Sweet Heat

by Zuri Day

  “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s cool. We’ll both be here next week then. Because I’m not going anywhere!”

  They returned their attention to the stage. Da Chen wrapped up his enthusiastic welcome and was followed by one of the organizers who gave more specific instructions on how the day would unfold. The large crowd of hopefuls were divided into several groups based on their dish, as Naomi had mentioned. He turned to speak with someone to his right. When he turned back she was gone. He didn’t know which direction, and tried not to feel let down that she’d left without so much as a wish of good luck. Woman with that kind of mouth, I should be glad she’s gone. Right? That’s what he told himself. Soon, he was swept up in the large group of cooks who’d brought desserts as their taster. Inside the smaller room the group was further divided by type of pastry: cakes, pies, cookies, etc. Once split up, Marvin scoped out his immediate competition. Looked to be about a hundred people. He recognized a few from the culinary school he’d attended years ago and a few more from restaurants he’d regularly frequented over the years. Most made eye contact, acknowledged that they knew him. A couple he felt ignored him, or looked over him like they didn’t remember who he was. From Marvin that idea earned a chuckle and a scoff. He was many things to many people, but easily forgettable wasn’t one of them. The next sixty seconds proved that out.

  “Marvin Carter!”

  He turned in the direction of the familiar voice. “Is that Abbey Abs? What’s up, teach?” He held out his arms for the culinary instructor who approached. They enjoyed a hearty embrace.

  “Are you trying to get a food truck?”

  “No.” Abbey chuckled. “The only cooking I want to do is at home or in a classroom. I’m one of the contest coordinators.”

  “Really? Cool! Then I’m moving on to the second round no problem, right?”

  “Probably, but that will be determined by the judges, not me. You’re a great cook, Marvin. A shame you dropped out of school.”

  “Couldn’t be helped. Got a job offer. Had to take it.”

  “A job cooking?”

  Marvin nodded.

  “Where?”

  “A place called the Soul Spot.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Few in the Valley probably have. It’s popular on the south side of town among the clubbing, drinking crowd. On Fridays and Saturdays it stays open until two a.m.”

  “How’s the food?”

  “Excellent when I’m cooking.”

  “Are you the head chef, line cook, what?”

  “This place doesn’t have chefs. I’m the assistant cook. Next to the top guy, the son of the owner.”

  “Sounds a bit below your pay grade, guy. But a good enough place to start, I guess, get some experience under your belt.”

  “I thought so. Plus, promises were made when I took the position.”

  “Were they kept?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Abbey saw a producer waving her over. She turned to Marvin. “It’s great to see you again,” she murmured while leaning in for another hug. She wrapped her arms around his middle and squeezed tightly. Marvin retreated, a little taken aback.

  “Boy, how I’ve missed those hugs.” Her eyes seared him in a way that suggested hugs weren’t the only thing she’d thought about. “You know you were my favorite student. My life has definitely been duller without you in it.”

  Is she flirting with me? Marvin took another step back. “Good to see you too, Abbey.”

  She turned to leave. “Is your number the same?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll call you. Maybe we can catch up over a drink, or I can come to where you’re working.”

  “That sounds cool.”

  Marvin watched her hurry over to the producer now joined by a couple others. Before he had a chance to digest what had just happened, it was time for his food to get tasted.

  He approached one of ten rectangular tables, each with a three-person panel sitting behind it—all recent graduates of California culinary schools, the contestants had been told. Retired instructors and mom-and-pop restaurant owners made up the first round of judges. In the center of the table was a stand that held two cardboard cutouts—a knife, and a chef hat. He gave his container to an assistant who used a special tool to open the hermetically sealed lid, cut the slice of cake, and placed a bite-sized piece on each of three paper saucers before placing one in front of each judge. While this happened, they questioned him. After the routine ones—name, years cooking, place of employment—came one that caused Marvin to stop and think.

  “Why do you want to win, and why do you think you should?”

  “The second question is easiest,” he said after a pause. “So I’ll answer it first. I’m a great cook, and a passionate one. Cooking gives me life. My food will add years to yours. When I was a kid, cooking, especially baking, kept me out of trouble. Didn’t make me too cool with the other boys in the neighborhood”—he stopped as the judges smiled or laughed—“but it gave me something to do, kept me focused. I want to be able to offer that to other young boys, and once I win the food truck, plan to offer internships to interested teens. I guess in saying all that I answered both questions. Because that is why I want to win, and why I think I should.”

  “I like that answer. Describe what you’ve prepared for us.”

  Marvin looked into the eyes of the woman who’d spoken. He guessed her to be around his mother’s age, and talked to her in the warm, engaging way he would speak to Liz, or one of his aunts.

  “It’s what I’ve named the Southern pecan log cake.”

  He went on to describe the ingredients and what inspired him to make the dish, then stood silently as they tasted it, secretly smiled as they asked for a second bite.

  “The caramel,” a young male judge began, leaning back against a hard plastic chair. “Is that melted down from a toffee candy?”

  “Oh, no. That’s from scratch.”

  “It’s delicious,” the woman said.

  “One of the best desserts we’ve tasted so far,” the third judge said.

