Michelle comes back out and announces she and Téo are making steak and eggs for “family meal.”
Nico is positivelythrilledabout this.
“Remember that reaction I told you about back in Philly?” Nico says.
We’re leaning against the wall, drinking the black sesame lattes Michelle made for us while watching Téo put steaks on the grill.
“The one Gino used for his cheesesteaks?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Pop quiz time. Tell me what you remember about it.”
“Uh…” I try to think back to a few days ago, except most of what I remember is the feeling of being sliced open in the middle of the small restaurant. “Really hot grill. Browning. No steam. All that equals caramelization or something?”
He squeezes me with glee. I’m very confused.
“Close. Caramelization occurs when sugars are heated, but this reaction occurs when sugarsandproteins are heated.”
“Does beef contain sugar?”
“Sure does. Natural sugars. It also happens when you bake bread, ‘cause flour contains carbs that have both sugar and proteins. Coffee beans, too.”
“And you need heat.”
He nods, and I’m reminded of a golden retriever puppy. “You’re right about needing a really hot grill. The reaction happens when the food hits about 350 degrees. That’s whyboiled foods, which have an upper limit of 212, will never brown. But with high-temp searing or roasting or frying or whatever, browning goes crazy.”
“And browning is good?” I want him to clarify.
“Browning is fuckin’ delicious. Think of the last good steak you had. Think of its color. It wasn’t gray, that’s for sure.”
I nod in understanding.
“Also, Annie, check out how I’ve spread the steaks out far apart,” Téo adds.
Nico’s smile is pure satisfaction. “Remember what I said about steam?”
“Steam is bad.”
His eyes get dark and delighted. “Steam is bad for making steaks brown.” He leans in, his breath hot against my ear. “But steam is very, very good when it refers to spanking something pink.”
I’m surprised I don’t collapse right there on the kitchen floor.
“There’s a whole bunch of shit I could tell you about what type of fat to use, too. Interested?” he goes on, as if he doesn’t owe me a new pair of panties with the way he’s just ruined mine.
“Not interested,” I let out weakly, because I’m currently using all my mental capacity to process the size of the handprint Nico would leave on my ass.
“‘Kay. Well, wanna know what it’s called, at least?”
“What iswhatcalled?” I breathe. I’ve lost the plot.
“The reaction.”
“Sure.”
“It’s called the Maillard reaction,” he tells me, eyes sparkling.
“What’s that?”
“Maillard.” He spells it.
