Kitchens of the Great Midwest

by J. Ryan Stradal

  • • •

  She stared at the stupid rock again, just to make sure. Up until now, she didn’t think she was going nuts, but she was beginning to suspect that perhaps she was, and it made her deeply sad.

  Her phone buzzed.

  It was her mom.

  “Yeah, what?” Braque said.

  “Have you heard anything?” her mom asked.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Your dad’s coming back from Malta to help the family.”

  “Have you spoken with him?”

  “Well, I can’t get a hold of him yet. But when I do, I’m going to make sure he’s on the next plane outta there.”

  “Do you even know if he’s in Malta?” Braque’s father had left on a yearlong sabbatical when Braque was fifteen. That was four years ago.

  “Don’t. Don’t go there again with me.”

  “Whatever. Look, I’m sure Eva is fine. Give it a few days, she’ll come back.”

  “She could be raped and murdered in a few days. You’re just trying to get out of helping me. It’s all about you, isn’t it? It’s all about you, all the time.”

  Braque hung up.

  • • •

  She reached into her backpack, pulled out half an avocado from its plastic wrap, hurled a perfect strike at the U in PUMA, and walked to the damn library, the sun burning the top of her blonde head.

  4:15 P.M.

  Viewed through the window of the Purple Line train, the southbound Howard stop on the El was crowded—but less so than the northbound side, clustered with the first bloom of suburban commuters, weary from their early mornings and afternoon caffeine and blood sugar crashes. It was ninety-three degrees outside, which meant it was like a hundred and ten on the train, but Braque didn’t mind her cousin’s head leaning on her shoulder. The sincerity and plainness of the gesture was so rare and wonderful. It reminded Braque of the day she first met Eva, a day that her mind otherwise left alone. Braque was the one who’d held Eva for hours as all of the adults cried and ran around and made phone calls. No one thought to comfort Braque, but it didn’t matter. That day, she poured all of her strength into that little baby, and she’d held on tight to her, whispering again and again that it would be OK, and Eva didn’t cry once the whole time Braque had her.

  Eleven years later, her cousin’s head on her shoulder, she could’ve held her like that again; even on a train that smelled like hot metal and strange male sweat, she could’ve put her arm around Eva and kept her close and safe, all the way to 95th/Dan Ryan and back again, on an infinite, silver loop.

  As they clattered into the Argyle station, Eva raised her head, looked around, and began digging in the giant black backpack at her feet. What was in that thing?

  “I want to go to this place,” Eva said, pointing to a name on a list of restaurants, ranked in order of their inhumanly hot cuisine. “Hell Night at The Truth.”

  After already telling her teammates there was unequivocally no way she’d ever set foot in The Truth, Braque really didn’t want to run into them there, especially when she was with her kid cousin. One of them might accidentally bring up the pregnancy or the abortion. Braque knew that she could deal with this fetus thing quickly and efficiently and Eva, who looked up to her so much, would never have to know. A big part of her was afraid that Eva would think less of her if she found out—maybe because that same part of her now thought less of herself.

  “That’ll be open late. Let’s go to a few other places first. What’s next on your list?”

  “Jack Cermak’s Tap Room. It’s off the Logan Square stop. They have something called Circle of Hell Wings. When they bring them to your table they ring a bell and play a song. And if you eat an entire order, you get your name and picture in the Ring of Fire.”

  “How do you wanna play this, then?” Braque asked.

  “Well, we order them and then bet someone that I can’t eat them.”

  Braque shook her head. “Nope. You’re gonna get full from wings after one bet. We gotta get several bets out of each location.”

  “I can probably go vomit somewhere, or something.”

  “No, screw that. You said there’s a bell that rings every time there’s an order. We’ll just go to the table with the bell, watch them try to eat one, and then say, ‘I bet this little girl can eat one.’ That way we don’t have to spend any money.”

  “I detest being called a little girl, FYI,” Eva said, moving slightly away from Braque.

