The World's Greatest Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops

by Ryan K. Sager

  Dallin arrived at Zoey’s station with a dripping bucket of…

  “Clams? Dal, I said scallops.”

  “You said like shells at the beach.”

  “Not the ugly shells at the beach. The pretty shells.”

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

  To the shrimp filling, Zoey added ginger, sesame oil, black pepper, and a pinch of brown sugar.

  Stirring the mix, she spotted a shrimp with the black vein—aka the “poop chute”—still attached. Tsk, tsk. A chef of Chef Pao’s stature should know better. Zoey scooped out the shrimp and carved out the poop chute. All clean, she dropped the shrimp into the pan.

  Dallin returned with a bucket of…

  “Dude, you brought clams again!”

  “You said bring the pretty shells.”

  “Those aren’t pretty.”

  With the knuckle of his thumb, Dallin rubbed his forehead. “That one on top has yellow on it. Yellow’s pretty, right?”

  Inside the bucket, a red claw emerged from beneath the heap of clams.

  “Dal, is that a—?”

  “Rescue crab.”

  “That’s not a thing.”

  Dallin looked desperate. “It was looking right at me, tapping the glass, begging for its life. I saw tears in its eyes, Z. Tears!”

  “It was underwater.”

  “Might’ve been bubbles.”

  Zoey snatched the bucket from Dallin’s hands. “I have to do everything myself around here.”

  She legged it to the fish tanks. Dallin followed. She emptied the bucket. She plunged her arm into the frigid salt water. Two at a time, she fished out scallops until her bucket was full.

  Watching from behind, Dallin said, “Those look the same as the ones I picked.”

  “Is that so?” Setting down her bucket, Zoey reached into the tank and pulled out a clam. Hoisting the clam upon the thumb, index, and ring fingers of her left hand, she tapped the top shell with the middle finger of her right hand. In response, a plump orange muscle, four inches long, slithered out from the crack between the top and bottom shells.

  Dallin took a step back. “That’s one big tongue.”

  “It’s a foot, actually. Clams don’t have tongues. Watch this.” Zoey transferred the clam from her fingertips to her palm. The foot “licked” her wrist, then pushed off her wrist, flipped into the air, and landed in the saltwater tank with barely a splash, like an Olympic diver, only much, much grosser.

  “That,” Zoey said, “is the difference between a clam and a scallop.”

  Dallin looked icked out and disturbed—like the time he caught his mom and her boyfriend smooching in the janitor’s closet after parent-teacher conferences. “So when you said ‘the pretty shells,’ you meant those without pole-vaulting alien tongue-foots?”

  “Precisely.”

  Back at her workstation, Zoey held a scallop in one hand, round side down, flat side up. With her other hand, she inserted the blade of a butter knife between the two shells. She turned the knife like a key in a lock. The shell’s hinge cracked in half. She pried off the top shell and tossed it aside. From the bottom shell, she scraped and peeled away the goo and guts until all that remained was an off-white orb of tender meat ready for cooking.

  After doing the same to the rest of the scallops, she added the nuggets to the pan. They sizzled and smoked and smelled like a day at the beach.

  Dallin, meanwhile, had resumed his just-in-case-kung-fu-happens workout. This time, it was push-ups.

  Zoey ripped off a chunk of dough, rolled it into the shape of a cucumber, and diced it into eight pieces. (Eight is a lucky number in China. Nice touch, right?) With a flat palm, she smashed the slices into discs the size of snickerdoodles. Using a small Asian-style roller, she flattened each disc until the center was as thick as a buttermilk pancake and the edges were as thin as a French crêpe.

  After a quick stir-toss, she plucked out a scallop and popped it into her mouth.

  Oh yeah. It’s ready.

  She scooped a glob of shrimp-and-scallop filling onto the disc of dough. She folded the dough in half like a taco, pressing the edges together to seal it up like an empanada. She severed, then sealed, the bottom left and right corners. Now the dumpling was a fan shape, like a scallop shell. With a butter knife, she etched long vertical ridges into the top of the dumpling. Soon the top resembled a scallop shell’s ribbed surface. She brushed the surface with melted butter. For the final touch, she sprinkled on black and white sesame seeds to look like bits of sand from the ocean floor. Lastly, she placed the dumpling in the bamboo steamer.

