The World's Greatest Chocolate-Covered Pork Chops

by Ryan K. Sager

  “Anyways, I’ve been crazy busy. I got so much cool stuff going on, I shouldn’t even be here right now. I should be…” He waved one hand in the air as if grasping for a lost thought. “…you know, stuff.”

  “Uh-huh.” Zoey sat down on her bed. “Hey, wanna see the video the New York Times did on—”

  “Guess how many contacts I have in my phone.”

  “Um…”

  Dallin held out his arms like those tough guys you see in rap videos. “Twenty-six. Bam!”

  “O…kay…?”

  “I could call any one of them, right now, and they’d be like, ‘Yo, D, how’s it going, brah?’ Like that. And I’d be like, ‘Wuzzup?’ And they’d be like, ‘Yo, wuzzup.’ And the girls are like, ‘Ohhhh, Dallin. You’re so awesome at football! We love you!’ And I’m like, ‘Heisman Trophy!’”

  Awkward. Silence.

  Outside, a tumbleweed rolled past the house.

  “Still cheesed about the scrimmage, I take it.”

  Dallin put his sunglasses back on, for some reason. “You weren’t at my scrimmage? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Really? Because you’ve been acting psycho ever since.”

  “Your face is acting psycho ever since.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  The iPad on the nightstand beeped. “Hold that thought.” Zoey grabbed the iPad. On-screen, a message blinked: 21 New Reservations. She shook her head and giggled. Two days earlier, the developers in Kandahar had launched the Zoeylicious website. Customers could book reservations through a dedicated page. Already, Zoeylicious was booked out through September. (On a sadder note, the site did not smell or taste like chocolate chip cookies.)

  “I rest my case,” Dallin said.

  It took Zoey a second to remember what they were talking about. “Dal, did your coach even play you?”

  Dallin winced. Even with the sunglasses on, Zoey saw it. He wandered over to the Wall of Fame. Not to read the reviews, Zoey suspected, but for an excuse to turn his back to her.

  “You still haven’t said sorry,” Dallin grumbled. “I noticed that.”

  Zoey was on her feet now, though she didn’t remember standing up. “That’s why you came over? You want an apology?”

  “You can’t do it, can you?”

  “What, apologize?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I can apologize.”

  Dallin spun to face her. “Let’s hear it, then.”

  He stared at her.

  She stared back.

  “See?” Dallin said. “You can’t do it.”

  “You want an apology? Fine. I’m sorry I’m so awesome that the New York Times practically kidnapped me to do an interview. Happy?”

  Dallin put his hands into his pockets and looked up at the ceiling, like people do when they’re waiting for an elevator and they don’t wanna make chitchat with the other people waiting. “You can’t admit you’re wrong either.”

  “And they say girls like to make drama.”

  Dallin headed for the bedroom door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Anywhere but here.” He stopped in the doorway. “Just once, it’d be cool if my stuff was as important as your stuff. Just one time.”

  His words stung Zoey like jellyfish tentacles. I don’t need this, Zoey thought. I’m a critically acclaimed chef, not a punching bag. Speaking of which…

  “I’ll see you tonight, right?”

  “Sure.” Dallin stepped into the hall, out of sight. “Unless someone asks me for an interview.”

  Uh-oh. Was that a threat? Was Dallin planning a no-show tonight? He was Trolley 2’s only server. Without him, Zoeylicious couldn’t operate. She couldn’t risk it.

  “Wait!” She dashed into the hall, catching Dallin at the top of the stairs. “You look hungry. Are you hungry? I’ll make you something big and delicious to eat. Anything you want. You say it, I’ll make it.”

  Dallin brightened. “Anything?”

  Two hours later, Zoey sent Dallin home with a tummy full of Bacon-and-Kit-Kats-Burgers and a smile on his face. As she transferred dishes and utensils from the table to the soapy sink, Gershwin strolled into the kitchen. “Hi-de-ho, Chef,” he said, setting a plastic bag on the table.

  “Whatcha got there?” Zoey said.

  “The curiosity is killing me.” Gershwin reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. “Grab the mayo, will ya?”

  Zoey dropped a handful of knives into the sink. “You didn’t.”

  “Wanna watch?”

  “Of course.”