  “I know, you’re eleven now, but you should try to play younger. It’ll work to our advantage.”

  Eva looked at the dirty floor. “I suppose.”

  “So what’s my cut?” Braque asked. “Fifty percent?”

  “Maybe forty percent,” Eva said.

  Braque laughed. “What do you need sixty percent for?”

  “Well, I’m the one actually eating everything, right?”

  She had a point.

  Eva stared out the window as the train whipped by the windows of a brick apartment building. “And back home, I need lots of stuff. New plants for sure. My mom said she’d let me grow anything except hot peppers.”

  “Are you OK with that?”

  Eva shrugged. “I don’t know. I said no at first. But I was thinking about it on the bus, and I was like, how much hotter can I make them anyway? It’s like something dumb a boy would do, you know? Just try to grow the hottest pepper that no one can even eat. I mean, I want to actually use them in recipes. And this last batch I made, I don’t know. I do kinda want to grow other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe fruit. I’m thinking about trying to make my own homemade vegan sorbet, or something.”

  “That’d be cool. Where’d you get that idea from?”

  “My dad actually mentioned it.”

  “They being good to you?” Braque realized that she had uttered the awkward and potentially revealing question without thinking. There was an agreement among the family never to discuss Eva’s origin; her birth mother was apparently the worst woman in world history. But Eva, staring out the window, didn’t seem alarmed.

  “Sometimes, I guess. When they’re not throwing away my plants,” she said. “They’re just so, I don’t know, normal. They’re too tired all the time to do much. But we hardly like any of the same stuff anyway. Their tastes are so just so plebeian.”

  Braque smiled; she loved her young cousin’s vocabulary. “Pretty much everybody feels that way about their parents,” she said, hoping it canceled out the earlier statement. “But you know, they did get you that new grow light for Christmas. And didn’t your dad drive you to that hot pepper convention in Madison?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You know, for a kid, you’re really smart and motivated. I think it kind of intimidates them sometimes, to be honest. But I know they love the hell out of you.”

  “Yeah.”

  Braque was seeing Eva at a low point, absolutely, but she remembered the previous Christmas. Eva didn’t see it, but Fiona and Jarl were so happy while they watched their daughter unwrap the grow light they’d bought for her. When Eva saw what it was and squealed in delight, Jarl started crying.

  Braque knew how expensive that gift was for them. Amy Jo had tried to give them some money to help pay for it, but Fiona and Jarl refused. They wanted to earn and be accountable for the happiness of that wonderful, strange little girl they were raising. They wanted to know for themselves that they could make Eva overjoyed.

  “I guess I still love them,” Eva said. She suddenly turned and looked at Braque. “What are you going to buy with your share of the money?”

  Braque shook her head. “I’m not even gonna get into it right now.”

  The rush-hour express train whipped through an unfamiliar North Side El stop. The car rattled, and its violent motion caused the bodies of th
e young dudes in the aisle to absorb the shock into their nonchalant sways, making them look like people who were about to dance and instantly changed their minds.

  5:15 P.M.

  Yep, Jack Cermak’s Corner Tap was the eighth circle of hell. In a gentrifying neighborhood like Logan Square, setting up a sanitized, overpriced bar to look like a cheap small-town dive was just plain sick. They even had old signs on the walls for beer that they didn’t serve (and Braque asked): Old Style, Grain Belt, Schmidt, Special Export.

  Of course, the place was still filled with flat-screen TVs, each tuned to sports, and it smelled like french fry grease, beer vomit, and orange-scented disinfectant. This all made Braque feel like retching, which made her think of the last time she vomited, which made her think of her damn fetus.

  • • •

  They sat down in an oversized wooden booth and ordered a vanilla milkshake (Eva) and a side salad with no dressing (Braque) from a waiter in bib overalls. They waited for the bell, which didn’t take long. As the trumpets of Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” burst over the loudspeakers, two members of the wait staff came out holding sparklers, and a chimney-red platter of steaming bright orange chicken wings was brought to a table where two pudgy adult men sat, ties loosened, shoes shiny. Braque knew their kind from Des Moines and around Evanston: just two more people who didn’t try hard enough at anything in life to make any kind of difference to anybody or anything. Ordering these chicken wings would probably be their highlight achievement for the month.

