“Sourdough’s got chew. Tang. Structural integrity. If you’re using soft white bread, that’s fine, if you also enjoy disappointment.”
One guy points and nods like I’ve confirmed a personal belief system.
I butter both sides, lay them in the skillet, and press down with my spatula. A sharp sizzle ripples out into the crowd.
“Now this right here is the Maillard reaction—amino acids meeting reducing sugars under heat. It’s responsible for every delicious browned thing on Earth. Including toast that doesn’t taste like the plain, joyless stuff you choke down when you’re sick.”
A woman in the second row gasps dramatically, clutching her friend’s arm. Now I’m actively sweating.
“No flipping yet. This isn’t pancakes. Give the reaction time to develop flavor.” I peek underneath one slice. “You want the crust nutty, golden, and even.”
I layer cheddar and mozzarella on the crisp side of one slice.
“Cheddar for boldness, mozzarella for melt. One’s been aged, the other’s a stretch queen. Together? Slutty in the best way.”
The room howls. The indie bookstore owner in the corner gives me two very enthusiastic thumbs up.
I place the second slice on top and press again.
“One confident flip. You commit. This is not a situationship.”
I flip and pray. It lands. The room gasps. Phones flash.
“This is why we browned the butter first,” I say, smug now. “Richer Maillard flavor. More nuttiness. More depth. More pleasure. You’re welcome.”
As the second side cooks, I turn to the honey warming in the saucepan.
“This is hot honey. Red pepper flakes, apple cider vinegar. The vinegar adds acidity. Your contrast. Capsaicin activates heat receptors, which open up your taste buds. Basically, spicy makes everything sexier.”
Someone drops their phone. I ignore it.
I lift the sandwich, slice it diagonally (because I have standards) and plate it. Then, I drizzle the hot honey in a slow, thick ribbon. “This last part is optional,” I say. “Unless you have a soul.” I hold up a half for the room. “Grilled cheese, brown butter, hot honey. It’s Maillard, emulsification, fat transfer, capsaicin, and personal growth. Also, it’s fucking delicious.”
Pause.
Someone near the back calls, “Eat it!”
“Slowly!” someone else adds on.
I do not.
“I’ve got a bunch here on the warming plate for you to try,” I tell them instead. Bookstore employees pick them up and start handing them out. “And if you like it, the recipe’s on page seventy-six. Buy the book and make your situationship eat it slowly,” I say with a grin.
The bookstore smells like bliss: butter, heat, toasted sourdough, and just a little vinegar-sharp sweetness. The applause is still going when the owner of the place—a guy in Warby Parkers and a vintage Death Cab for Cutie tee—steps up beside me.
“Can we get another round for our very delicious, very scientific, very fully-clothed chef?” he says, beaming.
The crowd laughs and claps harder. Someone, some old woman yells, “Take it off anyway!”
I grin. “You first.”
More laughter. The owner pats my shoulder. “Seriously, Nico, thank you. This was incredible… and you will be making me that sandwich before you leave.”
I nod, trying not to visibly sag with relief. “You got it.”
He turns to the crowd. “We’re gonna roll right into a little Q&A with our multi-talented culinary-chemist-slash-butter-thirst-trap. He’ll be answering your questions for a bit, and then we’ll open the signing line.”
A chair appears out of nowhere, pushed behind me by someone with kind eyes and a lot of tattoos. Annie’s are better. I wipe my hands on a towel, take a sip of water, and sit. The skillet behind me is still spitting faintly, the butter singing its dying notes.