  Zoey searched the fridge for mayo while Gershwin, gloved up now, unpacked metal tongs and a bag of six orange-red peppers the size of Salinas strawberries.

  Zoey set a jar of Trader Joe’s Organic Mayonnaise on the table. Curious, she picked up the bag of peppers and sniffed inside. A sharp, piquant smell singed her nose hairs. She dropped the bag. “Want me to call an ambulance first?”

  Gershwin held up the tongs and clacked the bits together. “Don’t tell your mother.” Grinning like a mad scientist, he inserted the tong’s arms into the bag and fished out a single pepper. He inspected the vegetable like a jeweler inspects a fine gem. “You only live once,” he said, and popped the pepper into his mouth.

  He chewed.

  And waited.

  “Well?” Zoey said.

  Her father sniffled. “It ain’t bad. Sweet, in fact.”

  “Your nose is running.”

  Gershwin gripped the edge of the table. “Wait. Here it comes.” His cheeks turned red. “Wow, this is…” He coughed. “This pepper doesn’t mess around.” Tears formed in his eyes. He pounded his palms on the table.

  Zoey hadn’t seen her dad in this much pain since the time he ate six unripe ackees and got Jamaican vomiting sickness. (Yes, that’s a thing.) Or the time he tried to out-eat Dallin at a pizza buffet. Or the time he took up sword swallowing.

  “Dad, you have a problem.” She put down the cereal box and patted him on the back.

  Gershwin coughed again. Sweat trailed down his forehead, and tears crawled down his cheeks. He dabbed his cheeks with his sleeve. “Holy guacamole, that stings.”

  Zoey twisted the lid off the jar of mayonnaise. “Here.”

  Chest heaving, Gershwin held the jar to his trembling mouth. He slurped and sucked as goopy mayo oozed down his chin. Swallowing, he set the jar on the table and wiped his chin with his palm. He smiled. “That was awesome. You should sell these in your restaurant.”

  “I wanna nourish my customers, Dad, not kill them.” Zoey put the bag of peppers in her pocket. “It’s for your own protection.”

  Gershwin rubbed his hands down his discolored face. “I feel…” He leaned to the left. Then more to the left. Then yikes-he’s-about-to-fall-out-of-his-chair to the left.

  “Yep, this is happening.” Zoey sprang from her chair and helped Gershwin to his feet. “Really, should I call an ambulance?”

  “I’ll be fine. Help me upstairs to my room. I need a nap.”

  “We roll out in four hours.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Zoey draped Gershwin’s arm over her shoulders. Like a soldier rescuing a wounded comrade from the battlefield, she helped him upstairs.

  At the top of the stairs, Gershwin dropped to his knees. “I’ll lie down here.”

  “Dad, your bed is like ten steps away.”

  “Not worth it.” He lay down on the floor, his feet hanging over the edge of the first step. He folded his arms under his face like a pillow, closed his eyes, and became still.

  Zoey’s phone rang in her bedroom. She checked her father’s pulse to make sure he wasn’t dead (he wasn’t), then zipped into her room to answer it. Her phone was on the nightstand, next to the iPad. She checked the caller ID.

  UNAVAILABLE.

  Zoey never received calls from people she didn’t know. Her number was unlisted and on the federal government’s Do Not Call list (Valentine had
insisted). Perhaps Knuckles was calling from a new burner phone. He changed phones every week, said it was “safer this way.”

  She answered. “Oui?”

  “Yes, hello, is this Chef Zoey?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “My name is Faruq al-Falafel. I’m Royston Basil Boarhead’s personal assistant.”

  Wham. Adrenaline rush.

  “This is Chef Zoey. How may I be of service?”

  “Your video on the New York Times website is making the rounds at Golden Gate Magazine. You’ve piqued Mr. Boarhead’s curiosity. He wants me to eat at your restaurant tonight, get a feel for things, as it were. I tried to make a reservation online but you’re booked out through September.”

  “A table just became available,” Zoey said. “Six thirty, Jefferson and Hyde.”

  “I’ll see you then. Goodb—”

  “Wait. How did you get my number?”

  “I asked Chef Cannoli. He didn’t want to give it to me, said it was a matter of privacy. I had to beg. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “I’m glad he caved. See you at six thirty, Mr. al-Falafel.”