  Almost everyone in the restaurant was watching their table, so Braque felt certain that they hadn’t noticed her sizing them up. The dude who ordered the wings took one bite of the first one and dropped it on his pants, chugging water as everyone laughed.

  The man was crying and shoving a napkin in his mouth when Eva walked over to the table by herself.

  “Excuse me,” she asked. “Are those really hot?”

  The guy spat the orange-and-white napkin from his mouth and nodded. “These wings are from another planet, kid.”

  Eva tried to keep her expression steady. “I bet I can eat one.”

  The two guys looked at each other and laughed. “No way,” one said. “Where are your parents?” asked the other.

  Braque saw Eva point to her and waved back from her seat a few booths away. The two guys smiled at Braque, and she took it as her cue to walk over.

  “How much would you give me to finish one?” Eva asked Napkin Guy.

  “I think you should leave these nice men alone,” Braque said. “Those wings actually look really hot.”

  “Yeah, they’re no joke,” Napkin Guy said.

  “I’m serious, how much?” Eva asked.

  Braque tugged on Eva’s arm. “Come on. These aren’t like the ones Mom makes at home.”

  “I’ll put down ten bucks,” Napkin Guy’s friend said. “But you gotta eat the whole thing.”

  “Twenty for two?” Eva asked.

  “No way she gets past the first one,” Napkin Guy said, looking at Eva.

  “I’ll even eat more than two,” Eva said.

  “No you won’t,” Braque said. “You’re gonna get sick and they’re gonna take all our money.”

  Their strategy was working; Napkin Guy now looked like a man who thought he smelled blood. “OK, then. Let’s do forty for four. You girls got forty bucks?”

  “Forty bucks?” the guy’s friend asked him.

  “It’d cover our tab,” Napkin Guy said, and his friend nodded, pleased with the reasoning.

  The waiter, a skinny young dude with a dark beard and a red plaid shirt, walked over and positioned himself between Eva and the table. His nametag read DANE.

  “How’s everything over here?” Dane asked, smiling professionally, putting his hands on the table. “You enjoying the Circle of Hell Wings?”

  “You ever see this girl in here before?” Napkin Guy’s friend asked Dane. It was a savvy question, Braque thought. Dane shook his head.

  “We don’t typically allow minors to eat these wings,” Dane said. “Where’s her parent or legal guardian?”

  “Here,” Braque said, stepping forward.

  Dane seemed impressed. “Are you willing to sign a waiver?”

  Braque shrugged, and put forty dollars on the table. “If she is. This is all on her. She’s gotta learn one way or another.”

  “OK,” Dane said. He pulled a piece of paper and a pen from the front pocket of his apron and handed it to Braque. “She doesn’t need to sign it, just you.”

  Afterward, Dane took the signed waiver back, folded it, and picked up the money from the table. He’d evidently done this kind of thing before. “And this is the pot, right here? Eighty bucks? What’s the bet exactly?”

  Napkin Guy pushed the plate of wings in Eva’s direction. “She has to completely eat four wings. If she does, she gets the money. Otherwise we do.”

  “I’m gonna go grab her milkshake,” Braque said.

  “Nope,” Napkin Guy said. “Nothing, until she’s done with the wings.” Now the two guys were getting edgy. The sooner they started this the better. Eva climbed into the booth as Napkin Guy made room.

  Eva looked at the assembled adults. “Just tell me when,” she said, looking at the plate of simmering orange chunks.

  “OK, go,” Dane said.

  • • •

  Eva picked up the four wings in turn, and with the beautiful focus of a woodpecker boring a hole, she completely cleaned them back to front in just over a minute, setting down the fleshless bones in a neat little row.

  “Holy shit,” Braque said.

