by Zuri Day
“Naomi!”
Speak of the stranger. She turned to see Marvin, looking so fresh, so clean in black jeans, black Tims, and a starched white shirt. Tails out, like the cool guys wore them. Next to him was the thin, older-looking woman with frizzy, blondish-brown hair and a tight smile suggesting she’d rather Marvin had not called out to her. Looked like Abbey was down for a little swirl. Naomi smiled as she walked to meet them, adding extra sway to her hips just to make no-hip Abbey even more jealous. This even as another part of her thought, Leave that poor woman alone.
“Hey, Marvin.”
“All right, all right,” he said, nodding as he checked her out approvingly. “I see you. Are you ready?”
“Born ready.” Naomi’s response was to him, but her eyes were on thin frizzy, who she now saw wore an earpiece and shirt like the young woman who’d pointed her in the right direction.
Marvin looked between the two women. “Have you met Abbey?”
“No.”
“Naomi, this is Abbey. Abbey, Naomi.”
The handshake was as lackluster as the two women’s desire to know each other.
“Abbey was an instructor at the culinary school I attended. She’s one of the coordinators for the show.”
“You knew her beforehand? Isn’t that like . . . a conflict of interest or something?”
“I’m not judging,” Abbey replied.
“But still . . .” Naomi’s eyes and expression filled in the blanks.
“Girl, I don’t need anybody’s help to beat you.”
“Ah, here we go.”
“Yep. Here we go.”
“Marvin,” Abbey interrupted. “I’ve got to run. Remember to call me later.”
“Alright.”
“Promise? Because last week you forgot to return my call.”
“I was busy, Abs. Today for sure.”
“Okay.” She hugged Marvin, ignored Naomi, and walked away.
Naomi chuckled. “Alright, Abbey. Go ahead and ignore me because I’m with your man.”
“Stop it, Juicy. I’m not her man.”
“Not yet.”
“Not ever. She’s not my type.”
“She wishes she was.”
“How do you figure?”
“Like you don’t know she was flirting.” Naomi batted her eyes. “Call me later.”
“Stop with all of that, she was just being nice. She wants me to go back and finish school, get my culinary degree.”
“Trust and believe she wants to get something, too.”
Any comeback Marvin had was interrupted as one of the organizers signaled that the next round of competition was about to begin. Naomi watched a good-looking young man with ruddy skin and a shock of brown hair bounce to the front of the room.
She leaned toward Marvin. “Who’s that?”
“I don’t know. His face looks familiar . . .”
“Good afternoon, Food Truck Buckaroos! My name is Ted Reynolds, your host for this next round of competition. Some of you may remember me from the show—”
“Power Games,” Marvin said, under his breath. “I knew I’d seen his face before.”
“I was a little younger then,” Ted went on, brandishing a toothy smile. “I still take acting roles here and there, but these days my primary employment and my passion is the restaurant Claws that I own with my husband, Joe, back in my hometown of Bristol, Rhode Island. If any of you are ever in that neck of the woods, feel free to come in for some of the best seafood on the East Coast. But enough about me. I’m here to tell you what you have to do to move forward. Your job is to form a group and prepare dishes that are tastier and more cohesive than the other group. Besides cooking, any idea of the point to this next challenge?”
“Teamwork,” someone yelled out.
“Exactly! No matter how well you cook, a successful food business cannot be created alone. You have to be able to lead and motivate as well as you can season and plate. That is why the next round will be a series of team challenges. Each member of the team must make a contribution to the final set of dishes that can be judged alone. What will those be? Not so fast. You’ll find out after teams are chosen.”
Ted continued his instructions, and explained how the teams would be chosen. The contestants reached into a set of five bags with ten red balls and ten black ones. The reds would be on one side, the blacks on another. Naomi barely heard any of that though. She was too busy trying to strategize how she could position herself to be on Marvin’s team, or at least on his side with the same-colored ball. She didn’t get either. Her first mistake was deciding to stay standing next to him. Instead of counting off every ten persons, as she’d hoped, they counted off every other person to choose from the bag. When Marvin pulled a red one she wanted one, too. Nope, got the black ball. Life wasn’t fair.