  One at a time, Zoey crafted seven more scallop dumplings and put them in the steamer too. By the time she added the eighth dumpling to the steamer, the first dumpling was ready for consumption.

  Zoey’s nostrils flickered. Seaweed. Tobacco. Pao’s back.

  Chef Pao arrived at Zoey’s workstation. He drew a pair of golden chopsticks from his jacket pocket, and clacked the tips together.

  Zoey set the dumpling on a plate and served it to Chef Pao. “Bon appétit. Or should I say, màn yòng?”

  Chef Pao looked impressed. “You speak Chinese?”

  “No,” Zoey said, “but I know how to say ‘bon appétit’ in fifty-two languages.”

  Impressed look: gone. Chef Pao seized the dumpling with his chopsticks, raised it to his chin. He smelled it. He popped it into his mouth. He chewed. His expression was blank. No sign of approval or disapproval, nirvana or disgust. No “This tastes amazing” or “With every bite I wish for death.”

  I bet he’s good at poker.

  Chef Pao pointed his chopsticks at a door at the back of the kitchen. “You two. Come.”

  The alley behind New Shanghai smelled like a clogged garbage disposal. It was as narrow as the cereal aisle at Walmart and as long as the Great Wall of China. Felt like it, at least. The alley walls were so tall they blocked out all sunlight, making the warm afternoon feel like a chilly evening.

  Chef Pao closed the back door. He turned to face Zoey and Dallin, and tugged on his shriveled ear, like it wasn’t attached right and needed adjusting.

  Zoey said, “Um, why’d you bring us out here?”

  Chef Pao did not answer. With his hands behind his back, he stepped toward the two youths. His breathing was slow and measured like that of a dragon. His jade eye glowed with menace. (His other eye was just gross.) “Property across street no available.”

  Zoey said, “But the sign in the window says it’s for rent.”

  Chef Pao continued forward. “No. You go to different street. Different city. Far away.”

  Dallin grabbed Zoey’s wrist. It was a protective gesture, Dallin’s way of saying, “If things get crazy, I got your back.”

  Zoey took a step back. Broken glass crackled beneath her boots. “You can’t tell me where to open my restaurant. You don’t own San Francisco.”

  With smooth, even steps, Chef Pao backed Zoey and Dallin deeper into the shadows of the long, damp alley. He put forth his right hand, fingers still clutching those golden chopsticks. He clacked the tips together. Tk. Tk. Tk. Tk. “Ah, but I do own San Francisco. If I say you no open restaurant, then you no open restaurant. Or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or else…” Tk. Tk. Tk. “…pain.”

  Dallin gripped Zoey’s wrist. “He wants to eat us.”

  “No,” Zoey said, “just scare us.”

  Chef Pao’s right hand lunged forward like a striking cobra. The chopsticks clacked together, a mere inch from Zoey’s nose, before pulling back again. Chef Pao could have given her nose quite a pinch. And that was the point. He could have. It was a warning.

  “Good thing I stretched.” Dallin went into a kung fu stance. Sort of. He stood on one leg, the other leg raised. One hand was in a fist, the other hand was above his head, fingers curled like eagle talons.

  “Hiiii-YAH!” Dallin attempted a roundhouse kick. He only made it halfway around, so the kick went
in the opposite direction of its intended target.

  It was official: Dallin did not know kung fu.

  Dallin turned to face Chef Pao again. “There’s more where that came from, homeslice.”

  Holding the chopsticks with tips together, like he was about to dig into a bowl of crisp veggies, Chef Pao jabbed Dallin in the belly.

  Dallin recoiled, hands clutching the spot where he’d been hit. “Oh, come on!”

  “Hey!” Zoey said. “Watch where you’re poking those—OUCH!”

  Chef Pao had jabbed her in the stomach too. It hurt, like a poke from a sharp stick.

  Dallin cried out, “Samuraiiiiiiii-PUNCH!” He ran at Chef Pao, swinging his fists like a frantic gorilla.

  Undaunted, Chef Pao caught Dallin’s left wrist in his chopsticks. Chef Pao turned his hand, bending Dallin’s whole arm, driving him to the ground. It was impressive, actually. Had Chef Pao done that to someone other than Dallin, Zoey might have applauded.

  “Run, Z!” Dallin cried. “He’s a ninja!”

  Zoey helped Dallin to his feet. “Ninjas are Japanese.”

