The World's Greatest Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops

by Ryan K. Sager

Valentine fired an ominous look at Gershwin, who was smiling. And then, suddenly, not smiling.

  “And your father and I, when will we see you?”

  “Your band gigs six nights a week! I won’t see you any less than I do now.”

  Valentine flinched as if an invisible bee had stung her below the left eye. Zoey hadn’t intended the comment to hurt, but it had.

  “What about safety?” Valentine said. “Dad and I will be on one side of town, doing a gig, and you’ll be all the way on the other side of town, cooking. How will we know you’re safe?”

  “I’ll hire Navy SEALs to wait tables.”

  Valentine shook her head. “I’m uncomfortable with this whole thing.”

  Gershwin coughed into his fist. “How ban.”

  Fat Jo said, “Gesundheit.”

  Gershwin coughed into his fist again. “Howz bad.”

  Valentine said, “Cough drops are in my purse in the kitchen.”

  Gershwin looked at Zoey like, Are you kidding me? then coughed into his fist again. “Hows ban.”

  “House band!” Zoey shouted, finally getting it.

  Valentine shot an ominous look at her husband. He pretended to study something interesting on the ceiling.

  “The quintet can be my house band,” Zoey said. “You’ll get to perform for a packed house every night, and, Mom, you can keep a close eye on me. Closer than you get to now.”

  Fat Jo said, “I’m in.”

  Monk said, “Me too.”

  Four said, “My heart is a desolate wasteland.”

  Bird said, “I’m staying out of this.”

  Gershwin placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Babe, you’ve already outlawed the Lunch Rush. What else is Zoey supposed to do?”

  Valentine looked down at her trumpet. Her agile fingers played a silent tune on the keys. She appeared deep in thought. Was she reconsidering?

  “I still say no.”

  Nope. Not reconsidering.

  Fat Jo whacked his crash cymbal. The copper PAHHHH! rippled through the room like an EMP blast, making everyone jump. “Aw, come on, Val! Cosign the girl’s loan. Let her chase her dreams. Where would you be with that trumpet of yours if your parents hadn’t sneaked you into all them jazz clubs when you was a kid? You only live once, right?”

  Gershwin said, “He’s got a point, babe.”

  Monk said, “I agree.”

  Four said, “A man can only read so many Nicholas Sparks novels, ya know?”

  Bird said, “I’m still staying out of this, but if I wasn’t I’d say ‘me too’ too.”

  You only live once, Zoey thought, committing the phrase to memory. So obvious yet so profound.

  Valentine’s fingers played another silent lick on the trumpet’s keys. Her foot tapped on the hardwood floor. “Zoey, do you promise you won’t fall behind in school?”

  “I promise.”

  “And do you promise you won’t do anything foolish or dangerous as you’re getting your restaurant up and running?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to eat meat loaf.”

  Valentine nodded, her face as brittle as an overcooked crêpe. “Fine, I’ll cosign.”

  Zoey threw her hands in the air. Gershwin pumped his fists. Fat Jo played a rollicking drum fill, and the band—minus its lead trumpeter—launched into a spirited rendition of “The Best Is Yet to Come.”

  Zoey sat in the backseat of her family’s gray Highlander, flipping through her crisp new Mulberry Bank checkbook and feeling like a millionaire. (Or a fifty-thousand-dollar-ionaire. Is that a thing?)

  Her mom sat in the passenger seat. She stared out the window, looking grim and mournful, like she’d come from a funeral. (The black dress and veil didn’t help.)

  Her dad drove. He kept trying to cheer up his wife, saying things like, “That Miss Lemon was a nice gal,” and “I love Monday mornings, don’t you, dear?” but Valentine was beyond cheering up.

  Turning onto Bay Street, Gershwin said, “Hey, Chef, where is your restaurant going to be, anyway?”

  “My real estate agent texted me addresses of several properties available for rent. He wants me to swing by each one, peek through the windows, get a feel for the neighborhood, kick the proverbial tires. If any of the properties pique my interest, he’ll make arrangements for a walk-through.”

  Gershwin’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror. “When did you get a real estate agent?”

  “A few weeks ago. Found him online.”

  Valentine shook her head. “What else don’t we know about our daughter’s life?”

