We Have Till Monday

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 everyone watching. I couldn’t even mutter under my breath without the mic picking up the sound.

August didn’t say a word. He handed over the sandwich to Clara and produced a spoon to try the mac and cheese.

Clara didn’t say anything either.

I narrowed my eyes at them and struggled to stand still.

“Oh.” August smirked and turned one of the onion rings upside down.

I cleared my throat and then chuckled. There was no use in hiding anything. It was possible one side of each onion ring was burned.

“Well, all right.” He was drawing this out. “Let me—” He grabbed the sandwich from Clara before she could return it to the plate, and he took one more bite. “Okay,” he said around the food, “the mac and cheese and the onion rings were fairly close to awful.” Ouch, motherfucker. “The bread could’ve been in the skillet a bit longer too, but this—this is damn good chicken. Really good chicken. Very hot. Thin, crispy batter, nice flavors, perfectly cooked meat. Fantastic.”

Was he… Was he playin’?

Did he feel like he could be brutally honest about the sides because he liked the main event?

“Good job, Anthony,” he said and placed the rest of the sandwich back on the plate.

The praise had dumbfounded me, and I had no time to come up with a quick response before August and Clara moved on to the next participant.

I’d cooked something that was worth eating. Mamma mia, I was gonna work this into every conversation about food for as long as I lived. I was officially the king of hot chicken in Brooklyn. Not giving a shit if we were gonna eat this or not, I picked up my sandwich and took a big bite.

Yeah, the bread hadn’t gotten enough time on the skillet, but damn, I was good. I was a god. A slow heat spread in my mouth and throat, gaining strength each time I chewed and swallowed, until my mouth was almost on fire. I coughed a little but kept eating. The sweetness of the pickle soothed the sting.

While August finished up with the last participants, Bethany snuck over to my station and asked if I’d followed the recipe.

“I think I used too much black pepper and cayenne,” I admitted.