Perfect Pairing
Authors: Rachel Spangler
Bywater Books
Copyright © 2016 Rachel Spangler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
Bywater Books First Edition: July 2016
E-Book ISBN: 978-1-61294-070-0
By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Bywater Books.
Cover designer: Ann McMan, TreeHouse Studio
Back cover photo credit: Will Banks
Bywater Books
PO Box 3671
Ann Arbor MI 48106-3671
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events described by the author are fictitious. No resemblance to real persons, dead or alive, is intended.
To Susie, for standing by me, this is all your fault.
Contents
Hal Orion loved the smell of food cooking in the morning. The scents were more pure, more distinct before the air grew heavy with steam and the thin film of grease clogged her pores. Energy seemed to flow more freely too, without the press of bodies to impede its natural course. Energy was important, especially in such confined spaces. Conducted by metal walls and high heat, the buzz could become frenetic, sharp, and combustible as the day went on, but early in the quiet stillness, clarity reigned and potential hummed, as charged as a gas flame ready to whoosh into life. The promise of a new day felt as crisp as the crack of an eggshell against the stainless steel griddle.
Yes, she loved mornings . . . if by mornings you meant almost noon.
She held her hand a few inches from the top of the griddle. She could feel the difference between three hundred degrees and the three-fifty she was looking for. Like a heat-seeking missile, she effortlessly zoned in on the sweet spot and marked it with an “x” made out of hickory-smoked bacon. As the slices began to sizzle, she pulled an array of cheeses from a refrigerated bin. Moving past the brie and Havarti, she reached for the guilty pleasure kept in the bottom of the drawer. American cheese was not something she was proud of loving. It wasn't bold or artsy, edgy or even classic, but damn, it melted beautifully. She peeled off two slices and buried the rest back behind a few logs of chevre, then grabbed a few pieces of sourdough bread from yesterday's yield.
The bacon crackled and popped a joyful tap dance behind her as she pulled a bowl of whipped butter from another cooling bin and slathered a healthy dose on each slice of bread. Flipping the bacon, she gave it a little spin, both to spread the grease in a wider circle and
to make sure it cooked evenly. She likedâno,
required
âher bacon well done. Texture was as essential to her art as it was to a painting. It conveyed depth, nuance, and mood every bit as much as taste did. The second the bacon reached the perfect level of crunch, she lifted it from the heat and immediately replaced its sizzling sounds with those of a fresh egg dropped, yolk and all, into the bacon grease.
Moving over a smidge within the sweet spot of the grill, she painted a thin line of vegetable oil in the shape of a bulls-eye and watched it spread as it warmed. With one hand, she reached for a slice of the buttered bread and laid it gently over the oil. Then sliding it around, she let her fingers feel the heat and guide her to the optimal position before releasing it completely. With her free hand, she plucked a spatula from a canister to her left and deftly flipped the egg over onto its sunny little face. Scooting back to her right, she laid a slice of cheese across the bread, then topped it with bacon before left-handing the spatula back into action. Scooping up the egg, she dropped it atop the X like a helicopter settling onto a landing pad of bacon. With a flourish she added the second slice of cheese and bread before standing back to admire her masterpiece in the making.
“Is that a
Wake ân' Bake
?”
Hal startled so badly she dropped the spatula with a loud clang. “Shit.”
Sully laughed and grabbed it quickly. “Seven second rule.”
“Ew. No. And how do you always manage to sneak in here without me seeing you?” Hal gestured around the truck. “It's not like you have any place to hide.”
“Maybe you were just too busy undressing that sandwich with your eyes to notice anyone else in the room.”
Hal took a clean spatula from a tin canister and used it to plate and cut her creation crossways. “Maybe, or maybe you're just a creepy stealth fucker with mad stalker skills.”
Sully snorted lightly and wiped her hands on her T-shirt, which featured a picture of a chef's knife and the caption that read “Mine really is 10-inches.” Crouching down so her eyes were level with the sandwich on the prep table she whispered, “That's a thing of beauty.”
“Ya think?”
“Just look at the way the egg yolk runs into the cheese, and the bread has little bits of bacon stuck to it from the grease.”
It was awfully pretty, but pretty only partly sold sandwiches. Hal picked up half of the sandwich and nodded for Sully to help herself to the other, then in unison each took a sizeable bite right from the middle.
“Oh mah gawd,” Sully said with her mouth full. “That shit is gooey.”
Hal nodded. The texture was perfect, so crisp and simultaneously soft. Her teeth sank in satisfyingly, and the muted bacon echo cracked through her own ears. The bacon grease and the sourdough added two of the touches she'd been missing.
The flavor was good. Real good.
And real good was good enough for most food truck drivers. Hell, it was good enough for most of Buffalo.
But not for her.
“Needs something.”
Sully quieted her munching noises. She didn't argue. She respected the process and waited while Hal took another bite. This time she was more clinical in her approach. She broke down each flavor as it hit her: sour, tangy, smokyâthey all blended nicely, but nothing popped. Breakfast has to wake a body up. Somewhere along the way Americans had forgotten that. They'd settled for flat in order to get fast. It was a warrantless trade and probably the reason everyone got so addicted to coffee.
“Coffee.”
“Coffee?” Sully asked. “You want me to run and get you a cup?”
“No, I want the grounds. Like ground-this-day kind of grounds. Go over and see if Joey's working at the coffee shop today. If she is, have her grind me a couple pounds of something robust.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“Then get me some brown sugar and cayenne.”
Sully's grin spread. “Yes, Chef.”
“I'll hit the butcher and the bakery. Then meet me in Larkin Square by three o'clock.”
