Sweet Heat

by Zuri Day

  “Like I don’t know my way around this kitchen. I’ve only been in it a million times.”

  “There are cans of soda in the fridge. I’ll take a strawberry. No, a grape.”

  Kristy placed cans of soda next to each plate on the counter. She retrieved silverware and napkins, sat back down and opened her drink.

  “Oh, those are pork chops. I see that now.”

  “Not just chops, my special kind of stuffed pork chops. I’m calling them Pork-U-Pines because they’re stuffed with minced kale, goat cheese, and tiny bits of pineapple, then brushed with a maple glaze.”

  She carefully lifted the perfectly done, juicy, cheese-oozing chop from the skillet and placed it on a platter, “I baked the vegetables in the same skillet so they’d be flavored by the meat.”

  After removing the other chops, she scooped up several heaping spoonsful of slightly charred carrots and potatoes and arranged them around the meat that took center stage, or in this case, center platter. She chopped several sprigs of fresh parsley and sprinkled it over the dish. Back at the stove she carefully lifted out the glass baking dish containing fillets of fish over a bed of rice, all covered with the white sauce. After taking pictures of the dishes with her cell phone, she placed helpings of each on the plates.

  She stepped back, crossed her arms as she leaned against the counter. “Okay, taste the fish first.”

  “Why can’t I try the pork chop?”

  “The pork chop is spicier, more robust. If you eat it first, you won’t be able to taste the delicate seasonings in the fish dish.”

  Kristy sank a fork into the fish dish, making sure to get some of the fish, sauce, and rice. She took the bite and ate slowly, her expression thoughtful as she chewed. She took another bite, set down the fork and reached for her napkin. “Pretty good,” she said and took a drink of soda.

  “Pretty good? That’s all?”

  “Pretty good from me on a dish like that is saying something. I only like fried catfish or fish sticks, and even those only every now and then. Now this pork chop . . .” She picked up her fork. “May I taste it now?”

  “Sure, Kristy.”

  Kristy fixed her with a big smile as she picked up her knife and cut off a bite-sized piece. Seconds after placing the fork into her mouth she jumped up from the bar chair.

  Naomi started. “What’s the matter?”

  Kristy started dancing. “I’m shouting hallelujah because that bite just made me happy!”

  Naomi laughed, finally walking over and sitting in front of her plate. “No doubt you’d go with the pork chop if made to choose.”

  Kristy returned to her seat. “I don’t like kale and didn’t even know goats made cheese, but this dish right here!” She pointed to it with her fork, continuing to eat. “So good! Where’s what’s-his-name, Victor?”

  “What made you think of that fool?”

  “Because this dish is inspired by something or someone. I thought maybe it was him.”

  “That dish was inspired by the Cooking Channel and my imagination. I haven’t talked to Vic in a while.”

  “Why, Nay? He was cute!”

  “Yeah, he was fine but couldn’t stuff my pork chop, if you know what I mean.”

  Kristy almost spewed her bite across the counter. “You. Are. Stupid!”

  “No. Horny, though.”

  “Maybe you’ll meet somebody through that contest.”

  “The only meat on my mind next week will be the piece I put in the judge’s hand to get past the general call and on to the preliminaries.”

  “What’s a general call?”

  Naomi shrugged as she chewed a bite. “I’m thinking like a cattle call, but will find out for sure next week. So you liked the pork chop the best, hands down? Not that your answer is unbiased, but . . . you’re my only opinion until Nana gets home.”

  “That pork chop could cure cancer.”

  The high praise almost made Naomi blush.

  “I mean that, honey. It was everything. But I thought you told me the prize was a food truck.”

  “It is, plus fifty thousand cash to help with start-up costs.”

  “Hmm.”

  Naomi looked up, convinced there was a wealth of opinion behind that one word. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing, what?”

  “I thought you’d focus on your pies to win. What do you call them?”

  “My savory slice pies?”

  “Yeah. Those are good. I can see a lot of people coming to a food truck for those.”