It doesn’t matter. Some people are going home today, but it won’t be me.
She told this to herself, tried to bolster her confidence. She knew she was a good cook. But after tasting his cake last week, she had to admit something if only to herself. Marvin might be just a little bit better.
8
Marvin didn’t have to say anything about wanting to lead the challenge of preparing hot and cold appetizers. When the buzzer sounded, signaling their five minutes of planning time, the people on Marvin’s team all looked at him. He jumped in as though he’d run a crew all his life. His team gathered around the island. He picked up a Sharpie that lay on a notepad and wrote HOT and COLD at the top in large, bold strokes.
“Let’s showcase what we each do best, giving our dishes flavor, texture, color, and presentation. I’m thinking some kind of soup, maybe with homemade croutons—”
A tatted woman with fierce green eyes and streaked, purple hair interrupted. “I’ve got a killer crispy, crusty cheese cracker that would pair perfectly with tomato.”
Marvin held up a finger in agreement. He checked out her arms, covered with ink. “Good idea, Tat. That’s the direction I was thinking. Will it hold up in the soup, though?”
“Yeah. Drop em on top right before we serve the judges. They won’t get soggy at all.”
“Cool. I’ve got the soup. What else?” He looked around. “C’mon, y’all. Team effort, let’s go!”
“I can do a corn, red bell pepper, green onion, celery salsa to sprinkle over the top. Tossed in a little olive oil and agave, splash of lime. It’ll pair well with the tomatoes and cheese.”
It was a guy Marvin had met that morning. Waist-length blond locks stuffed under a dreadlocks cap. Bob Marley tee. Gauge-pierced ears. Energy beads around his neck and wrist. Grew up in Oregon. Moved to LA six months ago. His name was Cody, but Marvin rarely used a person’s government name. Five minutes into their conversation, Marvin nicknamed him Zen.
“Add freshness and, you know, lighten up the dish.”
“I agree. Sounds good, Zen. So we’re good on the hot appetizer.” Marvin looked around the circle. “Who has a cold dish idea besides salad? Because four out of these five teams will probably be doing that.”
A petite Latina with coal-black curly hair wrapped into a topknot suggested mini open-faced sandwiches with a “faux gras” pâté spread that she’d make. That would be spread on a homemade pita, the contribution of a cook who’d grown up in an Israeli kibbutz Popsicle chops, delicious handheld treats, rounded out their menu.
Marvin glanced over at Naomi. He was worried. She’d pulled the black ball with a guy named Jeremy that he’d nicknamed Airhead on account of his arrogance and total obliviousness to the fact that he got on everyone’s nerves. Looked as though he was captaining the team. No bueno. If something went wrong, Marvin believed Airhead wouldn’t hesitate to throw Naomi under the bus. He tried to get her attention and send a warning, but the bell sounded for the thirty-minute appetizer round. Marvin grabbed one of three baskets the teams had been supplied and joined the others in a race toward a row of industrial-sized, glass-front refrigerators at the back of the room. Foods had been g
rouped for easy access. He ran to the end and the two filled with produce. Others beat him in quickness, but he won out in size and determination. Jockeyed with several others for his preferred beefsteak tomatoes, fresh corn, and other vegetables, and handfuls of fresh herbs. He ran to the baskets holding onions, garlic, shallots, and leeks. After that he went for the dairy shelf and the heavy cream needed for his silky tomato soup. Once back at their station he began slicing and dicing, all while directing, coaching, and encouraging the rest of the team. Thirty minutes later, his group presented a well-balanced set of appetizers to the judges and got good ratings. A couple dishes on Airhead’s team got dinged—one for needing salt and the other for dough still raw in the middle—but they praised Naomi’s dumpling. She and Marvin made it to the next round. He was almost more relieved for her than himself, but not because he’d caught feelings for her. Not like that. She was nice and juicy the way he liked his women. Had a mouth on her though, and thought she could compete with him in the kitchen. The nerve! Even as he thought that, he looked around for her and was disappointed when it became clear she’d already left the room. Without saying a word? Funny how one could miss the same mouth that got on one’s nerves.
