“A saying that actually works in this area,” I noted.
He chuckled and pulled out several spices from another cupboard.
Sensing he wasn’t wholly convinced yet, I went a step further. “Teach me, Chef. I didn’t come all the way to Nashville to stand by and watch.”
That seemed to work. Amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he nodded at the island behind him. “In the top drawer, you’ll find measuring cups. I guess I can teach you how to make a marinade.”
Now we were talking.
Chapter 4
Difference Maker
As the song drew toward its close, I spoke into the mic. This song and the next were connected by a segue, so we didn’t stop completely. “If ‘Difference Maker’ didn’t already clue you in, the next one probably will,” I said. “My brother and I grew up in a church—it’s where we started learning how to play instruments, and it’s where we met this amazing group of friends behind us. They’re part of our local gospel choir, but they left their shiny robes at home for this gig.” I grinned to myself when I heard the chuckles from the audience.
Sylvia switching from piano to the organ was my cue.
I leaned into the mic again, gripping it with both hands, and closed my eyes.
I was ready to surrender.
“A couple tablespoons of black pepper.” King placed the pepper in front of me, and I dutifully poured it into the measuring spoon.
“Are you just pulling these amounts outta nowhere?” I wondered, because it felt that way.
“Depends what you’re really askin’.” He moved away from the counter and headed for the fridge while I poured the pepper into the mixing bowl. “My head isn’t what I’d call nowhere. But if you’re wonderin’ if I have an actual recipe for marinades, the answer is not really.”
Figured.
He returned with two beers and a lemon, and he swiftly pulled out a cutting board and a knife. “So far, you’ve added soy, cumin, pepper, two types of oil, onion powder, garlic, a bit of mustard, and chili into the bowl. You haven’t once asked why.”
“Uh…”
He grinned and slid the bottle of honey my way. “Three tablespoons of honey. But why?”
For fuck’s sake. “I’m used to giving students homework, not the other way around. If there’s a quiz coming, you gotta warn me.”
He rumbled a warm laugh, the sexiest goddamn sound. “Come on. Think about it. Why are we adding honey?”
Because that’s what you told me to do!
“To make it taste good?” I guessed.
He shook his head in amusement and split the lemon into two halves. Then he squeezed the juice from one of them into the bowl. “Why am I adding lemon?”
“To make it taste good,” I repeated.
He found that funny too. “This is why you have oatmeal for dinner, Anthony. You don’t take the time to get to know your ingredients.” Did he actually remember my entry in the giveaway? “Have you taken any cooking classes before?”
“Once.” I winced internally at the memory. “My little brother still makes fun of me for it. He calls me the worst Italian in Brooklyn.”
That earned me another charming smile. They were fucking dangerous. “What were you makin’?”
“Alfredo,” I replied. “Mine came out lookin’ more like risotto.”
At the very least, my kitchen failings were brightening his mood. That counted for something.
“That’s the problem with most cooking classes.” King took over the mixing once the honey was in, and he whisked it all together with a practiced touch. “They give you a recipe to follow and entertain you with the origin of the main ingredient, fun anecdotes about that one time the chef was in Tuscany and tried homemade pasta for the first time, and then they give you some wiggle room about the time it takes to bake something, because, you know, all ovens are different.” Oh, he was passionate about this. He added some more spices too. A pinch of this, a pinch of that. “What they fail to introduce many times is a flavor profile. Just like with wine, whiskey, and coffee, a recipe is about bringing together the perfect combination of flavors.” He leaned into me to throw the whisk in the sink, which gave me a whiff of his cologne. Cazzo. “A marinade can be the character in a movie with only one line, or it can be more of a significant secondary character. For barbecues in the South, you wanna taste the marinade properly.”
I was on board for tasting.
In the bigger bowl, he started adding chunks of meat that he cut at a pace I couldn’t keep up with. “I’m making kabobs tonight, so I want the marinade to bring out something extra in each ingredient. The chili goes well with the bell peppers. Nutmeg with mushrooms, and…” In quick succession, he finished adding the meat, poured the marinade, and, lastly, emptied half a bottle of beer into the mixture. “Beer tenderizes the meat.”
I was a little turned on, to be honest.
“Don’t listen to the people who say you should only add the beer an hour before grilling,” he told me. “They’re wrong.”
Okay. I wasn’t going to listen to those people.
“Honey for sweetness, lemon for tartness, and black pepper that binds it all together,” he finished.
When all was said and done, he’d put plastic wrap over the bowl with the meat, he’d wiped down the counter, and he handed me the unopened beer.
“Let’s have a seat outside.”
“All right. Shouldn’t the meat be in the fridge?”
He chuckled and clapped me on the back. “God no.”
Was this the test? I should ask why. Right?
“Why not?”
The way his eyes warmed with approval affected me way too much. “It’s old thinking. Whether you’re baking or cooking, most ingredients are better to use at room temperature. And that includes ingredients we’re taught should always be in the fridge to prevent bacteria or everything going bad. Eggs, milk, butter, meat. You name