  “That’s simple cooking. The judges are going to be culinary experts. They’re going to be looking for recipes that call for skill, finesse.”

  “They’re going to be looking for food that tastes good, that folk want to buy. Now I’m sure that baked fish is better for my waistline, but if you can find a way to put that chop on some dough and get people to thinking about more than pizza when they hear the word slice? You’ll win that contest.”

  Kristy ate, shared her two cents, and left. Nana came home from Wednesday-night Bible study and raved about the pork and the fish. Naomi watched TV and went to bed. But she couldn’t sleep. Kristy’s words wouldn’t let her. They’d prompted her to think more about uniqueness and niche as much as the way the food tasted. The unusual idea that would set her apart from hundreds, maybe thousands who’d be there next Saturday for the contest’s open call. Just after one in the morning, Naomi gave up on sleep, headed for the kitchen, and in the words of her bestie tried to figure out how to put that chop on a slice.

  2

  Marvin entered the Los Angeles Convention Center’s South Hall and welcomed the blast of cool air that greeted him. April had brought an unusual amount of rain to Southern California, and if this second Saturday was any indication, it looked as though May would bring the heat. After discovering that the contest Byron had mentioned was on the Chow Channel, the newest network to focus on food, Marvin had decided to enter after all. He thought maybe a new network would lead to a different outcome than what had happened with his previous attempts. Plus, as Liz had said, the only way to win a contest was to enter it. So here he was. Marvin lifted his purple-and gold-Lakers ball cap to wipe away sweat, walked over to a list of instructions displayed on a large screen, and then scanned the auditorium for the letter designating which aisle he should enter. He ambled amid at least a thousand others doing the same. With the kind of prizes being offered, he’d figured the turnout would be huge. It was. Looked like every cook in California had come after that prize money. Maybe some from Oregon and Nevada, too.

  He spied a large letter C on the room’s opposite side and began working his way through the noisy masses to get there. Each entrant had been asked to bring a single serving of a dish that best represented who they were as a cook or chef. After a week of baking samples, to his family’s delight, and taking votes, he’d brought three individually packaged slices of the pecan log cake. While his brother Byron’s wife had fought diligently on behalf of his sweet potato soufflé, Marvin’s latest creation was the overwhelming favorite. It was Liz’s suggestion to bring several slices in case one got dropped and another got stolen. Forms of sabotage, she’d suggested. Best not to take chances.

  Aisle C was crowded, Ca–Cl on one side. Cm–Cz on the other. He reached his area and walked toward a loud-talking woman as she took a step back.

  Sassy attitude swung around. “Excuse you, dough boy. Watch where you’re going. As big as my behind is, I know you saw it back there.”

  Had she just called him dough boy, as though she knew him like that? A picture of indignation, getting with Marvin in a way that reminded him of his mama? He did a quick, barely noticeable body scan. Now that she’d mentioned it, that ass was an attention grabber. Liz called them Carter-catchers, because they all were butt men. Marvin didn’t know whether to be insulted or to fall in love. He decided on staying focused, read her name tag and stepped behind her.

  “You can’t say sorry?”
<
br />   “I could, but I’m not. You stepped back at the same time I moved forward. So I could be the one copping an attitude right now and saying you ran into me. And with all this going on”—he paused, emphasizing his body—“I can see why.”

  The woman’s shocked expression made him laugh. Clearly, she wasn’t used to getting what she served out dished right back to her.

  “What’s your name?” She leaned forward to read the label stuck to his shirt. “Marvin Carter. Figures.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Common name for a common brother. Trying to work my nerves on the very first day.”

  “Oh, I get it. Working those jaws helps calm your nerves. Might as well get your digs in now, because more than likely this first day of the competition is going to be your last.”

  A collective, combined groan and gasp went up from those who heard him. He watched her raise her brow and take a breath. “Darling,” she said, her voice changing from a loud, caustic tone to one that was soft, almost loving. “I’m going to slice you and the rest of this competition up just like a loaf of fresh bread.”