After a quick chat with some of the other remaining contestants, Marvin looked for Tiffany Reed, the cook he’d nicknamed Tat. Her croutons were delicious and had helped to set their dish apart. He wanted to thank her, maybe get the recipe. But after looking into the last set of rooms used for the contest, he figured he’d missed her and headed back down the hall to the exit. On the way he peeked into the other rooms, just in case he’d missed Tat the first time. He reached the room nearest the exit. Someone was in there, but it wasn’t Tat. He jerked his head back, but not quickly enough.
“Looking for me?”
“Hey, Abs.”
He told himself that it was Naomi’s teasing that had him paranoid, that Abbey wasn’t really looking at him like a rib slathered in sauce. He decided to be clear in any case.
“I was looking for one of the girls on my team today. She made some killer grilled-cheese croutons and I wanted to get the recipe.”
“I can help you with that.”
“Oh, yeah? You tasted them?”
“Don’t have to, I’ve made them.”
“If your recipe tastes as good as Tat’s did, then you might be able to help me.”
“I can help you with a lot of things. They’ll taste even better.”
Said in such a way that made Marvin uncomfortable, and left no doubt that his former teacher was coming on to him. Marvin ignored the blatant invitation, and hoped Abbey would get the hint.
“Thanks, but I can wait until next week and get it from her. Alright then, Abs. I’ll see you later.”
“Are you leaving?”
“Yeah, I’m on my way to work.”
“I’m heading out, too. Wait and we can go together.”
Marvin hid his chagrin and gave a casual look around to see who was near them. The last thing he needed was for Naomi to see him and Abbey together and learn that she was right about Abbey making a move.
“Okay, I’m ready.” He held open the door so Abbey could exit first. “What’s the name of where you work again? The Soul Spoon?”
“Soul Spot.”
“I knew it was Soul-something. Typical soul food menu? Greens, chicken . . .”
“Comfort food, not all of it Southern.”
“I’ll have to come check it out. You say it’s in southern LA?”
“Off of Manchester, not too far from the 405.” He gave her the exact address. She plugged it into her phone. “Is that why you wanted me to call you, to get the name of where I work?”
“No.” Abbey checked to see if anyone was close by. No one was, but she lowered her voice anyway. “It’s about one of the contestants, that Naomi girl. You should steer clear of her.”
Marvin frowned. “Why?”
The light changed. Abbey remained quiet as she stepped off the curb. Marvin did, too, and glanced at her a couple times as they walked through the intersection. “Why are you warning me about Naomi?” he repeated, when they reached the other side.
“It’s nothing I can put my finger on, but something tells me she’ll do anything to try and win this contest, including sabotaging anyone she views as competition.”
“I’m not worried about Naomi or anybody else. Besides, how can she sabotage me?”
“By having you engage in behavior that is inappropriate.”
Marvin stopped just inside the parking structure. “What kind of inappropriate behavior? I just met that girl.”
“I watched her today, watched her as she watched you. You were on separate teams, but she was aware of your every move. Call it women’s intuition or a teacher’s sixth sense, but I don’t trust her motives when it comes to befriending you. Fifty thousand dollars and a food truck is a life-changing grand prize. Some will go to any lengths to eliminate their competition. You, dear one, are a major threat.” She placed a hand on his forearm. “So be careful.”
Marvin looked pointedly at his arm, then up. “What about you, Abbey? Somebody could see your actions right now and question where you’re coming from.”