  “Whatever! Just run!”

  Zoey and Dallin ran for it.

  Chef Pao called after them, “You no open restaurant. I always watching. You never safe.”

  Still running, Zoey glanced back over her shoulder at Chef Pao. He was laughing.

  Zoey pounded up California Street, fuming like an overheated Teflon pan. “Lousy Pao…thinks he owns San Francisco…heartless excuse for a chef…supposed to be a role model…”

  Dallin was ten steps behind, rasping and staggering like a bloated zombie. “Still…digesting…two pounds…hoagie awesomeness…”

  An SFMTA bus, bigger than a blue whale, screamed past, bellowing stinky black exhaust. Coughing and hacking, Zoey clamped her hands on her head to keep her toque from flying away. “Lousy bus…thinks it owns the air…heartless excuse for a motorized vehicle…I’ll open my restaurant wherever I wanna open my restaurant…”

  Dallin pounded his fists against his barrel chest, prompting a mighty belch. “There it is.” He ran to catch up with Zoey. “Hey, can we get something to eat? I’m starving.”

  “I’m too furious to eat.”

  “Can we sit down, at least? My legs kill.”

  “I’m too furious to sit.”

  Dallin grabbed his gut. “Oop! There’s a cramp.”

  A police siren sounded in the distance. Its shrill cry bounced off stucco high-rises and dusty windowpanes. “Why didn’t I think of that?” She stopped and took out her iPhone.

  Dallin caught up to her, panting like a dog after a game of fetch. “Who’re you calling?”

  “The cops.”

  “NO!” Dallin slapped the iPhone out of Zoey’s hand. It landed on the sidewalk, screen down.

  “Dude!” Zoey stooped and picked up the phone. She brushed off the screen. No cracks. Phew. “What is your problem?”

  “Cops are a bad idea, Z.”

  Zoey wondered if Dallin had bumped his head on something hard when she wasn’t looking. “Chef Pao has no right to tell me where I can and can’t open a restaurant.”

  Zoey dialed 9—“Hey!”

  Dallin had batted the phone out of her hands again.

  “Dude! Are you trying to break my phone?”

  “I’m trying to keep you out of trouble.”

  “Me?” Zoey picked up her phone again. Still no cracks. Phew again. “I’m not the one who attacked us with chopsticks. That was Chef Pao, remember? He committed assault. That means jail time. Plus, we’re minors, so I’m pretty sure he’ll get the electric chair.”

  She dialed 1—

  Dallin snatched the phone from her hands.

  “Give it back.”

  “Let me explain.”

  Zoey tried to snatch the phone back. Dallin was too quick. He held the phone high above his head so she couldn’t reach it.

  “Dallin Caraway, if you don’t give me back my phone you’ll be in big, big trouble.” Eckk. I sound like my mom.

  Dallin said, “You don’t watch many movies, do you?”

  “I watch tons of movies.”

  “Not cooking movies. Real movies, with guns and car chases and stuff.”

  “Oh, those.”

  “I watch a lotta movies, Z, so I know how this works. Anytime two kids are up against a bad guy—doesn’t matter if it’s a Mafia boss, or a swamp monster, or, in our case, a psychotic samurai chef—”

  “Samurais aren’t Chi—”

  “The point is, the worst thing we can do is tell an adult. I’ve seen it a thousand times, Z. Kids encounter a bad guy, they tell their parents, their parents call the cops, the cops show up, and then—twist—one of the cops is the bad guy.”

  Zoey considered this for a moment, and then…“Gimme that phone.” She lunged at Dallin. He turned. She landed on him, piggyback-style. They wriggled and squirmed and grappled and grunted, spinning like a wobbly top, until Dallin said, “All right, here, take it.”

  Zoey took the phone and hopped off Dallin. They stood there, on the sidewalk, huffing and puffing like they’d swum ten laps around Alcatraz Island.

  Zoey said, “Did you call Chef Pao ‘homeslice’?”

  Dallin averted his eyes. “Sorry you had to hear that.”

  “Me too.” Zoey looked at her phone. During the hullabaloo, Dallin had pushed like a zillion numbers, including a few fractions, which Zoey hadn’t known was possible. Zoey cleared the numbers, typed in 9-1-1, then paused.

