. (Not with her career, of course. That was a disaster. But with Dallin.) She was here, wasn’t she? This counted, right? This made up for…things…right?

  “Wanna talk?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me about your scrimmage.”

  “You didn’t come. Co
ach didn’t play me. We lost by fourteen. Can I go to sleep now?”

  “Sure.”

  Dallin rolled onto his side, turning his broad back to Zoey. Let him rest, Zoey told herself. Let it rest.

  But she couldn’t let it rest. That feeling, deep in her guts, was too…loud. Was that the word? No, not loud. It was like an itch on your back that moves when you try to scratch it. But deeper. Beneath the skin.

  “Hey, remember when you got locked out of your apartment, so I came over and you boosted me onto the fire escape, and I climbed through the window and let you in?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I could’ve slipped, fallen, landed on my head, and died, but I did it anyway.”

  Dallin began to snore. It was a fake snore, intended to make Zoey think he was asleep so she’d stop talking.

  “Hey, remember the time I made two hundred Sourdough Pistachio Carrot Cupcakes and I let you lick the beaters between each batch?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That was cool of me, right? And remember the time I made you a two-gallon bucket of cookie dough for your birthday? That was cool too, right?”

  Dallin ramped up his fake snoring, saying the word “asleep” on every exhale.

  Zoey folded her arms on Dallin’s bed, her elbows nudging his back. “It’s hard to think of those things and not think I’m a good friend, you know? You’re not the only one who gives and serves and sacrifices. I contribute. I give. Just because I’m busy doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

  Fidgeting, she sat upright, wagging a finger at Dallin as if he had eyes in the back of his head. “So if you’re implying, Dal, that you’re the better friend because you’ve worked at my restaurant every night and rescued us all from certain death, and I couldn’t even make it to your one scrimmage, well, I take issue with that.”

  She paused, in case Dallin wanted to say something. He didn’t.

  “Still awake?”

  “Sleeping.”

  Leaning back now, she perched the bottoms of her boots against the metal rail beneath the mattress. “It’s not like the scrimmage was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. There’s gonna be, what, like fifty more games this season?” Zoey paused. “Twenty-five, maybe?”

  “Less talk. More sleep.”

  “Right. Yes. Go to sleep.” Zoey closed her eyes, hoping for a nap herself. “Good talk. We’re good. Everything’s good. I have no reason to feel ashamed or guilty.”

  Dallin said, “You’re still talking.”

  “I am? I am. I’m done. That’s it.” She straightened her legs, resting her ankles on Dallin’s calves. “No more talking.”

  Silence. Beep. Silence.

  Zoey laughed. “Hey, wanna hear something funny?”

  “No.”

  “Remember when the brakes in Zoeylicious went kaput and we were zooming toward a cliff at a gazillion miles per hour? Well, I had one of those moments you hear about. You know, when a person’s about to die and her life flashes before her eyes? It’s not so much a visual flashing as it is a feeling, like a video on repeat, but it’s inside your heart.

  “You’d think my life-flashing or whatever-it’s-called moment would be about cooking or critical acclaim or that serenity-now look people get when they bite into my hot, crispy Bacon Rings. But it wasn’t anything like that.”

  The room was so quiet Zoey could hear the air whooshing out of a vent in the ceiling. She wondered if Dallin was asleep or still faking. Either way, she had to get this loudness out before it ate her alive.

  “It felt like…how do I describe it? You know when you go to a restaurant, and you usually get the same thing every time but you think, ‘Hey, I’ll try something new’; then the whole time you’re eating you’re thinking, ‘I should’ve got the thing I always get.’ It was like that, only a zillion times bigger. I ached for a redo. I wished I could go back in time, blow off the New York Times people, and go to your scrimmage. Who cares if you didn’t play? I wanted to be there.”

  Dallin was snoring. For real this time. Zoey wondered how much he had heard, how much he had missed. “I need some air.” She got up and walked out of the room into the glare of a well-lit hallway.

  The Get Well Soon Diner was built in the 1950s and still looked like it: checkered floor, red booths and barstools, Elvis Presley and Chuck Berry posters, a cook in a soda jerk hat, a cashier in a poodle skirt and bobby socks, a jukebox in the corner. The jukebox was silent at the moment, thank goodness. Six a.m. was too early for rockabilly and doo-wop.

  The diner had windows, even though it was inside the hospital. Zoey sat in a cold booth, peering out at the scenery: a gift shop, an elevator, a plastic ficus tree, a young man in scrubs on a cell phone, an EMERGENCY PERSONNEL ONLY sign on two closed doors.

  The scrambled eggs were bland and the bacon was soggy, but the coffee was strong. Zoey was on her fifth cup, grateful for a caffeine reboot after an intense and sleepless night.

  The booth faced an old TV fastened to the ceiling. The news was on. Closed-captioning made up for the low volume. Dread and angst filled Zoey’s heart as she awaited coverage of last night’s disaster.