“I’m just a teacher being friendly.” Abbey squeezed his arm, her fingers sliding over bare skin before she released it. “Where are you parked?”
“Second floor.”
“My car is right there.” She held up a key fob and released the lock. “Come on. I’ll drive you up.”
Marvin almost declined the offer, but curiosity at what she was about to say won out. He followed her to the car and got into the passenger seat. She placed the key in the ignition, but turned to him without starting the car. “You’ve always been one of my favorite students, Marvin. Not only because you can cook, but because you’re handsome and funny and know how to make a woman feel good, even a plain old hag like me.”
What the hell? When did I make you feel good . . . and how? He almost told her that she wasn’t a hag, but didn’t want to sound flirtatious.
“But more than any of that, though, I believe in you and your talent. You could win this thing, Marvin. You deserve to win. Yes, there are talented, more experienced chefs, but you have an innate sense for cooking that can’t be taught. The judges see it, too. I probably shouldn’t tell you, but your pecan log cake was the most talked about dessert from that first day. There were other impressive dishes. I don’t want you to feel you can relax and coast through this thing. But you have what it takes to win. Your winning is all I care about. I want to see you secure a great future for yourself as owner of a premier food truck in a city known for them, maybe even parlay that into your own restaurant.
“People are watching, Marvin, and the competition is strong. Someone could see you and Naomi . . . being friendly, misinterpret what’s happening, and find a way to somehow use it against you.”
“See what? Use what? I haven’t done anything with Naomi that I haven’t done with the other contestants—talk, be friendly, joke around.”
“You didn’t see what I saw earlier today. Naomi’s dish was respectable, but there’s no way she’ll win. Not based on her cooking skills, anyway. Mark my words, she’s going to make a move to start something personal. Get you distracted and off of your game. Maybe even disqualified.”
“What, contestants can’t be friends?”
“There’s no specific rule against fraternizing, but there is a chance that if someone thought you were knowingly or even unknowingly helping her in any way, it could jeopardize your chances of winning the contest.”
“How would I help her? Unless we’re on the same team, and if that were the case we’d be helping each other anyway, right?”
Abbey let out the type of sigh Marvin remembered her using when out of patience with someone who couldn’t absorb what she was trying to teach. She started the car; looked straight ahead.
“You probably think I’m meddling. I am. But it’s only because I care about you, an
d your future. I want you to focus on winning, and I’ll do whatever I can to help you, within the legal parameters of the contest, of course. I’m not a judge, but I’ve taught cooking in this town for fifteen years. I know a lot of people in the industry and that comes with a bit of influence.” She looked at him. “Do you understand?”
Marvin stared back, his reply slow and deliberate as he waded through the various implications of what she’d said. “I think so.”
“Good!” She backed out of the parking space and headed toward the ramp. “I’ve really missed you, Marvin. You were not only one of my top students, but just such a bright spot in my life. You were young then—what, eighteen when you came to the school?”
“Nineteen.”
“And how old are you now?”
“Twenty-seven. How old are you?”
She gasped. “Marvin, you should know it’s impolite to ask a woman’s age.”
“You just asked mine!”
She smiled and tossed back her hair in a way that caused him to look past the frizzy, unkempt style, past the bright yellow organizer tee and khaki cargoes, and notice bright green eyes, a spray of freckles across her nose and the hint of a dimple on her right cheek. He’d not really paid attention to her like that before, but looking at her now, Marvin realized she wasn’t a bad-looking woman. She had potential. She might even be younger than Naomi imagined.
“I’m forty-three.”
“That’s not old. Why are you hiding it?”
Abbey shrugged. “I live in LA. No one here tells their real age.” Abbey reached the second level. “Which row are you?”
“Last one, on the end.” Marvin pointed out the way. “Black SUV. Right there.”
She stopped behind it and looked at Marvin. “Don’t forget what we discussed. Don’t share it either. Stay focused on winning this competition.”
