She yanked the octopus from its pot and plunked it down on the cutting board. With her super-awesome Santoku, she lopped off the octopus’s tentacles, threw away the head (Americans won’t eat heads), diced up the tentacles, and scooped the tentacle bits back into the pot.
To this pot she added salt and fresh-ground pepper, a halved onion, unpeeled ginger root, octopus bouillon cubes, anise stars, one Ceylon cinnamon stick, four scallions, one red jalapeño pepper, one green jalapeño pepper, fresh cilantro, Red Boat 40º N fish sauce (imported from Vietnam), and bean sprouts.
She glanced at the microwave clock. 11:56. Better hurry. She flipped the bacon on the griddle, poured a bag of banh pho rice noodles into the octopus pot, and swept into the dining room. “Noon is upon us, Miss Lemon. Let’s get this loan wrapped up.”
Miss Lemon touched a napkin to her lips. “Now, Zoey, I never agreed to approve your loan.”
Zoey threw her hands up in disgust. “Unbelievable! I invite you into my home, I make you a delicious lunch, and you won’t even lend me fifty thousand dollars. Are all your relationships this one-sided?”
“This isn’t about lunch, Zoey. Mulberry Bank needs to see that you can turn your cooking into profit. You have to prove to us that you can bring in big money so we know you’ll be able to pay back the loan.”
The doorbell rang.
Zoey held a finger in the air. “Ah, the Lunch Rush.”
“Lunch Rush?”
Zoey ran to the front door and pulled it open. About forty people stood in a line that began on Zoey’s doorstep, snaked down the steep and lengthy porch stairway, and ended on the slanted sidewalk.
First in line was a tall hulk of a man with a bald head and bushy black beard. He wore greasy black jeans and a black leather vest. Tattoos of motorcycles, skeletons, and fanged clowns decorated his muscular arms, shoulders, and chest.
“Bonjour, Knuckles,” Zoey said. “How’s the gang?”
“Ridin’ hard, ridin’ fast,” Knuckles said. His voice sounded like a rock being dragged over a cheese grater. “Jus’ got back from a road trip t’ Reno. Had a nasty run-in with the cops there. Turns out it’s against the law to ride a Harley inside a casino. Who knew?” He sniffed. “The specials?”
“Lobster Eggs Benedict and Cinnamon Bacon Octopus Pho.”
“Pho me.”
“Un moment.” Zoey zipped into the kitchen. She returned a minute later with a bulky pink paper bag.
Knuckles took the bag, opened the top, and sniffed. “Smells wicked.” He handed Zoey a wad of dollar bills and walked away.
A policeman was next in line.
“Bonjour, Officer Haggis. This is, what, six Saturdays in a row for you now?”
“Eh, who’s counting? Say, ya got any of them Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops?”
“None today. I get my cocoa beans from a grower in India. His latest shipment was delayed due to flash floods in Punjab. They’ll get here in the next day or two.”
“Ah, the old floods-in-Punjab alibi. I’ve used it a few times myself. Almost got me out of paying for my daughter’s wedding.”
“Lobster Eggs Benedict or Cinnamon Bacon Octopus Pho?”
“I never say no to lobster.”
“Un moment.” Zoey flitted into the kitchen and emerged a minute later with another pink paper bag. “Voilà.”
Officer Haggis accepted the bag and handed Zoey a crisp twenty-dollar bill. “See ya next Saturday, Chef.”
For the next hour, Zoey hustled back and forth between the kitchen and the front door, handing out pink bags of awesomeness and taking people’s money. When the hour was over and the last customer had been served, Zoey closed the front door and sighed. “That was fun.”
Miss Lemon laid her fork on her empty plate. “Chef, how much money did you make today?”
Zoey reached into her pockets and pulled out two fat wads of cash. “About this much.”
Miss Lemon twiddled her fingers. “May I count it?”
“Be my guest.” Zoey walked over and laid the cash on the table.
Miss Lemon licked her fingertips and counted the dollar bills. “I don’t believe it. You made twelve hundred dollars in one hour.”
Zoey smirked. “I guess this proves I can bring in big money.”
“Indeed.”
Zoey’s heart raced. “Are you saying…?”
“I am saying that Mulberry Bank will be delighted to lend you fifty thousand dollars.”