  “Thank you.”

  Zoey traded her phone for her iPad. She logged into her site’s reservations page. Every table at every time slot was booked. How was she supposed to fit Mr. al-Falafel in? There had to be a way.

  She noticed something: a Tom Salado and a Wendy Pfeffer, each with a reservation for one at a table for two. Happy to play Cupid, Zoey changed their reservations to the same table. This way, Tom and Wendy would enjoy a romantic dining experience together, and there’d be a free table for Faruq al-Falafel. Parfait.

  “Holy guacamole, I’m gonna cook for Royston Basil Boarhead’s personal assistant!” The notion was exhilarating and terrifying and I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening-ing.

  The iPad beeped.

  Homescreen. 2 New Alerts.

  @ChefZoey: You have 78 new subscribers. 3,993 total subscribers.

  And:

  BuzzShark Alert—Today, 9:58 a.m.

  We detected your buzzword, Zoeylicious, trending here.

  The here brought Zoey to the comments section beneath Eat Girl’s blog post about Zoeylicious. (Reads: 7,805. Shares: 2,039.) Eat Girl was one of Zoey’s favorite food bloggers, and she had posted a killer review of Zoey’s cuisine earlier that week. The latest comment on her post was from one—uh-oh—@NewShanghai.

  Zoey is bad chef. Zoey pet sick dog and no wash hand. Food taste like dead skunk. Make you sick. You no eat at Zoeylicious. Come to New Shanghai, we give you half off meal. New Shanghai food is delicious healthy. Better than pork chop.

  Zoey was gripping the iPad so hard the screen almost cracked. Oh no you didn’t. She swapped her iPad for her phone and dialed New Shanghai.

  The hostess answered after one ring. “New Shanghai.”

  “Chef Pao. Now.”

  “Who is calling?”

  “The adorable and undeserving victim of his nefarious slander!”

  “One moment, Zoey.”

  Zoey heard the phone change hands. Chef Pao came on the line. “Nǐ hǎo, Chef.”

  “I read your comment, you cockroach! You’re a liar and a villain!” Zoey lowered her voice to sound like a bad guy from the cop movies her dad liked to watch. “My dumplings got you pretty scared, didn’t they?”

  Chef Pao chuckled, sort of. The chuckle was slow, deep, and calculating. Between each “huh” lingered a second of ominous silence. “Me scared? No. You should be scared.”

  “I’m warning you, you better not write another word about me or I swear I’ll—”

  “Oh,” Chef Pao said, “I plan to do much more than write about you.”

  Zoey didn’t like the sound of that. It was vague and foreboding, like a hot sandwich named after an extinct animal. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She waited. No reply. “Hello? Yo, Pao, you there?”

  Silence.

  Zoey looked at her phone. Call ended. “Not. Cool.” She kicked the air. She punched her bed. She felt bad because the bed had done nothing to deserve that.

  Chef Pao’s threat played and replayed inside her head: “Oh, I plan to do much more than write about you.”

  What, exactly, is Chef Pao planning?

  On a yoga mat in her bedroom, dressed in a weightless silk kamishimo, Zoey sat in the lotus position, preparing her mind, body, and spirit for an evening of culinary zen.

  The doorbell rang. Since Valentine was away and Gershwin was passed out at the top of the stairs, Zoey would have to deal with the visitor herself. Annoyed, she slogged downstairs and opened the front door.

  Chef Cannoli stood on the stoop landing, dressed in pressed kitchen whites and leaning on his black cane. A white Fiat sat in the driveway, engine idling. Panzanella sat in the driver’s seat, her flowing black hair draped over one shoulder.

  Despite their long-standing professional relationship, this was the first time Chef Cannoli had visited Zoey’s house.

  “Everything okay?” Zoey said.

  “Yes, is fine. Pardon me for visit without announcement.”

  “You’re welcome anytime. Wanna come in?”

  “No, grazie. I no can remain for long time.” His thumb stroked the lion’s head atop the cane as if it were a living animal. “Congratulations for your, em, many positive reviews. The things, they are moving fast for you.”

  “So far, so good.”

  Chef Cannoli’s hand trembled, causing the cane to wobble. “Sì, is very good. Bambina, em, you know what thing tomorrow is?”

