“This musician and teacher prefers clear-cut instructions,” I responded.
“Well, then!” August clapped his hands together and went back to the podium. Why did I get the feeling he was about to fuck with me? “As y’all’re finishin’ up with the cheese and the pasta’s on the stove, it’s time to prepare the bread. Mr. Fender, the bread is those two thickly cut slices in the plastic bag. And my plan was to just say, I want you to mince two cloves of garlic, but in the interest of makin’ myself perfectly clear, I’ll change that to fifteen grams of minced garlic. That better?”
Oh, they fucking loved him now. Everyone was laughing it up.
“Much,” I replied with a smile. “Be a good chef and keep that up.”
More laughter. In fact, much, much more laughter.
August coughed, hopefully to hide a laugh, but his gaze made it clear that I was gonna fuckin’ get it later.
This was fun.
It stopped being fun when we got closer to the end of the class and everything had to be done at the same time. The sun blasted me with heat, there wasn’t a goddamn breeze to be found, the air smelled of food, my stomach was growling, and there were too many things to keep track of at once. The battered onion rings had to be fried, the bread had been dipped in a dry rub and was next to be thrown into a skillet, but the skillet was currently hotter than hell and full of oil and chicken.
After chugging from the water bottle Clara had handed out, I dumped the shredded cheese into the pot with the mac, then made sure the garlic butter was ready.
My brain was spinning from all the ingredients. From lard, buttermilk, and brown sugar to habanero, beer, and something called matzo meal. I was fairly certain I’d used one teaspoon too much of black pepper too.
“Motherf—” Don’t fucking curse! I quickly withdrew my hand as a drop of sizzling oil hit my knuckles.
Okay, what was next? I flipped the two pieces of chicken for an additional eight minutes, and I set the timer on my phone again. Then I stirred the mac and cheese and grimaced to myself. The mac was overcooked, wasn’t it? It felt overcooked.
I had to fry the onion rings now too. And melt the garlic butter. Cazzo.
About five minutes later, August had finished a story about his one and only fusion restaurant, which I’d barely heard a word of, and he trailed down the aisle to check in with us. Fucking Bethany declared herself finished.
I dug something called a basting brush from underneath a dish towel and began brushing the hot sauce over the deep-fried chicken that was resting next to the stove. Onion rings needed to get the fuck out of the oil stat.
“It looks like things are comin’ along well here,” August noted.
“Looks can be deceiving,” I muttered and started fishing out the onion rings.
The audience chuckled with August. Then he addressed everyone. “Remember to clean out the skillet properly before you pan fry the bread,” he instructed. “That’s how you get a crisp, slightly blackened surface on the bread while it stays soft inside. Butter or oil in the skillet makes the bread stick to the iron easier, and we don’t want that. We don’t want the butter to make the bread soggy either.”
Slightly blackened.
I’d do my best not to turn it into charcoal.
While the onion rings joined the chicken to rest and cool off a little, I cleaned out the skillet over the sink. We’d been given empty cardboard cartons to dispose of the oil because God forbid I poured it down the drain.
“Three minutes to go!” Clara hollered.
Fuck my life.
After wiping down the skillet, I threw it back on the stove and tossed in the bread on medium heat. Then I filled the half-cup-sized bowl with mac and cheese and got the melted butter and pickles ready. Shit, the plate too. And the lettuce. Madonn’! I dug through the leftover ingredients in the crate on the floor and found the lettuce.
With thirty seconds left, I brushed garlic butter on the barely blackened bread and placed it on the plate. It was followed by two pieces of chicken, a side of onion rings that I stacked on the lettuce, the mac and cheese, and two pickles.
I didn’t know if it was edible, but I was willing to give it a go.
“Time!” Clara announced.
I took a step back, removed my ball cap, and ran a hand through my hair. Jesus, I’d actually done it. I put the cap back on and folded my arms over my chest, watching August get ready to taste test.
He better leave me some. I was starving and being bombarded by the smells from dozens of nearby food vendors.
Since this wasn’t an actual contest, there’d be no winner. But if my food came out edible or even decent, I’d return to New York like I’d won the Super Bowl.
Nicky wouldn’t hear the end of it.
Bethany glowed with happiness as August said that her hot chicken was perfectly hot and had the thin, crispy surface he loved.
I’d drained my water by the time it was my turn.
August and Clara stood in front of my workstation, and they inspected my plate and spoke to the audience. At least my food didn’t look bad. They even said it looked appealing.
“But does it taste okay?” Clara asked with a raised brow. For suspense, maybe, or to mess with me.
“Let’s try it.” August picked up the sandwich. Two slices of bread, garlic butter, hot chicken, and a pickle. I hadn’t been able to shove both pickles in there, so one was plated next to the onion rings. August bit into the sandwich, and I found myself staring at him and raking my teeth incessantly along the side of my lip. So…? What was the verdict? Could he chew any slower?
“Oh, for chrissakes,” I muttered, much to the amusement of
