The World's Greatest Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops

by Ryan K. Sager

  The cable car conductor turned in his seat. “Yo, kid, you stayin’ or leavin’?”

  Panicked, Dallin looked at the conductor, then at the sidewalk, then at his hoagie. “Idea.”

  He closed his eyes. He opened his mouth wide. He held the hoagie to his lips, then pushed. The first six inches went in no problem. The final two inches went in by force.

  He chewed.

  He swallowed.

  A hoagie-shaped bulge appeared below his jaw, moved down his neck, and disappeared below his shoulders. It was like watching a python swallow a rabbit. It was disgusting and horrible and painful to watch. And yet…beautiful too.

  But mostly horrible.

  Zoey and Dallin hopped off the cable car (well, Zoey hopped; Dallin sort of hobbled) and started up Grant Avenue.

  Grant Avenue was a terrible name for Grant Avenue. It deserved a more fitting name, like China Avenue, or Dragon Avenue, or You Are No Longer in America You Better Have a Visa Avenue.

  Buildings had curved pagoda roofs with turquoise tiles. Chinese characters festooned storefronts, marquees, and balconies. Red paper lanterns hung over the street like banners. Statues of dragons with curved claws and teeth clung to lampposts and store signs. Skinned pigs and ducks and frogs, their heads and teeth and feet still attached, hung in storefront windows like the lollipops at Ghirardelli Square.

  Zoey and Dallin tromped up the sidewalk, counting the numbers on buildings—“…204…208…214…”—working their way toward 568 Grant Avenue.

  They passed a seafood shop. The day’s catch was on display, open-market-style. Whole salmons, sturgeons, flounders, and other deep-sea goodies lay in rows on a bed of melting ice cubes, scales glinting in the afternoon sun.

  Dallin pinched his nose. “This place reeks.”

  “What’s the matter, Dal, you don’t like fish?”

  “I like it when you make it. When you make it, it doesn’t smell like this.”

  They passed an old man in a bamboo cone hat peddling deep-fried scorpion shish kebabs.

  “Good snack, yes?” the old man said. “You buy two, yes?”

  Dallin dismissed the offer with a wave. “I prefer to live, thanks.”

  “Two for price of one, yes?” the old man said.

  “Another time,” Zoey said. One day, she would eat scorpion shish kebabs. She would be in China, at Beijing’s famous Night Market, where she’d eat all kinds of creepy-crawly goodies: grasshoppers, centipedes, silkworm cocoons, sea horses, and, yes, deep-fried scorpions on a stick. (The deep-fry neutralizes the poison in the stingers, rendering them safe to eat.) Eating scorpions in faraway China was exciting and adventurous. But eating scorpions in California, two miles from one’s own house: that’s like sneaking into the lions’ den at the zoo because “Hey, those African safaris sure look fun!” Some things should only be done in foreign countries.

  The old man muttered something under his breath. Zoey didn’t catch it, but his frosty tone gave her the willies.

  Dallin said, “If anyone messes with us, get behind me. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  They passed a martial arts studio with big windows. Inside, three teenage girls were kicking a mannequin like it owed them money.

  “Speaking of which,” Dallin said (which was weird because they hadn’t been speaking of anything), “did you know Bruce Lee was born in San Francisco?”

  Zoey said, “Who’s Bruce Lee?”

  “Oh, come on. Bruce Lee. The greatest kung fu fighter of all time. How have you never heard of Bruce Lee?”

  “I don’t follow kung fu, okay?”

  “Yeah but…it’s Bruce Lee. Everyone knows Bruce Lee.”

  “Tell me,” Zoey said, aiming to give Dallin a taste of his own margarine, “who is Marco Pierre White?”

  “He discovered America.”

  “Nope.”

  “Discovered malaria?”

  “He’s the godfather of modern cooking.”

  “Oh, Marco Pierre White. I thought you said Axl Pierre White.”

  “I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘touché.’” Zoey licked her thumb, then wiped a smear of cheddar off Dallin’s round left cheek. “He was the youngest chef ever to win three Michelin stars.”

  “Only three, huh?”

  “Not only three. Three is the max. The top of the mountain. La crème de la crème. It’s the most prestigious cooking award in the world.”

  “Hold on.” Dallin stopped. “Michelin, as in the tire people?”