“Where we'll dry rub the shit out of some bacon,” Sully finished with a fist pump.
Hal nodded, but she didn't join in Sully's exuberance yet. She had work to do.
“Got the coffee, got the brown sugar, and I picked up some molasses. Thought that might help it paste.”
“Genius,” Hal muttered, already prepping other ingredients for sandwiches they'd feature today.
“Yeah, yeah, sweet talker. I also picked up a few of these,” Sully said, a smile evident in her voice.
Hal had known her long enough to be worried by her tone. In their teens, it usually meant someone was about to get in trouble, the fun kind. Scooping out one more avocado, she shook a few flecks of green from her fingers and finally looked up.
Sully leaned casually against a gleaming metal prep table, one eyebrow quirked and her dark hair falling across the other. In one hand she held a chef's knife flat across her chest. In her other she clutched a magazine cover with a picture of Hal standing in the exact same position.
Hal didn't know whether to laugh or swear, so she did both. “Shit, what is that?”
“It's you, Chef. On the cover of
Spree
. Lookin' like some lesbian's wet dream. The
chicas
are going to cream themselves for this.”
Heat flushed across her skin. “Shut up and get to work. I need apples sliced thin. Then could you get the sloppy joe sauce going?”
“Um, no, Chef,” Sully said as though Hal had asked her if she could fly.
“What?”
“I cannot prep anything until I do a dramatic reading of this article. Complete with dance moves.”
“Dance moves?”
“Oh yeah. Mine aren't as good as yours, though. Apparently no one's are as good as yours.” She opened the magazine and cleared her
throat. “âHal Orion moves around her food truck with the grace and rhythm of a dancer, a sexy, salsa-style shimmy, mixed with enough spicy bump-and-grind to make your teeth sweatâor maybe that's just the
Heard of Buffalo?
grilled cheese sandwich she mixes up as she moves. Whether it's the chef or sandwich, this recent addition to the Buffalo food-truck scene is bringing the heat back to Buffalo this summer.'”
“It doesn't say that.”
“Oh, it does, and so much more. Let me read on.”
“Please don't.”
“I'll skip to the good parts.” Sully's dark eyes scanned the page. “âBuffalo native' . . . blah blah . . . âself-trained' . . . boring boring . . .”
Hal tried to wait patiently. She wanted to snatch that stupid magazine from Sully's hands and stuff it in the trash, then wait until late at night before digging it out and reading it sans peanut gallery commentary.
“Oh here: âHer food truck, aptly named âCheesy Does It,' is a veritable hot box of taste sensations.'” Sully snickered. “That's what she said.”
“Come on.”
“No really, that's what she said, âyou have a hot box of taste sensations.' Did you fuck this reporter?”
“No.”
Sully raised her eyebrows, clearly not believing her.
“I didn't. Really.”
“Then I think you should. Seriously, she has practically dubbed you the second coming of Ralph Wilson.”
“The owner of the Bills?”
“Or Theresa Bellissimo.”
They both bowed their heads in salute to the mother of the famous Buffalo wing. Then Hal cracked a smile. “So this writer really knows her food history?”
“No. She wouldn't know a gouda from a fontina, but even a broken clock is right twice a day, and her description of you is spot on. She's right. You're what Buffalo needs right now. She says you're âblue collar meets bleu cheese.'”
“Huh. I do like that.”
“I like the part where she says you're the best she's ever had.”
“Me?”
“Well, the sandwich, but she strongly implied she'd like to feast on you as well.”
“Oy, you're crazytown. Put that shit away.” She snapped a towel at the magazine, knocking it to the floor. We're live in one hour.”
“Yes, Chef,” Sully said, “but there's one more thing you should know. She gave you a nickname.”
“A nickname?”
“Yes, you have been dubbed âFryboi.'”
“âFryboi?' That makes me sound like I make French fries.”
“Maybe you should, but I get a feeling that whatever you're selling, the fine ladies of Buffalo will be buying tonight.”
“Back to work.”
“Yes, yes, Fryboi, but be honest. You kind of dig it.”
Hal turned back to the avocados to hide her grin. She wouldn't lie. As a kid she'd never stuck around anywhere long enough to get a nickname, but if she'd had to wait until she was almost thirty for her first one, at least Fryboi was cool enough to make the wait seem worthwhile.
Quinn Banning rarely left work early. Actually she rarely left work at all. She might leave the building, but between her iPhone, her iPad, and her Macbook Air, it may have been more accurate to say she took the office with her when she went. Right now she was taking her mobile office to a mobile restaurantâfitting. Larkin Square was a warehouse district on the south side of Buffalo, one of the many rust-belt relics currently being reclaimed by hipsters and the corporate suits eager to capitalize on their cash flow.
She glanced down at her tailored navy blazer and pencil skirt as she pulled into the Larkin Development Group parking lot. She supposed the outfit made it clear which side of the culture war she fought for. In this crowd of bearded men and skinny-jean-clad girls
on bicycles, she probably should've been ashamed to display such blatant symbols of the ruling class, but she didn't care. She'd been in Buffalo long before they were old enough to grow their mustaches, and she'd be here long after they all surrendered to better hygiene practices and shaved them off again. Still she decided to forego the briefcase and tucked the rolled up copy of
Buffalo Spree
under her arm. Then she double-checked to make sure her Volkswagon Jetta was locked before she fully joined the throngs of pedestrians moving toward a throbbing pulse of music and people ahead.
Food-Truck Tuesdays were becoming a big deal in Buffalo. The number of local food trucks was on the rise, and every Tuesday night they gathered in Larkin Square as local indie bands played.