  Zoey put her new checkbook in her tangerine purse. “So, itinerary: first, brunch at Café Bastille. Smoked salmon benedict and Orangina. Then cruise around town, check out some properties, see what catches my eye. Then dinner. La Cucina di Cannoli. Spaghetti and meatballs, old-school. I’ll take the Powell/Hyde home. You two will head to tonight’s gig. Is this an awesome day or what?”

  “We can’t,” Valentine said. “Gig this afternoon.”

  “Since when does the quintet do afternoon gigs? Your fan base is nocturnal.”

  Gershwin eased off the gas pedal to turn onto Hyde Street. “The Boom Boom Room needed a fill-in. We said we’d do it. The soonest we can take you is Saturday morning.”

  “I’ll be an old woman by then!” Zoey folded her arms and stared out the window, doing her best to look downtrodden so her parents would see how cruel they were being. “You two are standing in the way of progress.”

  “Saturday,” Gershwin said, “take it or leave it.”

  “Leave it,” Zoey said. “Time waits for no chef!”

  “Suit yourself,” Valentine said.

  Zoey would have to go it alone. She’d take taxis and cable cars and even the city bus. Since public transportation was a weirdo-magnet, Zoey would need protection—someone tough and loyal whom she could count on to watch her back.

  She knew just the guy.

  Football camp was every weekday from nine to noon at Moscone Park. Zoey sat in the shade of a Spanish chestnut tree, watching a gaggle of preteen boys in helmets and shoulder pads pummel one another. Often, a pointy brown ball was involved.

  Zoey (who looked resplendent in her banana-yellow toque and jacket) scanned the grubby throng in search of Dallin Caraway. Dallin was the biggest kid on the team, so he should’ve been easy to spot. But Zoey couldn’t find him. Where was he?

  At noon, the coach blew a whistle and called the boys “a buncha thumb-suckin’ mamas’ boys,” signaling the end of practice.

  As the haggard players limped off the field, Zoey approached the coach. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Dallin Caraway…?”

  The coach motioned to the other end of the park. “Over there. Blocking sleds.”

  Zoey could see the sleds but she didn’t see Dallin. “Are you sure he’s—”

  “Trust me. He’s there.”

  Zoey scurried to the other end of the park. As she neared the sled, she spotted a red mesh sleeve poking out from behind one of the blocking pads.

  “Dal, is that you?”

  The sleeve vanished.

  “Dal, I saw your sleeve.”

  No response.

  Zoey walked around the blocking sled. There was Dallin, in his helmet, shoulder pads, and sweatpants, crouching like a frightened mouse. (A big frightened mouse.)

  “Worst. Hiding spot. Ever,” Zoey said.

  Dallin rose to his feet. He was the height and width of a refrigerator: half muscle, half baby fat, all boy. Behind his face mask, his cheeks were redder than cherries jubilee. “What’re you doing here, Z?”

  “I’m about to make history, and I need your help. Why were you hiding from me?”

  Dallin ripped off his helmet and threw it to the ground. His brown hair was a sweaty mess. Clumps of grass and dirt clung to his broad chin and neck. “You weren’t supposed to see me like this.”

  “Like what?”

  Dallin kicked his helmet. It flew six feet, landing on a patch of wild dandelions
. “Coach says for a lineman I don’t hit hard enough. He makes me spend every practice hitting this stupid blocking sled.”

  Zoey wondered how it was possible that a boy of Dallin’s size could come up short in the hit-hard department. But that was a mystery for another time. Dallin was sad, and it was her job to cheer him up. Fortunately, she knew the perfect thing to say:

  “Hang in there, Dal. A lot of great athletes have bumpy starts. When Babe Ruth joined the Chicago Bulls in 1982, Coach Lombardi said he was too fat to play goalie. Did the Babe give up? No, sirree. He hired a personal trainer, beat cancer, and in the summer of ’69 became the first Mexican American to win six Tour de Frances.”

  Dallin was speechless.

  The pep talk had worked, obviously. Dallin was all cheered up, and it was time for business. “Here’s one for ya,” she said. “What’s cute and brilliant and is starting her own restaurant?”

  Dallin said, “You got the loan?”

  “Fifty g’s, baby.”

  “Suh-weet!”

  They bumped fists.