  Zoey stopped. “Michelin makes tires?”

  “Haven’t you seen the Michelin Man? He’s made of tires.”

  “Oh. I thought those were marshmallows.”

  They resumed their trek up Grant Avenue. After a brief stop for some scallion pancakes (somehow, Dallin was hungry again), they arrived at 568 Grant Avenue. They pressed their noses against the window, cupped their hands around the sides of their faces, and peered inside.

  “It’s not much to look at,” Dallin said.

  “That’s because there’s nothing in it,” Zoey said.

  “I don’t like the color.”

  “I’ll change the color.”

  “Is that a chalk outline?”

  “I’ll have the floor tiled.”

  “I got a bad feeling about this one, Z.”

  “I’ll take it!”

  Zoey whipped out her iPhone. Dialing her real estate agent, she leaned her back against 568’s window. There came a break in the flow of cars on the street, and that’s when she saw it. She ended the call. “Dal, look!”

  “Wow. A building.”

  “It’s New Shanghai!”

  “What’d you call me?”

  “It’s Chef Pao’s restaurant.”

  “Who?”

  “Chef Pao, the most acclaimed chef in San Francisco.” Putting her phone back in her skirt pocket, Zoey racked her brain for a way to make Dallin understand what a huge deal this was. “Dal, who’s your favorite 49er of all time?”

  “Justin Smith, aka ‘the Cowboy,’ starting defensive end, two-double-o-eight to twenty-fourteen, two-time 49ers MVP, Sports Illustrated Defensive Player of the Year in twenty-eleven, five Pro Bowls, and eighty-seven career QB sacks. Justin Smith lives in Missouri with his lovely wife and two children.”

  “Well, Chef Pao…” Zoey pointed at New Shanghai. “…is my Justin Smith.”

  Dallin’s jaw dropped. “Whoa.”

  Zoey bounced up and down like a pogo stick. “Sweet banana cream pie! I’m going to work across the street from Chef Pao! We’ll be professional acquaintances! We’ll chitchat after work! Swap kitchen war stories! Carpool to award shows! This is epic! I have to meet him. Come on!”

  She grabbed Dallin by the hand and darted into the street.

  If the dude who designed New Shanghai’s foyer had intended to make visitors feel welcome, he’d failed big-time. There were no windows. The walls, floor, and ceiling were stone. Candle lanterns, perched on tiny alcoves, provided the room’s only light. Massive double doors, red with gold studs, separated the foyer from the restaurant proper like the gates of the Forbidden City.

  Dallin scratched the top of his head. “Where is everybody?”

  “It’s reservation-only,” Zoey said. “Obviously, no one has a reservation for this very second, so the hostess doesn’t have to be out here.”

  “Should we knock on those red doors?”

  “We’re not marauders. We’ll hang out. I’m sure someone will come.”

  Dallin wandered off to a corner to admire a seven-foot statue of an ancient Chinese warrior. “Cool. Samurai.”

  “Samurai are Japanese. That’s a Terracotta Warrior.”

  “You sure? Because this thing looks like a samurai. Helmet. Armor. Sword. Fu Manchu.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Zoey looked around for a place to sit and spotted a glimmering glass trophy case. The case was stationed against the same wall as the front door so folks wouldn’t see it when they first walked
in, but on the way out they couldn’t miss it. A savvy move on Chef Pao’s part. Had the trophy case been the focal point of the room, Chef Pao would’ve come off as braggy. At its current station, however, it was an afterthought, an oh-by-the-way, a PS at the end of a well-crafted letter.

  PS: You just ate the best meal of your life. Everything after this will be huge disappointment.

  Zoey moved in for a closer look. There were Michelin stars, James Beard Awards, Silver Spoon Awards, a Most Likely to Beat Up a Food Critic Award (turns out that’s a thing), and, on the top shelf, not one but six Golden Toque Awards.

  Big whoa.

  Zoey knew all about Golden Toques. She had read about them, read interviews of chefs who had won them, seen photos and videos of them, but this was the first time she’d seen one (or six) in person. The trophies were two feet tall, shimmering gold, and shaped like the toque on Zoey’s head: round on the bottom, puffy on top. They were glorious, and Zoey was on holy ground. She thought she heard angels singing and wondered if she should remove her boots. This must be how Moses felt on Mount Sinai.

