Page 150 of The Dragon 2
One bite, and I was already undone.
My eyes fluttered halfway closed. “Fuck. . .Tora. . .”
She chuckled.
Opening my eyes, I grabbed more of the cornbread, and she joined me with taking a piece herself.
When I took the next bite, I thought I was already prepared, but I wasn’t. Somehow, the second one was even better.
“This is. . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t find words that could compete with what was happening in my mouth. “This is illegal.”
She laughed in between munching. “Good.”
I stared at her, completely dazed and with that honey fire still blooming across my tongue. My fork remained still in my hand; my heart was now thoroughly compromised. “You’re going to have to teach my chef how to make this—”
“Kenji, I just sat here and told you that the recipe is a secret.”
“Your grandmother would not mind.”
“She would kill me, and while you are scary. . .sorry, but my grandmother is way more terrifying.”
Frowning, I grabbed a third bite and growled. “This cornbread is dangerously delicious.”
“I spent almost all my summers with my grandmother down in Charleston, South Carolina which is a massive difference from New York.” She sighed as if seeing old memories playing on the projector in her mind. “When I was a little kid, I used to sneak squares of cornbread out of the kitchen, run into the backyard, and munch on them. Then, I would go right back in the kitchen later and with the sweetest expression, I would say, ‘Grandma, can I have some cornbread. I never got any.’”
“Would that work?”
“Never. I was too young to know that honey and crumbs were always on my bottom lip and hands.”
I laughed.
She pointed to the oddly shaped green vegetables next to what I assumed was some sort of aioli. "Alright. This one is a bit more adventurous.”
“How so?”
“It’s fried okra. I hated okra at first—slimy and green. But then one summer, my grandmother fried it for me, and I became a true believer."
“I don’t believe I’ve ever had this before.”
I dipped it in the aioli and then brought it to my mouth.
The first crunch stopped everything. Sharp and light. The okra inside was warm and savory.
I chewed slowly, letting it bloom on my tongue. The aioli pulled it all together—smoky, creamy, with the faintest ghost of garlic. It reminded me—strangely—of a street snack I would eat in Osaka as a child. Deep-fried lotus root slices dipped in soy-chili paste.
Same crunch.
Same unexpected elegance.
Perfect.
I opened my eyes and looked at her. “Did you enjoy spending all those summers with your grandmother?”
Nyomi picked up her own piece of okra and bit into it before answering. Her lashes lowered, gaze softening with a kind of glow that no spotlight could create. “I loved those summers with her.”
“Why?”
“Her home was the one place where I felt like I was allowed tofullyexist. I could be loud, barefoot, and greedy with my laughter.” She swallowed, then set her fork down. “Sometimes, when I was with my parents, I felt more like a prop than a person. An accessory for the family portrait or some décor for an important senator that came over for dinner. The politicians were always White. My father had no respect for Black ones. He struggled with self-hate for his skin, our people. Anyway. . .”
