Page 31 of Unexpected Pickle
I didn’t eat it. The lady chef who has been showing us around had the restaurant workers bring me an omelet, which I demolished in under a minute. I looked up to see the chefs watching me with amusement. I felt like Fred Flintstone at the Met Gala.
Of course, I should have known about gas stoves. I mean, I’ve heard of them. I’ve seen people light them with matches on old TV shows. But I thought we were in a modern era, that using gas was like putting a stew pot over the fire.
Anyway, I get it now.
And who knew you could make cheese from nuts?
I zone out during the nutritionist lecture. She’s not telling me anything I don’t do every day. Protein. Fiber. Simple carbohydrates. That’s the language of my life.
We return to the kitchen for fresh hell at lunch. I stick to Jeannie like glue. She’s my salvation. But Moreau is more careful this time, so the three of us end up on the same row.
We’re given the task of creating a high-protein meal with fewer than five carbs. I could do that in my sleep. Well, choose it, anyway.
A woman pushing a cart approaches with fresh chicken, fish, red meat, and a slew of vegetables. There’s also pasta and potatoes, which I assume is a trick question, because you can’t even look at those without going over five carbs.
“Is there a grill available?” I ask. “The minute you cook any of this, you’re adding fat with the oil.”
The woman lifts her eyebrows. “We do. I’ll take you to it.”
This means leaving Jeannie. “Never mind. Do you have avocado oil?”
She nods. “I’ll fetch it.”
I turn to see Moreau watching me. “Why avocado? The low smoke point?”
I shrug. “Keeps inflammation down. Helpful after you’ve been pummeled.”
He nods. “You do know a thing or two.”
Moreau and Jeannie select their meat and vegetables. Moreau takes a potato, and I snicker. Dumbass.
But I realize the price of being near Jeannie means having this blowhard watch me cook. When the woman returns with avocado oil, I say, “You know, maybe I will go to that grill.”
Grilling, I understand. There’s a flame, a proper one, unlike the blue burners on these stoves. There’s food. You keep turning it so it doesn’t burn and leave it on until it’s cooked. I’ll do that.Show up these chumps. I bet a bunch of them fell for the pasta and potato bit. Chefs don’t want simple. They want to show off.
“Follow me.” The woman pushes the cart to the back wall, and I trundle along behind.
Whoa.
Iron bars cover a long open pit. It’s beautiful.
“What meat do you want?” she asks.
I point to an enormous ribeye.
She moves it to a metal plate and hands it to me. “Anything else?”
“The asparagus. And where’s the salt and pepper?”
She opens a door in the wall to the right of the grill to reveal a row of chunky metal shakers. “There you go.”
“Thanks.”
She hesitates, her eyes on me. And I know that look. She wants to help. To hang around.
It’s how I feel around Jeannie.
Then suddenly, Jeannie’s there. She holds her chicken breast and a skewer of chunky onion and peppers on a plate. “I thought you had a good idea,” she says. “But if I was interrupting.”