  “The bread you slice,” Marvin countered, “will be the award-winning loaf I baked and gave to you as a consolation prize.”

  Chuckles, oohs and aahs commenced from contestants who stood nearby and more who gathered, egging them on.

  “Yes, but that award your mama gave you for cooking in her kitchen doesn’t count. It was cute,” she hurriedly continued, having gained the audience and the upper hand. Her eyes beamed and he noticed a dimple when she smiled. “But it doesn’t count.”

  “Obviously you can’t either,” Marvin said, his demeanor relaxed, pausing long enough to let her take the bait.

  “How do you figure?”

  She’d chomped on the hook like he knew she would. Time to reel her in. “Because if you could”—he read her name tag—“Naomi Carson, you would have already counted yourself out.”

  This woman didn’t know he’d grown up in a house with four boisterous brothers and Liz Carter, the ace trash-talker. He could hang with her all day long. Good thing, too, because Naomi wasn’t done.

  “So, you’re up on your numbers. How about your ABCs? Because you are About. To Be. Chopped.” A hand motion was added for emphasis.

  “I hope you can cook. I really do. Because your chances of making it as a comedian are slim to none.”

  “Boy, bye. I’m done with you. Let’s let our food do the talking. We’ll see who’s got jokes when the day is over.”

  “All right, Ms. Carson. I’ll accept your truce for now.”

  Naomi’s smile widened as she looked around her. “Y’all see how he backed down when I mentioned food?” She looked at him. “All right, Mr. Carter.” She held out her hand. “Truce.”

  He shook a hand that was silky soft to the touch. Their eyes met. His dick jumped. Damn, she had nice lips. All that trash-talking out of such a pretty face. Marvin had never subscribed to society’s beauty standards. He’d dated every size, race, and age, but he had a special thing for big, pretty girls. Probably because his first love was fluffy. Average man would tell you that there was nothing like some fluffy love! Umph! He almost groaned aloud. Best get his mind fixated on something other than her body.

  He nodded toward the stainless steel container she held. “What did you bring?”

  “A slice of heaven.”

  “You’re a pastry chef?”

  “No, but when it comes to dessert I can hold my own. This is a savory dish, though.”

  “What, a pizza?”

  “Sorta kinda.”

  “Pretty simple, don’t you think?”

  “You tell me.” Naomi opened a peephole in the specially sealed container.

  Marvin bent down to take a peek. Bent down for a sniff. Came up frowning and fanning his nose. “What is that?”

  Naomi smirked. “You know what? I don’t even know you and I can’t stand you. Even at room temperature you know that smells delicious.” She smelled it herself. “That is some good cooking right there.” She looked at the woman in the line next to theirs. “Here, smell it.”

  She complied. “Smells good. Goat cheese, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And pork?”

  Naomi nodded, then turned to Marvin. “The cheese is probably what you smelled but couldn’t identify.”

  “Girl, I know goat cheese when I smell it. I know doodoo when I smell it, too—”

  “Oh my gosh!” Naomi burst out laughing, along with some others. “I can’t with you!”

  Marvin laughed, too. “I’m just messing with you. Let me check that out again.”

  “No, because you’re probably going to spit in it or try some other way to sabotage me.”

  “Check this out, Naomi.” He flipped back the cover to the peephole on the stainless container he held, the same as Naomi’s, a specially made container with a vacuum seal, which was sent out by the contest organizers, designed specifically to keep prepared food fresh and bacteria-free. Marvin held it out to her first, and then to a few others. Comments came from all sides.

  “Wow, that looks good!”

  “What is that?”

  “I want a piece.”

  “Why don’t you let me break open that container for you? I’m a judge. No, really. I’m in line and all but . . . as a decoy.”

  Marvin looked at the guy three people behind him who looked all of sixteen. “You don’t look old enough to drive, let alone judge.”

  The contestant went red all the way to his platinum-blond roots. “I might be only eighteen and just graduated high school, but I know my way around a kitchen.”

