“Remember to take this seriously,” London muttered to her, scribbling in their own notepad. “This is areal event. For thirteen-year-olds.”
Dahlia suppressed her snort.
After Jeffrey had finished his orders, London and Dahlia both bolted for the table at the back of the temporary set, like rushing to get the back seat in a school bus, claiming it before heading over to collect their ingredients.
The reality of a challenge like this set in pretty quickly once the judges had given their spiels and the cooking actually got underway. The food didn’t necessarily need to be Michelin-star quality; you simply needed to make a shit ton of it in a short amount of time. Dahlia was all for it. Just building blocks, over and over. Consistency was her jam.
Plus, she felt a small thrill at the idea of making food that was going to be consumed by actual people, not merely sampled by three judges before being thrown away. Whether those actual people were thirteen years old or not.
And, she discovered, there was something calming about working next to London. They were a solid worker, both chill and efficient. The more they worked together, the more she felt like they had gotten the best deal. Appetizers and desserts? That was the good stuff.
They spent the first twenty minutes in comfortable, productive silence.
Dahlia’s good vibe started to wane, however, by the third time Jeffrey had stalked over to criticize her. “Come on, Dahlia!” he had shouted the first time, followed by “You haven’t evenstartedthe hummus yet?”
She hadn’t. Because Dahlia was simmering the chickpeas in baking soda and water first, to help remove the skins. This would make a smoother hummus. She’d been working on dough for fresh pita and roasting red peppers while the chickpeas simmered. Her building blocks were stacking up perfectly. She knew what she was doing.
Still, Jeffrey returned ten minutes later with a “Step itup, Woodson!” and an aggressive hand clap in her face, for no apparent reason. It was a bit over the top, honestly. Maybe Jeffrey was looking to get some acting gigs out ofChef’s Special.
But even though Dahlia knew he was being ridiculous, it didn’t feel great, being humiliated on national TV. She thought she’d gotten that over with already, during her fish taco tumble. Was this how she was being pigeonholed? The bumbling, incompetent one?
“Hey,” London said, jolting Dahlia out of her reverie.
They were holding the rolling pin they’d been using on their rugelach dough.
“There has to be some way to accidentally smack Jeffrey over the head with this, right?” They tilted it in their hands. “We could make it look smooth somehow. Would probably only result in a minor concussion.”
Dahlia nodded, trying to tamp down her smile.
“It would make for some good TV,” she concurred.
“We would merely be doing our part for the ratings.”
“Or maybe . . . ” Dahlia glanced around the counter and picked up a crostino. “We start with some light torture, work up to concussions? Just crush a bunch of these and stuff them into his socks, make him walk around on it. Like Legos.”
London tilted their head, considering. “I like where you’re going with this, Woodson.”
“Or . . .” Dahlia’s eyes snagged on the bowl she had just put her muhammara dip into. “You could hold him down, and I could rub some peppers on his eyeballs?”
London leaned forward a bit, smothering a half cough, half laugh in their fist.
“That is . . . yes. Of course,” they said.
“Make him swallow cinnamon?” she pondered, thinking about the rugelach. She shook her head. “No, too cliché.”
Dahlia drummed her fingers on the table, fully invested in this game now.
“Oh!” She grabbed the bowl of walnuts farther down the table, waiting to be crushed and wrapped into the rugelach dough. “I got it.” She turned to London, holding the bowl up to her chin. “Crushing crushed nutsinto his nuts.”
Except at the exact moment this triumphant idea came out of her mouth, their entire corner of the set seemed to settle into a magical hush, making her words ring out, loud and uncomfortable. Like that one time back home at her office when everyone somehow decided to shut their mouths seconds before she had decided to let out a covert fart.
Ahmed and Beth, at the table in front of them, along with, Dahlia couldn’t help noticing, the nearest camera, all slowly turned to look at her.
“We could just slip them into his underwear . . . ” Dahlia murmured, for some reason, as if it was important to finish explaining the plan to London. She cleared her throat as their neighbors continued to stare. And some tiny part of her brain whisperedfuck it.
“Just, you know,” she said, voice a bit louder, “discussing . . . foodie kinks.”
London burst out laughing. It was the first time Dahlia had actually heard London laugh, for real. It was high pitched and wheezy. She loved it.