Zoey threw her hands in the air and shrieked. “Holy hopping hotcakes! I’m opening a restaurant!”
Miss Lemon stood and hung her purse on one shoulder. “Come to my office on Monday morning. I’ll have the loan agreement ready for you to sign. Bring your parents. They must sign as well.”
Zoey gulped. “My…parents…have to sign?”
“Yes.”
“But I’m the one getting the loan.”
“You’re a minor. We cannot lend money to a minor unless the minor’s parents assume co-liability.”
“Koala-what?”
“It means if you fail to repay the loan, your parents have to.”
Uh-oh. “My parents can’t make it Monday. They’re, uh, in Siberia.”
“I thought they were at work.”
“They…are. They work there.”
“Your parents work in Siberia?”
“Yes.”
“Doing what?”
“Oh, you know…” Think, Zoey, think. “…raising llamas.”
“Llamas?”
Oh boy. “Yep, llamas.”
“In Siberia?”
“You know what they say: Siberians love llamas.”
“Your parents left you here alone?”
“Yep. They told me, ‘Zoey, you stay here and open a restaurant, and we support you a hundred and ten percent, and if Mulberry Bank wants us to cosign something, you have our express permission to sign on our behalf. Because we’re in Siberia. With llamas.’”
Miss Lemon dove into her purse. “I’m calling Child Protective Services.”
“Wait, did you say Monday?” Zoey gave a nervous giggle. “Monday is great. I’ll be there. My parents will be there. Our neighbors might even come. Hey, do you like homemade ice cream?”
Forty minutes and two bowls of Pistachio Pumpkin Gelato later, Zoey stood on her front porch, watching a taxi carry Miss Lemon away. She felt happy, but also uneasy. She had persuaded a major bank to lend her fifty thousand dollars, sure, but now she had an even bigger mountain to climb.
She had to persuade her mother.
Zoey’s mom wasn’t hip to the whole Lunch Rush thing. “It’s unwise,” she had said, “my young daughter home alone, all kinds of strangers stopping by: too dangerous.”
Initially, Zoey’s dad had supported the Lunch Rush. But, like all good husbands, he lived in mortal fear of upsetting his woman. (“Happy wife equals happy life,” he liked to say.) So Zoey’s mom got her way on the matter. (Or so she thought.)
The house rule was clear: Zoey was not, under any circumstances, to sell her culinary delights to a Lunch Rush, or a Dinner Rush, or any other Rush that involved strangers coming to the house. That’s why, as Zoey hurried about the kitchen, sweeping up this and wiping down that, she wasn’t just cleaning—she was disposing of evidence.
She soaked and scrubbed and rinsed and dried until every dish, utensil, appliance, and surface was sparkling clean. Exhausted but invigorated, she leaned against the fridge and massaged her sore hands. If only dishes were as fun to clean as they were to make dirty.
All that remained of the Lunch Rush was a big black garbage bag leaning against the pantry door, bulging like a baby’s diaper after a long nap. The bag was too big to put in the cans in the garage (her mom would see, get suspicious, ask questions) and too heavy to carry all the way to the Dumpster behind the Starbucks on Bay Street. She needed an alternative means of disposal.
The doorbell rang.
Zoey dragged the garbage bag to the front room and opened the door. O
n the porch stood a pimple-faced boy in a Pizza Town hat, cradling a red pizza warmer.
Zoey did her best to look surprised. “Pizza? I didn’t order pizza.”
The pizza boy checked the receipt on his pizza warmer. “Is this 816 Francisco Street?”
“That’s my address, but I didn’t order pizza.”
The pizza boy made a great-I-came-all-this-way-for-nothing face. (If you’ve ever handed out toothbrushes to trick-or-treaters on Halloween, you’ve seen it.) “I guess I’ll…go, then….”
“Tell you what.” Zoey slid the garbage bag to the doorstep. “If you’ll take this bag off my hands, I’ll buy that pizza and give you a ten-dollar tip.”
The pizza boy looked elated. Then suspicious. “What’s in the bag?”
“Leftovers.”
“That’s not, like, a code word for ‘dead body,’ is it? Because the last time I accepted a bulging black bag from a stranger I ended up in juvie.”
“It’s just garbage, I assure you. Do we have a deal or not?”
The pizza boy glanced over his shoulder. “Are you filming me?”