  “Dal, come here, you gotta see this.”

  “Hiiii-YAH!” At the other side of the foyer, Dallin and the Terracotta Warrior were engaged in a no-contact, kung fu death match. He called a time-out and meandered over to the trophy case, one hand scratching his sweaty armpit.

  Zoey pointed at the six trophies. “Look.”

  Dallin looked. And waited. “Are they gonna do something, or…?”

  “What? No. They’re Golden Toques.”

  Blank look.

  “Remember Royston Basil Boarhead?”

  “Who?”

  “The food critic? Golden Gate Magazine? The most powerful man in gastronomic journalism?”

  “Wait, is he that dude with the eyeball in the middle of his forehead?”

  “What? No. Dal, we spent like five minutes talking about him?”

  “When?”

  “On the cable car.”

  “Oh, the dork with the mustache? What about him?”

  “Every July,” Zoey said, “Royston Basil Boarhead and his colleagues at Golden Gate Magazine dine at the hottest restaurants in San Francisco. Then they nominate three candidates for a cook-off. In one day, Royston Basil Boarhead eats at each of the three candidates’ restaurants. One for lunch. One for an early dinner. One for a late dinner. Then he spends the night in his home study, listening to depressing classical music and reflecting on his experience at each restaurant. Come morning, he declares one of the three restaurants the best in San Francisco and awards the head chef the Golden Toque. It’s the most prestigious cooking award in the world.”

  “I thought Michelin stars was.”

  “Ah, but every year hundreds of chefs get Michelin stars. Only one chef gets a Golden Toque.”

  “What about restaurants outside of San Francisco?”

  “Irrelevant. San Francisco is the Paris, France, of postmodern gastronomy.”

  “I thought New York was.”

  “Ah, but Royston Basil Boarhead is not in New York, is he?”

  Dallin rubbed his hands through his hair, sending a pall of dust into the air. “So this Boarhead guy must be like the best chef in the world.”

  “Well, no. Most food critics aren’t chefs.”

  “So what qualifies him to say who the best chef is?”

  “Because people value his opinions.”

  “Why? He’s not even a chef.”

  Zoey was starting to feel like Martha Stewart explaining nineteenth-century French table settings to that kid from The Jungle Book. “Trust me, Dal. He knows what he’s talking about.”

  One of the massive red doors opened. A woman stepped out, dressed in a shimmering black tunic suit called a zhongshan. “Reservation?”

  Zoey bowed because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you meet a Chinese person, right? “We’re not here to eat. I’m Zoey Kate, culinary prodigy, gourmet innovator, child chef extraordinaire. And this is Dallin, a boy.”

  Dallin punched his right fist into his left palm and bowed. “We come in peace.”

  The hostess rolled her eyes.

  “I’m opening a restaurant across the street. I thought I’d pop in and meet the neighbors. Sorry I didn’t bring brownies.”

  The hostess’s almond eyes scanned Zoey up and down. “What kind of restaurant?”

  “The greatest restaurant in San Francisco!”

  “Who is head chef?”

  “Moi.”

  “Where did you train?”

  “In my house.”

  “Whose recipes do you use?”

  Zoey snickered. “Recipes. Right.”

  Slivers of light flickered across the hostess’s angular face. “And your restaurant is across the street, you say?”

  “Yep. Right across.”

  The hostess pressed her finger against a Bluetooth device fastened to her ear. She muttered something in Mandarin. She listened, nodding—was the person on the other end of the call listening to their conversation?—then said, “Shì de.” Whatever that meant.

  The hostess bowed to Zoey and Dallin. “Chef Kung Pao will see you now.”

  Most professional kitchens are noisy, messy, chaotic places. Lots of shouting. Lots of cursing. Lots of cooks bumping into each other, leading to more shouting and more cursing. Mohawks, tattoos, and strange piercings are as commonplace as paring knives and mandolins.

  But New Shanghai’s kitchen was different. Every appliance and surface was spotless, including the linoleum floor. The cooks—all men—were clean-shaven, including their heads. No tattoos. No piercings. No shouting. They worked with their heads down, their eyes forward, their mouths shut. They seemed more like Shaolin monks than cooks.