  Naomi waited until the chatter died down. “It looks all right.”

  Marvin gave her a look. “You know you want a bite of what’s in here.”

  “Only because I didn’t have breakfast. It’s a box cake, right?”

  “Aw!” Marvin gasped and reached for his heart. “She said a box cake.” He looked around. “Did y’all hear that?”

  “I heard it,” said the young teen.

  Marvin turned around. “Hey, what’s your name, man?”

  “Ryan.” They shook hands.

  “So later on, Ryan, when I win this whole thing, you’ll be my witness to this woman’s insults, and how deep she pushed the knife.”

  Marvin covered the peephole. “I don’t even see how your dish is going to get tested. How are they going to taste savory dishes containing pork, eggs, and whatnot, without the threat of getting salmonella poisoning?”

  “The special container, obviously,” Ryan said.

  “Plus, we’re going first,” Naomi added.

  Marvin looked at her. “How do you know?”

  “Oh, so you can’t cook and can’t read either.”

  It was Marvin’s turn to chuckle. “Why are you being so mean to a brother?”

  “Mean? Moi? You call mine a doodoo dish and I’m the cruel one?”

  “You’re right. Probably shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Don’t get soft on me now. Because I’m still going to go hard if you meet me in the kitchen.”

  “No doubt. But that was kind of rude. I apologize. So the savory dishes go up first?”

  “We’ll split up in the next room. Entrées or dishes that require heat will be one group. Desserts will be another, and so on. Our dishes have to be at a certain temperature to be considered safe. With all of these people lined up in here, there’s no telling who is judging. Probably regular folk just like us.”

  “Guinea pigs,” Marvin joked.

  “Gangsters,” Naomi countered. “Anybody willing to taste food from a stranger brought off the street has a large pair of cojones. That’s a mafia move.”

  The sound of a microphone being handled caused everyone’s attention to shift to a raised platform at the front of the large room.

  “Hey, that’s Da Chen!” Marvin lowered his voice and leaned toward Naomi’s ear. “He won his truck off of the Great Truck
Championship a couple years ago. That brother can cook!”

  Naomi shushed him. “I want you to be sure and hear these instructions. So that when you lose and see me driving around town in the first prize, you’ll know exactly how it happened.”

  3

  “Good afternoon, Los Angeles! Good afternoon, food truck fanatics!”

  The contestants responded to the exuberant greeting with excited applause.

  “Some of you might not know me. I’m Da Chen—”

  “We know you, Da!” a male voice boomed.

  “We love you, Da Chen!” a female yelled.

  “We love your food!” another man said. The audience clapped and laughed.

  Da Chen bowed slightly, his hands crossed over his chest. He was a slight man, around five nine, but his body was toned. Handsome, with olive skin and coal-black hair, the shoulder-length tresses held back with a leather band, Da scanned the crowd.

  “Thank you. That is kind. Thank you. I don’t have much time to welcome you, but I was invited here because just a few short years ago I was just like you, a chef with a dream. I was working as a sous chef for a very popular, well-known restaurant here in the city. Hard work. Long hours. I loved it. But I didn’t have much of a life outside of it. Which, by the way, won’t change much if you want to be a successful food truck owner. What was different was the ability to chart my own course, set my own menu and hours. Be my own boss. Someone sent me a link from FNC—the Food and Cooking Network—seeking cooks and chefs to enter a food truck contest.”

  Applause and cheers went up.

  “Oh, you guys saw that? Then you know it turned out pretty good for me. Which is why I’m excited to be one of the people judging the ten finalists, the shows that will be taped for possible cable or Internet distribution. I’m glad that they asked me to come here today and have the chance to meet all of you. Because after today, there will only be one hundred of you moving on to the first of four preliminary rounds of Food Truck Bucks!”

  Marvin felt Naomi’s eyes on him amid the groans and murmurs around. He turned and laughed at the expression on her face. “Don’t look at me all sad like I’m leaving. You’re the one who might get cut.”