  “You’re gonna help me find the perfect property for my restaurant. We’ll head out as soon as you’re cleaned up.”

  “Um, okay.” In one motion, Dallin tore off his jersey and shoulder pads. They hit the ground like a sack of Klondike Rose potatoes. “Ready.”

  Zoey surveyed Dallin’s outfit: faded 49ers T-shirt with pit stains, black sweats with holes in the knees, and tomato-red cleats. Her disapproval must’ve shown on her face, because Dallin said, “What?”

  Zoey said, “Don’t you have a change of clothes somewhere?”

  Dallin said, “You’re looking at it.”

  “We might meet someone important today. You should look fashionable.”

  “Oh, right.” Dallin rubbed his hand through his hair, whipping up a cloud of dust. He pressed a sooty finger against his right nostril and blew a wad of dirty snot out of his left. “How’s this?”

  Zoey chuckled and shook her head. “As good as it’s gonna get, I suppose. Let’s go.”

  California Street was long and steep. Narrow row houses, four and five stories tall, stood close together like tattered books on slanted shelves. Some of the houses had bars on the windows. Most did not. Fire escapes zigzagged down the fronts of hotels and apartment towers. Here and there, residents sat in folding chairs on fire escape landings, sipping cola drinks, watching the traffic, killing time, waiting for an adorable young chef to open a restaurant already.

  A cable car glided eastward, slow and steady like a reggae song. Zoey and Dallin sat in the back of this car. Dallin was hunched over a two-pound pepperoni-and-cheddar mega hoagie like a greedy gorilla. Zoey was on her iPad, reading restaurant reviews and ignoring the gawking stares of her fellow passengers.

  For the unacquainted, a cable car is an open-air boxcar that looks like an old-fashioned train caboose. It has no wheels. It links to (you guessed it) a cable underground that pulls the car up and down a defined route called a “line.”

  San Francisco has three lines: the Powell/Hyde Line, which runs by Zoey’s house; the Powell/Mason Line; and the California Line. (Fun fact: country music legend Johnny Cash wrote the song “I Walk the Line” after getting kicked off a cable car for disorderly conduct.)

  With grease dribbling down his chin, Dallin looked at Zoey’s iPad and said, “Who’s the dork?”

  On-screen was a photo of a middle-aged man with glossy pecan-colored hair and a handlebar mustache that curled upward at both ends. He wore a black three-piece suit with a gold watch chain tucked into the vest pockets. He was fat.

  “That,” Zoey said, “is Royston Basil Boarhead, Golden Gate Magazine’s editor in chief and California’s most esteemed food critic.”

  “Never heard of him,” Dallin said.

  “That’s because he’s not a football player. He’s the most powerful man in gastronomic journalism. With a stroke of his pen, he can make or break any restaurant. Remember the Coddled Egg on Fillmore?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. Three years ago, Boarhead published a review titled ‘The Coddled Egg Is a Rotten Egg.’ Five days later, the restaurant was out of business.”

  “Hard-core.”

  “Way.”

  Dallin tore off a chunk of cheesy pepperoni with his teeth. “So is every chef in town, like, terrified of cooking for him?”

  “Au contraire.” Zoey slid the iPad into her purse. “It’s an honor to cook for Boarhead. He has the most discerning palate in North America. He can eat a potato and tell you what part of Idaho it’s from.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah.”

  Dallin licked a gob of cheddar off the side of his palm. “When your restaurant gets open, will you get to cook for him?”

  “I can only hope.”

  The cable car stopped at a red light at Mason Street. Zoey’s eyes panned up the towering InterContinental Mark Hopkins hotel. The top floor, Zoey knew, was a posh cocktail bar called Top of the Mark. Now there was a cool place for a restaurant. Too bad the space was wasted on something as vulgar and uninspiring as cocktails. Zoey made a mental note to contact Mark Hopkins (whoever he was) and offer her services as a consulting chef should he ever wise up and turn that bar into a gourmet steak house.

  Dallin said, “Whatcha gonna call it, anyway?”

  “Call what?”

  “Your restaurant, duh.”

  “Oh.” Excitement coursed up Zoey’s spine, causing her to sit up straight. “I’ve given this a lot of thought. A restaurant name has to pop and sizzle without undermining its own potential for socioeconomic change. For example, when people eat at my restaurant, they’ll get inspired. This will lead them to invent things and start mega-successful companies with thousands of employees. So I’m a job creator. The name has to reflect that.