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  There was Zoeylicious, one end teetering over the edge of the cliff, the other end smoking like a chimney, ashes dancing in dawn’s young light. A man’s deep voice said, and captions read, “Carnage and mayhem last night as San Francisco’s most talked-about restaurant, Zoeylicious, ravaged downtown in a high-speed blitzkrieg of terror and destruction. The restaurant’s owner and chef, Zoey Sara Lee Kate…”

  A photo flashed onto the screen. It was Zoey, dressed in a peach toque and jacket. Her mouth was open and her eyelids were in the middle of a blink, so she looked like a dazed drug addict. Zoey hadn’t seen that photo before. She wondered who had taken it and how the news station had come to obtain it.

  “Those closest to Zoey Kate describe her as a disturbed individual with a propensity for kicking puppies and voting Republican.”

  On-screen, animated horns sprouted from Zoey’s head, and digital fire shot from her droopy eyes.

  “Horns? Really?”

  The screen changed (thank heavens) to a clip of Chef Cannoli in his kitchen, draping fettuccini noodles over a drying rack. The footage was old. Chef Cannoli’s hair was thick and black, his stomach flat. His smile was as sweet and endearing as ever.

  “Chef Zoey was one of three nominees competing for Golden Gate Magazine’s distinguished cooking award, the Golden Toque. Chef Pao, nominated for his seventh Golden Toque, forfeited the competition after he and most of his staff fell ill. Channel Five News has received confirmation that this year’s winner is Chef Benedetto Cannoli of La Cucina di Cannoli.”

  “At least Pao didn’t win,” Zoey said.

  Her phone beeped. A text from Gershwin:

  How are you? How’s Dallin? When you’re ready to come home, call/text and I’ll pick you up.

  She wasn’t ready yet. The hospital had become a sanctuary of sorts. To leave the sanctuary was to face real life. How many lawsuits awaited her? Would civic officials press charges? Would the reporters seek interviews to chronicle her despair? She couldn’t face all that. Not yet.

  She gulped down the last of her coffee and left the diner. She didn’t know what to do with herself. Dallin would still be asleep, and Zoey didn’t want to hang out with his mom. Walking felt good, so she wandered the hospital, up and down corridors and hallways, up flights of stairs, down elevators. The more lost she got, the better she felt. If I don’t know where I am, then no one else will find me. It was as close to disappearing as she could get without a counterfeit passport and reconstructive surgery.

  At length, in a hallway on the sixth or seventh floor (she wasn’t sure which), she walked past the hostess from New Shanghai. The little woman sat on a chair, eyes glued to her BlackBerry. Her black hair was frizzy. He eyes were bloodshot. She didn’t notice Zoey.

  Two nurses walked out of the nearest room, leaving the door open a crack.


  “Food poisoning, my eye,” one nurse said. “He looks like he drank a tub of arsenic.”

  “Should we notify the police?” said the other nurse.

  “It’s the doctor’s call,” said the first nurse.

  Passing the room, Zoey’s nostrils twitched. Seaweed. Tobacco. She stopped. She looked around. The nurses turned a corner. The hostess was lost in BlackBerry land. Quick as a cat, Zoey slipped inside the dark room.

  Chef Pao lay on his back in bed. His eyes were open. His lips were parted. His face was the color of stale mango peels.

  “Looks like someone got a taste of his own medicine,” Zoey said.

  As soon as she said it, she regretted it. Seeing him in this condition—so sick, so feeble—made her heart ache. Chef Pao had been a thorn in her side ever since she’d made him a scallop dumpling. Still, she derived zero satisfaction from his suffering. Her business was excellence, not revenge.

  A weak groan stumbled from Chef Pao’s dehydrated lips. The fingers of his left hand twitched, beckoning Zoey to come closer. Why?

  Curious, she walked to Chef Pao’s bedside, saying, “I don’t get it. For two decades, you’ve run one of the finest, most acclaimed restaurants in the world. You’ve passed countless health inspections. But yesterday, of all days, you and half of your staff get food poisoning. What happened? Did you get your eels from the dudes in bowler hats at Pier 39?”

  Chef Pao reached for her hand. Since he was too weak to hurt or threaten her, she allowed him to clasp her fingers. His skin was hot. His grip was gentle. “Láo…shǔ.” His breath smelled like dog puke on sauna coals.

  “You want your shoes?”

  No, that wasn’t it.

  “Láo shǔ.”

  “Want me to call a nurse or…?”

  Chef Pao’s eyes burned with desperation. At least, his good eye did. His bad eye had nothing going on. It just sat there, looking gross.

  “Láo…” His frail hand raised Zoey’s hand an inch. “…shǔ.” He moved her hand down and up again, mirroring the rise of the tonal vowel.

  He wanted her to say it. Why?

  “Shoo-uh,” she said, doing her best to imitate his vocal inflections. “Lah-oh. Shoo-uh. Láo shǔ. Is that right?”

  Chef Pao nodded. Maybe. Might’ve been a long blink. “Zài chúfáng.”