  What if Dallin is right? Not about Chef Pao turning out to be a two-faced cop; that’s ludicrous. But what if telling the authorities does indeed lead to more trouble than it’s worth? The cops would tell my parents, right? I mean, they have to. Valentine would freak. She’d be like, “You’re never going anywhere alone ever again. And you’re never opening a restaurant. And you can’t be friends with Dallin anymore. And no more Chinese food.”

  Too much was at risk. She put the phone in her pocket. “What do we do now?”

  “The only thing we can do,” Dallin said. “Drive a stake through Chef Pao’s heart.”

  “Maybe we should check out the other addresses on my list first.”

  “There’s that too.”

  “Let’s go.”

  First, Zoey and Dallin went to 1530 Fillmore Street and peeked through the windows. (Stained carpet. Holes in the walls. Leaky ceiling. No thank you.)

  So they checked out the next property on the list, 25 W. Portal Avenue. (Shared a wall with a scream-therapy clinic. Um, no.)

  So they checked out 1B Mission Street. (Occupied by squatters.)

  Then Dallin said, “If I don’t eat soon, I’ll die.” So they dipped into Little Saigon Deli to get him a chicken-and-waffle sandwich.

  Then they checked out 197 Gough Street. (Below a tap-dancing studio.)

  Then, since they were in the neighborhood, they ducked into Otoro Sushi to see how many avocado rolls Dallin could eat in one minute. (Thirty-two.) The manager insisted they never come back.

  Next, Zoey and Dallin checked out 231 Franklin Street. (Rat infestation.)

  Then 374 Broadway. (Haunted.)

  Then 558 Valencia Street. (Rat infestation. And haunted. Go figure.)

  Then Dallin declared a “state of emergency” in his digestive track, claiming the avocado rolls and chicken-and-waffle sandwich had united against him in full rebellion. He lay down on a bus stop bench to “sleep until the war is over.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Zoey and Dallin were at 331 Eddy Street, gripping the burglar bars on the windows, peering through the dusty glass, counting the bullet holes in the walls and ceiling.

  Dallin said, “I count forty-two.”

  Zoey said, “Did you count the cluster by the stairs as one or six?”

  “I missed those. Forty-eight.”

  Zoey turned from the burglar bars. “Finding a good property in this city is harder than I’d thought.”

  “I’m hungry,” Dallin said.

/>   She took out her iPhone and dialed her real estate agent. He answered after one ring.

  “Happy Curry Real Estate, where you do the work and we get the commission. This is Sandesh speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Hey. It’s Zoey. I checked out the properties you referred me to. All losers. Go ahead and shoot me a dozen more addresses to check out.”

  “One moment.” Zoey heard the clack clack clack of Sandesh’s fingers typing on a keyboard. “Hmmm. A dozen may be difficult.”

  “Half a dozen, then.”

  “Hmmm. Half a dozen may be difficult.”

  “One, then?”

  “Hmmm. One may be difficult.”

  Zoey’s grip tightened on her phone. “Of all the properties in San Francisco, the only ones available are the ones I’ve already seen?”

  “Hmmm.” More typing. “Ah. Here’s a beautiful property. Three thousand square feet. Vaulted ceilings. Ocean view. In Presidio.”

  “I love Presidio. How much?”

  “Three million.”

  “I’m no mathematician, Sandesh, but I’m pretty sure that exceeds my budget.”

  “Hmmm.” More typing. “Ah. There is a walnut farm for sale. It’s in Stockton.”

  “I’m gonna have to fire you, aren’t I?”

  “Tell your friends.”

  Zoey ended the call. Her blood boiled like hot tomato soup. She kicked a POLICE VEHICLES ONLY sign near the curb. “I am not loving San Francisco right now.”

  Dallin had his back against the burglar bars, his arms folded, his hands in fists to prop up his biceps. “Now what?”

  It was evening now. The sun was on its way out, and the fog was on its way in. The fog was a welcome sight, as far as Zoey was concerned. She wished the fog would engulf her, make her disappear, make her forget the hopelessness gnawing at her heart.

  “Now,” Zoey said, “we wallow. We’re four blocks from the city’s best Italian restaurant. It’ll be crowded, but I’m tight with the owner. He’ll get us a table. We’ll sit down, order too much food, and eat until our emotions are numb. How’s that sound?”

  Dallin pumped his fist in the air. “Suh-weet.”