  “There’s no need for further discussion.” The older woman plucked the chef’s hat out of the stand. “Congratulations, Marvin. You’re on to the next round.”

  “Yes! Thank you!”

  All day long Marvin’s demeanor had been one of utmost confidence. But the relief he felt at holding the chef’s hat in his hand was proof that he’d not been 100 percent sure he’d make it to the next round. His excitement and gratitude were genuine. He bounced out of the room and headed across the hall to where the judges said he’d receive further instructions. About thirty contestants who’d made the cut milled around the room. Naomi was there, head down, texting on her phone. He walked over.

  “I see you stole somebody’s chef hat,” he said, nodding at the cardboard hat on her lap.

  “Haha. I don’t think so.” Naomi looked up and noticed the same type of cardboard hat in his hand. “I see you did though.”

  He sat down beside her. “I told you I was getting through.”

  “Yes, exactly what I told you.”

  “Congratulations.”

  She looked at him, her expression unreadable.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I’m waiting for the punchline,” Naomi replied. “Or the put down. Or both.”

  “Not this time. I’m being serious.”

  “First time?”

  Marvin raised a brow. “You’ve got a smart mouth.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m really happy you made it through to the next round.”

  “Thank you.” A more genuine smile caused Naomi’s dimple to wink at him and sent sunshine to Marvin’s heart.

  “I can’t wait until that first Saturday in June,” she said. “That’s when the real work starts.”

  “Lucky for you to have a couple more weeks to practice on your customers, or friends, or wherever you cook.”r />
  Naomi placed her cell phone in her purse. “Where do you work?”

  “The Soul Spot.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  He nodded. “What about you. Where do you cook?”

  “Nana’s kitchen.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “At Nana’s house. She’s my grandmother.”

  “Oh.” They both laughed. “So you’re what they call an amateur.”

  “Nope. I’m what they call a sistah who can cook her ass off. When not doing that I’m working as the assistant manager at a 99 Cents Store.”

  “That’s cool. What makes you think you can run a food truck?”

  “I can do anything I put my mind to. Plus, cooking makes me happy. I’m good at it. And I want to work for myself. Be my own boss. Know what I mean?”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” Marvin got a text. He looked at it and stood.

  “That your girlfriend?”

  “Is that your way of asking if I have one?”

  “It’s my way of asking who texted.”

  “Why are you being nosy?”

  “Never mind. I don’t give a damn who it is anyway.”

  Marvin chuckled. “Yes, you do. But the text was from one of my brothers, about the Inglewood Alliance Block Party.”

  “The one coming up on Memorial Day?”

  Marvin smiled. “So you know about it.”

  “Of course. As does anybody else who’s read the LA Chronicle or listened to KJLH anytime in the past decade or longer. She adopted a deep male voice. “Everybody—”

  “Rockin’ the Block!” They finished together, laughing at the familiar tagline.

  “You ever been?”

  “A couple times. You cook for that event?”

  “I grew up with that event. My mom is one of the organizers. You coming this year?”

  Naomi shook her head. “I’ll be with friends at the Mirage in Vegas, hanging out with Boyz II Men.”

  “Cool. Then I guess I’ll see you in a couple weeks.”

  “I guess so. See you later.”

  Marvin took a couple steps, then turned around. “And as for whether or not I have a girlfriend, the answer is no.” He walked out the door without looking back, and missed another one of Naomi’s sunshine smiles.

  4

  Naomi found her car and pulled out of the parking structure. She rarely came downtown and was glad to be leaving before it got dark. For a city second only to New York in population, this part of downtown seemed nearly empty, at least on this particular Saturday night. There weren’t many out walking, and those who were looked like she’d not feel too comfortable passing by them without pepper spray. She reached the light, but when it turned green she didn’t veer left and get on the freeway. She kept straight to Olympic Boulevard and headed home through the city streets, on a bit of a downer even with the cardboard chef eyeing her from the passenger seat.

  She engaged her car’s Bluetooth and called Kristy.

  “Hey, girl!”

  “Hey, Tee.”

  A pause and then, “So, what happened? You know I’ve been waiting all day to hear if my idea worked in your favor.”

  “It did.”

  “You won?”

  “Nobody won yet. But I got through to the next round.”

  Kristy shrieked. “Way to go, cousin! I knew you should turn that pork chop dish into a slice.”

  “Yep. You were right.”

  “Why don’t you sound too happy?”

  “I don’t know. Tired, I guess. I didn’t sleep good last night. Don’t really feel like going home though. Called to see if you want to go out and do something.”

  “Girl, I can’t. I got a date.”

  “With who?”

  “That guy I met on PlentyOfFish.”

  “You and those dating websites. I thought you weren’t going to do that anymore. After the run-in with Freddie Krueger’s brother’s uncle.”

  Kristy laughed. “You can’t let one bad apple spoil the whole bag.”

  “Even one who practically assaulted you the first time you met and then stalked you when you refused to accept his apology and go out again?”

  “This one’s different. We’ve been talking and texting for over two months. Plus, we’re meeting in a public place. I’m not going over to his house till, you know . . .”