  “Also, my restaurant will facilitate a lot of love connections. Picture a young couple on their first date, rapturously enjoying my food, their emotions running as wild as African antelopes. The guy says, ‘Wow, I am loving this.’ The girl thinks, ‘Wait, is he loving the food or loving our date? I wonder how many kids he wants.’

  “Then the guy looks deep into the girl’s eyes and says, ‘Will you—’

  “‘A thousand times yes!’ she exclaims. Actually, he was going to ask her to pass the butter, but it’s too late. She already told her family and bought a dress. They’ll be married this autumn. I’ll cater. I bring families together. The name must reflect that too.”

  Dallin bit into a thread of cheese dangling from his hoagie. “That’s why I never talk while eating.”

  “Also,” Zoey said, “a lot of world leaders will eat at my restaurant. Senators, presidents, czars, kings, that kind of thing. One guy will be like, ‘If you people don’t stop flying into our airspace, we’ll drop a bomb on you.’ And another guy will be like, ‘If you drop a bomb on us, we’ll invade your country.’ And another guy will be like, ‘Wow, these Cajun Gumbo Tacos are amazing!’ And the first two guys will be like, ‘Who can fight at a time like this?’ Boom. World War Three averted. I’m an ambassador for peace. The name has to reflect that too.”

  Dallin picked a speck of cheese out of his nostril. “So, what is it?”

  “The name is…” Zoey drummed her hands on her thighs. “…Wait for it…” She pulled a fistful of confetti from her purse and flung it into the air. “The Z Connection!”

  As glittery bits of paper rained on the heads and shoulders of nearby passengers, Dallin said, “How long have you been carrying that around?”

  “Eight weeks. Did you like it?”

  Dallin whiffled confetti off the top of his hoagie. “It’s kinda messy.”

  “I meant the name. Did you like it?”

  “Sure.”

  “You hate it.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I can tell.”

  Across the aisle, an old man brushed confetti off the shoulders of his wool cardigan, grumbling about “kids these days” and “not
enough juvenile detention centers.”

  Zoey said, “You should see it written down. There’s an exclamation mark at the end. It adds a lot.”

  “Ya know what I don’t get?” Dallin said. “The Olive Garden. I’ve been there. No olives. No garden. Who’re they trying to fool?”

  “I have other names,” Zoey said. “Zoey’s Edible Arts?”

  Dallin frowned. “Makes me picture a guy walking around a museum, licking all the paintings.”

  “That’s creepy, but okay. How about…Zoey’s Bistro?”

  “Too generic.”

  “Zoey’s Super-Fantastic Dazzling Delectables?”

  “Too braggy.”

  “Eat Here or Your Mother Will Die.”

  “Too soon.”

  “La Cuisine de Nuit.”

  “Too French.”

  “Wolfgang Puck Is a Milksop.”

  “Too Wolfgang-y.”

  Zoey slouched like a deflated bicycle tire. “I got nuthin’.”

  “You should call it…” Dallin moved his hands in a sweeping motion, as if unveiling something grand and spectacular. “Because You Don’t Feel Like Cooking, Anyway.”

  “Worst name ever.”

  “Or…” Dallin did the sweeping-hands motion again. “It’s Either This or Your Wife’s Cooking.”

  The old man in the cardigan grumbled something about “lousy wife” and “can’t make a proper lasagna” and “why, I oughta…”

  The light turned green. The cable car resumed its eastward trek. As they neared Grant Avenue, Zoey sprang to her feet. “This is us.”

  Dallin licked cheddar off his chin. “Kiatow?” (That was Dallin-with-his-mouth-full for “Chinatown?”)

  “It’s the first address on my list.”

  “Yu nah ky-nese.” (“You’re not Chinese.”)

  “You don’t have to be Chinese to work in Chinatown. All kinds of people work there: Japanese, Korean, vegan…”

  As the cable car slowed to a stop, a look of alarm swept across Dallin’s face.

  Zoey said, “What’s wrong?”

  “My hoagie. There’s eight inches left.”

  “So take it with you.”

  “I can’t start a meal in one place and finish it in another place. It’ll freak out my digestive system.”