“You have three seconds to decide. Three.”
With his free hand, the pizza boy took off his cap, scratched his bushy purple mohawk with the back of his wrist. “Make it twenty?”
“No. Two.”
He put the cap back on. “I’d better not.”
“One. You snooze, you lose.” Zoey slammed the door shut. She dug thirty dollars out of her pocket, and waited. One soda pop, two soda pop, three soda pop, now.
The doorbell rang.
Zoey opened the door. “That’s more like it.” She paid the pizza boy and took the pizza. The pizza boy lugged the garbage bag to a dilapidated Honda Civic parked at the curb, threw it in the backseat, and drove away.
Zoey locked up the house and marched down the street, hot pizza box in hand. The sky was blue. The air was warm. Seagulls soared overhead, riding the salty Pacific wind, squawking like old women at a Marie Callender’s.
Turning onto Hyde Street, Zoey got a clear view of the bay. The sea was choppy. Whitecaps twinkled in the sun. Yachts and sailboats drifted past Alcatraz Island, site of America’s most famous prison, and former residence of notorious gangsters like Al Capone, Clint Eastwood, and that one guy who was way too into birds.
To the west, the orange-red Golden Gate Bridge loomed over the Pacific strait like a sentinel. The bridge was in pretty good shape, considering its history. If you’ve watched any movies in the past five decades, you’ve seen the bridge fall prey to numerous attacks. Assailants include a giant shark, the Incredible Hulk, an army of hyper-intelligent apes, Magneto, Godzilla, something called a “kaij¯u,” the sun, the cast of Full House, and Lex Luthor. Yes, that Lex Luthor.
Zoey removed her toque, letting the breeze rake through her cheesecake-colored hair like a velvet fork. Such a lovely afternoon. Had she not been so nervous, she might’ve enjoyed it.
Crossing Bay Street, she heard the distant tah-tah-tu-tah-tah of a stick on a ride cymbal and the sassy honk of a brass trumpet.
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
The Jam House was the smallest house on Bret Harte Terrace, salmon with a teal front door and Spanish-tile steps. Ascending the steps, Zoey’s heart thumped like a kick drum. Breathe, Zoey, breathe. She didn’t bother with the doorbell. They wouldn’t have heard her anyway. She let herself in.
Valentine & the Night Owls were in the living room performing the final refrains of Charlie Parker’s bebop classic “Scrapple from the Apple.” Fat Jo sat behind a Gretsch drum kit, satin walnut with brass rims. Monk sat at an upright piano. Four stood behind an upright bass. Bird stood next to Four, clutching a copper tenor saxophone.
Zoey’s mom stood at the center of the room, a beret on her pretty head, a black scarf around her long white neck, a brass trumpet held to her lips, her cheeks puffed up like balloons. Her name was Suzy but everyone called her Valentine—a nod to her favorite song, “My Funny Valentine,” as performed by Chet Baker.
Zoey’s dad sat on a barstool in the back corner of the room. His name was Kenny, but everyone called him Gershwin because he, like the late George Gershwin, was such a skilled composer. He managed the quintet (bookings, press, accounting, etc.) and composed or arranged every piece in its 200-plus song repertoire.
Gershwin, in spite of his Anglo-Californian roots, always dressed like a Cuban cigar tycoon. Today’s outfit was a panama hat (handwoven toquilla palm with a black band and beach-style brim), a white suit, lime-green collared shirt, and white-and-beige wingtip shoes. His reason for this fashion choice: “If a millionaire ever invites me to brunch on his yacht, I’ll be ready.”
An open book of scores lay on Gershwin’s lap. His eyes followed the score while his left hand carved a 4/4 pattern into the air, in time with the band.
The room smelled like black coffee and Fat Jo’s unwashed pit bull, Pistachio. The mutt was likely upstairs in her room, head on the floor, paws over her ears. She hated jazz.
One by one, the members of Valentine & the Night Owls greeted Zoey with a smile or nod. They hammed up their performances because that’s what musicians do when someone’s watching. Bird raised his sax and swayed his hips. Monk bobbed his head and shoulders. Four pursed his lips and slapped his strings. Valentine teased a mute in and out of her trumpet’s bell, producing a wah-wah effect that sounded like catfish gumbo tastes.