  “No kidding,” Napkin Guy’s friend said.

  “They were a little hotter than I expected,” Eva said, turning to Napkin Guy. “I’m sorry for doubting you. These were the real deal.”

  Napkin Guy stared at Eva. “Hustler,” he said, not being funny.

  Dane handed the eighty bucks over to Braque. “I think this belongs to you guys.”

  Braque took the money, nodded, thanked everyone for their tolerance, and pulled Eva safely away from the unhappy men and back to their own table.

  “Jesus,” Braque said. “I had no idea.”

  “You didn’t think I could win? I thought you were just being a real good actor.”

  Braque handed Eva fifty dollars. “Well, here’s your sixty percent. You owe me two bucks.”

  “Those wings weren’t actually the real deal,” Eva said, pocketing the money. “I was just trying to make him feel better.”

  7:39 P.M.

  Eva and Braque made $180 at Jack Cermak’s before complaints from the nosy wait staff and whiny-ass sore losers forced them out. Then they made a quick five bucks at the famous Every 1’s A Wiener hot dog stand in Andersonville just for taking a bite from a Fire Dog. Eva actually took two bites, because that’s just who she was.

  After travel and expenses, Eva had almost ninety dollars, and Braque made about seventy dollars, and the big score still awaited them. For an hour, Eva had been begging to go to Hell Night already, but Braque wanted to wait until it got closer to eight, figuring it would be late enough to miss her teammates. Those girls were just like she was: early-to-bed types who were up doing squats at 6:00 a.m. because they were focused on what mattered. Which reminded her.

  • • •

  On the way to the Berwyn El stop, and on the train all the way to the Addison stop, and while walking to The Truth on Clark, Braque made Eva quiz her for the Nineteenth-Century U.S. History final, using flash cards she’d made.

  “President from 1853 to 1857?” Eva asked.

  “Franklin Pierce, Democrat.”

  “Who did he defeat in the election of 1852?”

  “Winfield Scott, Whig Party.”

  “Vice president?”

  “William Rufus DeVane King.”

  �
��Are they really going to ask you that tomorrow?”

  “It’s a final on the whole century, I have to be prepared for everything.”

  “I think you’re gonna do OK on this final.”

  “Ask me another one.”

  “What’s this line of people for?”

  A ribbon of people, mostly husky white dudes, lined one side of Clark Street. Braque looked up ahead. The line wound into the doorway of The Truth Kitchen & Barbecue Pit.

  Braque looked at a guy standing near the front. He had dirty leather clothes and beady eyes and looked as if he stress-tested motorcycle helmets for a living.

  “This the line for The Truth?” Braque asked.

  “The hell you say?” the beady-eyed man said.

  Behind him, an eager-eyed frat-boy type in an American Eagle polo was more of a help. “Yep, sure is,” he said. “Been here two hours already. Sign up in there and get in line.”

  Someone behind him said, “The line goes all the way to Grace Street!”

  Braque turned to Eva and was about to say, “Looks like we’re screwed,” but Eva was already bolting into the restaurant, past the maître d’s station, and into the crowded, sticky mayhem of The Truth on Hell Night.

  8:10 P.M.

  Even on a regular night, The Truth was intolerable. The floor was coated in sawdust, music that could only be described as cock-metal blasted on the sound system, Christmas lights flashed out of sync at a headache-inducing pace, and the walls were covered with faux-homey wooden signs that said shit like:

  YOU ARE NEVER

  2 OLD

  2 DRINK

  2 MANY

  6 PACKS

  And:

  FREE BEER: TOMORROW

  And:

  LADIES 18–30:

  NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO PROBLEM!

  And now the place was at, or quite possibly in excess of, the fire marshal’s maximum capacity, the majority of whom were men—loud, beefy, tattooed, openly leering men—choking down their first bites of The Truth XXX ghost pepper chili, pummeling their open mouths with full steins of pissy lager, screaming, bellowing, swearing, gasping, crying.