  “Yeah. Sunday.”

  “You know what important evento culinario is to happen?”

  “All-you-can-eat waffles day at IHOP?”

  “Tomorrow morning, Golden Gate Magazine is to announce the three, em…what is word? Candidati.”

  Candidati wasn’t part of Zoey’s limited Italian vocabulary, but the word sounded like…“Sweet smoldering sauerkraut! That’s tomorrow? I’ve been so busy, I totally forgot. Wait, do you have inside information? Will you be nominated? Will I be nominated? Am I cooking for Royston Basil Boarhead tomorrow? Is that why you’re here?”

  Chef Cannoli made an easy-tiger gesture with his free hand. “My sources at the magazine, they say I am to be nominated.”

  “Let me guess. Chef Pao…?”

  “Yes, nominated also.”

  “Who’s the third candidate?”

  “The magazine is yet deciding. Is between two chefs from India, I think.”

  “Oh.” Zoey fought back a wave of jealousy. “Congratulations. You must be stoked.”

  Chef Cannoli did not look stoked, however. His brown eyes radiated gloom and worry, and his shoulders sagged like under-baked cupcakes. “Is imperativo I win tomorrow. It is to be la mia ultima chance.”

  “Your last chance? Why?”

  Chef Cannoli sighed as if the question itself had zapped the last of his diminishing strength. “I’m old, Zoey. I walk with a cane. My back hurts always. My vision is blurry. Sometimes I no can read my own recipes. At the end of this year, I will retire myself. I must win the Golden Toque tomorrow or I never will. I want you to help me, Zoey. I want to hire you.”

  Zoey bit her lip to keep her jaw from dropping to the ground. Had Cannoli offered her the job a year earlier, she would’ve jumped at the opportunity. But now…“I’m not for hire, Chef. I own a restaurant, remember?”

  “I’m not asking this of you to give up your restaurant. Only put on hold for a little time. Work at my restaurant tonight. I will train you in the ways of mia cucina. Tomorrow you will to be my sous chef.”

  “But you already have a sous chef. Chef Fellini has been your right-hand man for three years now.”

  “And for three years I have come in for the second place.” Chef Cannoli’s eyes darkened. “I have need for you, bambina. Together, you and I can bring Chef Pao to his knees.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Chef Cannoli produced a check and handed it to Zoey. “This is y
our payment for one day and two nights of work.”

  When Zoey saw the amount on the check she almost fainted. “Whoa, this is…”

  “A lot of money.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “A lot of money.”

  “That was a figure of speech.”

  “A lot of money?”

  “No, ‘You can say that again.’ It means, ‘You got that right.’ You weren’t supposed to actually say it again.”

  “You say to me to say it again. I say it again. Now you say I no supposed to say it again. What is point of this?”

  “Forget it.” Zoey’s fingers twiddled the check. “I have to think about this.”

  “Think? What is to think? I pay to you much money. You work for me two nights. I win the Golden Toque. You open up again the Zoeylicious. Is simple.”

  Zoey had to admit, working for Chef Cannoli would be pretty cool, and the pay, for two nights’ work, well, that was pretty cool too. But Zoeylicious…

  “I have to think about this.”

  “I tell to you this thing: if you accept offer, you arrive to La Cucina before the six p.m. If you no show, I will to understand you no accept mine generous offer. Deal?”

  “Sure.”

  With the aid of his cane, Chef Cannoli limped back to the Fiat idling on the driveway.

  Zoey closed the door. Gershwin stood nearby, his arms folded, his complexion back to its regularly scheduled color. “How much is the check?”

  “Dad, you were eavesdropping?”

  “Yes. How much is the check?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  Gershwin took the check and looked it over. “Chef Cannoli doesn’t mess around. Are you going to accept?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a lot of money.”

  “Is that why you got into the restaurant business, for the money?”

  “Well, no.”

  Gershwin folded the check in half. “I heard you talking on the phone. You said a table became available. Who were you talking to?”

  “You were eavesdropping on my phone call too?”

  “Yes. Who was it?”

  “Do you listen in on every conversation I have in this house?”

  “Yes. Who was it?”

  “He was Royston Basil Boarhead’s assistant. He wanted to visit the restaurant tonight.”