At the conclusion of a zippy cadence, Fat Jo clenched the rim of his Meinl crash, squelching the sound. “Wuttup, Lil Z.”
“Bonjour, fellas, Mom, Dad. I brought you a pizza.”
Fat Jo received the box and took out a slice of thin-crust pepperoni. “Thass what I’m talkin’ ’bout.” He handed the box to Four and Bird, who took slices for themselves, then passed the box to Monk.
Valentine plucked a white handkerchief from her back pocket and rubbed it over her trumpet’s bell, wiping off the spit spots. “I can’t remember the last time you came to a rehearsal, sweetie. Is everything okay?”
“Yep, everything’s great. Just popping in to see the world’s coolest mom doing her thing.” Zoey twiddled her fingers in front of her mouth to mimic playing a trumpet. Zoey’s parents exchanged cynical glances. Valentine said to Zoey, “You burned down the house, didn’t you?”
“What? No.”
“Invited a drifter to live in our attic?”
“That was an isolated incident.”
Gershwin set down his book of scores. “Is PETA harassing you again?”
“Nothing like that. Everything is fine. Really.” Zoey sniffed. “Hey, I ran out of mitsuba. Tomorrow morning, can you and Dad give me a ride to Nijiya Market?”
“Sure, sweetie,” Valentine said. “Is that it?”
“That’s it.” Zoey dawdled at the front door. “That’s all I came for. No ulterior motives whatsoever.” She opened the door and stepped outside, adding, “On the way to Nijiya, we’ll swing by Mulberry Bank to cosign my business loan. Bye!”
She ran for it.
“Stop.”
Zoey stopped. She’d made it halfway down the Spanish-tile steps. The door hadn’t even closed all the way yet.
“Inside. Now.”
Zoey went back inside.
Gershwin and the Night Owls were grinning like househusbands at a taping of The Rachael Ray Show.
Valentine, however, was less than amused. “Business loan?”
“I’m opening a restaurant.”
Gershwin gave two thumbs up. “Attagirl!”
Valentine elbowed him in the ribs. “Don’t encourage her. Zoey, how much?”
“The number isn’t important. What’s important is your daughter is pursuing her dreams.”
Valentine folded her arms, her trumpet against her ribs. “How much?”
“Fifty.”
“Fifty what?”
“Fifty…ish.”
“How much is ish?”
“I don’t remember the exact number.”
&n
bsp; Valentine put her foot down. Literally. Her French heel struck the hardwood floor like a judge’s gavel. “Zoey Sara Lee Kate.”
Zoey mumbled, “Fifty thousand.”
Fat Jo played a drumroll on his snare. “Daaang, the girl takes care o’ biz-ness!”
Monk said, “That’s almost as much as I owe the IRS.”
Four said, “I get so lonely sometimes.”
Bird said, “I’m staying out of this.”
“So, Mom, Dad, will you cosign?”
“Absolutely not,” Valentine said. “Fifty thousand dollars is too much of a liability. Isn’t that right, Gersh?”
Gershwin stuck his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “Actually, wife dearest, I think the restaurant is a brilliant idea. Also, you’re beautiful and thin and I love you.”
Fat Jo said, “I dig it.”
Monk said, “Me too.”
Four said, “I just want someone to love me for me, you know?”
Bird said, “I’m staying out of this.”
Zoey said, “Mom, everyone else thinks it’s a good idea. Why don’t you?”
“You’re twelve,” Valentine said.
“That’s ageism!”
“What about school?”
“It’s summer.”
“Won’t be summer forever.”
“When school starts, I’ll do the school thing during the week. I’ll do the restaurant thing on weekends.”
“What about friends?”
Zoey blushed. She didn’t have any friends, and she was pretty darn sure her mom knew that. No point bringing it up in front of the band.
Noticing her hesitation, Valentine said, “What about Dallin?”
Oh, well, yeah, there was Dallin. But he wasn’t a friend, per se. He was more like…a brother? No, he was too dependable for that. More like…a piece of furniture. An old couch, perhaps. Big, fluffy, comfortable, always had her back.
“I got big plans for him,” Zoey said. “I’ll start him bussing tables, then serving. If he performs well, by autumn he could be managing the front of house. I’ll know more after his first performance review.”
The World's Greatest Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops Page 2