  The cooks wore matching double-breasted jackets, as red as China’s flag. Except for one cook. His jacket was black. He wore a toque too. Also black. A braided ponytail hung the length of his broad back, tied at the bottom with bamboo twine and a rat skull. The top half of his left ear was missing. The bottom half was shriveled like rotten lettuce. He was hunched over his workstation, kneading dough with both hands.

  “Is that him?” Dallin said.

  “That’s him,” Zoey said.

  Chef Pao finished the dough, wiped his hands on his apron, and looked at Zoey. His right eye was jade green. His left eye was pale and glossy like squid meat. His gaze was hard and cold like crab shells. With a wave of his hand, he beckoned Zoey—and only Zoey—to his workstation.

  Zoey perked up like a cat spotting a fat mouse. “Sweet Dijon mustard, he’s gonna let me watch him cook! Maybe he’ll teach me some of his tricks.”

  “Mm,” Dallin said, “I love Twix.”

  “Not Twix. Tricks.”

  “I know. I’m just saying I love Twix.”

  “Peanut butter or caramel?”

  “Peanut butter.”

  “Nice.”

  They bumped fists.

  Dallin said, “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Coming through.” A server popped into the kitchen, holding a stack of dirty plates and an empty bottle of Shaoxing. The area by the two-way door was narrow, so the server had to walk sideways to get past Zoey and Dallin.

  “I guess you can’t stand here.” Zoey surveyed the kitchen, looking for an out-of-the-way spot. In one corner, three saltwater tanks sat upon wood shipping crates. Each tank was the size of those aquariums you see in doctors’ and dentists’ offices. One tank held mollusks. Another, crustaceans. Another, eels.

  “Wait over there.”

  “Hey, if a kung fu fight breaks out and I roundhouse-kick a guy into the eel tank, will the eels fry the skin off his bones?”

  “Since when do you know kung fu?”

  “Since I became one with the feng shui of the universe.” Dallin wiggled his lips and nose in an attempt to scratch an itch on his face without using his hands. “It’d fry the skin off his bones, right?”

  “Sorry, Dal. Those eels aren’t electric.”<
br />
  “I’ll warm up just in case.” Dallin jogged over to the saltwater tanks and commenced a routine of knee lifts and toe touches.

  Zoey scurried over to Chef Pao’s workstation. Chef Pao was short, broad, and husky. He smelled like seaweed and tobacco. Zoey wondered how a man who made such pleasing food could smell so foul.

  His workstation had a wooden prep board, rollers, a canister of utensils, and a rack of spices, herbs, sugars, and oils. The dough was in a big lump in a bamboo bowl. The filling sat in a pan on a two-burner stove.

  Chef Pao said, “You know how cook dumpling, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  Chef Pao clasped his hands behind his back. “You cook dumpling. If good, I serve to customer. If no good, I no serve. You cook good, yes?”

  “If by ‘good’ you mean ‘awesome,’ then yes.”

  Chef Pao flashed a contemptuous look, like she had insulted his mother or something. “You cook good dumpling.”

  He lumbered away, shouldering through the two-way door into the dining parlor.

  Zoey couldn’t believe her luck. She had come here with the simple hope of shaking Chef Pao’s hand and taking a selfie. And now she was about to cook for him! Adrenaline pumping through her veins, Zoey gave the filling a quick stir-toss, then tried a bite: shrimp, egg whites, cilantro, garlic, soy sauce, rice vinegar, cornstarch. Not bad. Not spectacular either. It needed…

  Dallin was doing jumping jacks. Zoey beckoned him with a nod. He came bouncing over like a dutiful puppy.

  Zoey said, “Mollusks tank. Twelve scallops. Chop-chop.”

  “On it.” Dallin hustled over to the fish tanks, peered inside, then hustled back to Zoey. “What’s a scallop?”

  “An edible bivalve mollusk.”

  Blank stare.

  “Looks like the shells you’d find on a beach.”

  “Right.” Dallin hastened back to the fish tanks.

  Zoey prodded and tasted the dough. The texture was great. The flavor was great. But the color was McDonald’s-bathroom-wallpaper beige. Yuck city.

  She scanned her workstation. Soy sauce…eel oil…oranges…mushrooms…Ah! Beets.

  Zoey took a plump beet, chopped it up, and stirred it into the dough. Before long, the dough was as pretty and pink as flowers on a peach tree.