  “Until you’ve run a background check, talked to references, met at least three of his family members, and let me meet him . . . right?”

  “Dang, Naomi! Paranoid much?”

  “Yes, and if you watched the ID channel you would be, too. There’s this show called Web of Lies—”

  “I don’t want to hear the details. Have me scared to meet anybody new.”

  “That’s kind of my point. What happened to that other guy you were head over heels for? The one you said was the one?”

  “Oh, he is. He just doesn’t know it yet. Until he does, I’m keeping myself occupied.”

  “Come on, Tee. Let’s do something. I’m on Olympic and can be at your house in about ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “I told you I have a date, and I am not passing that up to hang out with a female. Even my favorite. They’ll be enough estrogen on our all-girls trip to Vegas.”

  “True that.”

  “What did you do down at the convention center all day?”

  “What do you mean, what did I do? I entered a cooking contest.”

  “There weren’t any cuties down there for you to go out with afterwards, get a phone number, something?”

  Yeah, but he had to work. “Not really. Besides, I didn’t go there to get a date. I entered the contest to get some dollar bills, get that truck and move out of Nana’s house.”

  “She know you’re leaving?”

  “She knew when I moved back in with her that it wasn’t to stay, only until she got better.”

  “You know she’s not going to want you to leave.”

  “She’ll be all right. Nana’s messing up my love life.”

  “Girl, what love life? You haven’t gone out for months.”

  “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to. And what if I do and want to bring him home? Try and tiptoe his ass past her bedroom when you know she hears every creak in that hardwood floor and knows its exact location from the sound.”

  “Ha! That’s the truth.”

  “You know it! But I’m ready. I’m getting tired of the ménage à moi.”

  “The what?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. The DIY project. Playing the piano. Fanning the fur!”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t say it all drawn out like that, like when you hit a spell that’s dry you don’t DIY.”

  “Honey, there are way too many dicks in LA for me to have to doo-wah-diddle all by myself.”

  “Yeah, but all too often they come with minor inconveniences. You know, like ankle bracelets, STDs, crazy baby mamas, and stalker tendencies.”

  “You left out wives and P.O.’s. But if he has the right kind of hose that can start up a fire and then put it out, that’s sometimes a chance worth taking.”

  “I hear you, Tee. Don’t agree with you, but I do understand. I’m way past ready to cuddle up with something that don’t require batteries.”

  “I can see if Gary has a friend.”

  “Yeah, one that he can go out with so you can keep me company. I’m almost at Crenshaw.”

  “I love you, cousin, but not that much.”

  “Forget you, heifah,” Naomi replied, laughing. “Just be sure and send me a picture of Gary, along with his phone number before y’all meet. And try to get his birthdate or driver’s license number, so I can do a background check.”

  “My, would you look at the time!” Kristy’s voice rang with pseudo amazement.

  “I hate you. Bye.”

  Kristy’s loud guffaw boomed out of the speakers before Naomi ended the call. She wanted to hate her cousin for real right about now, but there was no way that could ever happen
. Born just months apart, Kristy was a part of her earliest memories. If she was lucky, her favorite cousin would also be in one of her last.

  With no one else to call, or at least no one with whom she wanted to be bothered, Naomi continued down Crenshaw into Inglewood. Marvin was still on her mind, had been since they’d waved goodbye downtown. A little too much, she decided. He was obnoxious, cocky, and rude. Who cared that he had sexy eyes, juicy lips, and that his cockiness was exactly the kind of swagger that she liked in a man? He was an opponent, not an opportunity. Sure, she’d be friendly. It was always good strategy to keep the enemy close. But what she wouldn’t be was a friend with benefits. In every movie she’d seen on the subject, sleeping with the enemy ended badly.

  She stopped at a corner store near the house to purchase a candy bar, chips, and a six-pack of hard lemonade for tonight’s date with the remote. At the counter she thought of Nana and picked up a few scratchers, the closest to gambling Sis. Carson would ever come, or admit to anyway. That and bingo. And the occasional slot machine pull, but only if out of town and away from her church family. Armed with her necessities for the evening, she turned on Seventy-ninth Street and a couple blocks later pulled into the driveway of her grandmother’s Spanish-style bungalow. She parked her black Hyundai behind her grandmother’s “spanking white”—as Nana called it, though she admitted to not quite knowing in this context what “spanking” meant—Buick Regal. She chuckled in spite of her somewhat sour mood. Coming here often had that effect. She could be mad, sad, have premenstrual cramps or have just broken up with a boyfriend, and seeing this house with a Buick in the driveway could produce a smile. To most people those items would simply represent something to drive or a place to live, but for Naomi, they represented love. Nana, whose real name was Nadine, and Naomi’s grandfather Claude, had purchased the place over forty years ago. Until the day her Pop-Pop died it was his pride and joy, surpassed only by the latest-model Buick and his Juicy Fruit, Nana’s pet name.

  Naomi headed toward the front door with every intention of a quick hello to Nana and a beeline for the fridge in her room. At twenty-five she was grown and made her own money, and teetotaler Nana had never criticized her about drinking, but Naomi still tended to sneak alcohol into the house. What could she say? Some habits were hard to break.