Maybe It's a Sign by E. L. Shen

Author:E. L. Shen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)

DEEP-DISH

“And for our main course, an herb-butter roast chicken.”

If you told me two weeks ago that I’d be sitting at Gus Choi’s dinner table as he balanced an enormous, crispy, golden chicken on an antique silver tray, I would have laughed you out of the room. But here I am in a plush dining room chair seated between Allen and Marcy, Gus’s mom, who has straight black hair, a small, round face, and the nicest smile I’ve ever seen.

“Wow, kid,” Allen says, “I have to say … This is a masterpiece.”

It really is. Gus should come over and cook my family Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe I can hire him.

After Allen drove us home from the grocery store, Gus and I got to work. For appetizers, we used Gus’s cucumbers and a bit of ground beef to make oyi namul, which is one of Gus’s favorite snacks. They’re basically stir-fried cucumbers, and they’re delicious. I let Gus lead the way and just did some of the stirring and measuring and cleaning up. And I barely did anything on the roast chicken—that was all Gus’s work.

But I actually loved making our dessert—Dad’s favorite diner food—a deep-dish chocolate chip cookie. I found a recipe online with a photo that looked exactly like the one we had at Colette’s and did exactly what Allen told me to do: read the instructions.

In Gus’s kitchen, I preheated the oven and softened the butter in the microwave, and then Gus showed me how to use their fancy stand mixer. I got lost in the whir of the machine as it blended together the white and brown sugars, eggs, softened butter, maple syrup, and vanilla extract (which smelled so good I was tempted to taste it). Then I added in the flour and other dry ingredients. The mixer’s hum was calming, like white noise or when Mom falls asleep to Netflix and the voices from the television jumble in the background. Folding in the chocolate chips. Scooping out the cookie dough. Pressing the batter into the greased skillet. Sliding it into the oven.

Baking my dessert became a lullaby.

Is this how the bakers at Colette’s Diner feel every time they make a deep-dish chocolate chip cookie? Like the whole world has gone silent? Like it’s just them and the dough?

Gus cuts into a piece of roast chicken and chews rapidly. “It’s good,” he agrees, “but it needs something.”

“I think it’s perfect,” Marcy says gently.

“No such thing as perfect, only great.” Gus replies like it’s a family saying or a bumper sticker. I almost snort. Tell that to my grandparents.

But Marcy just chuckles in response. “Touché.”

I examine the chicken on my plate, surrounded by a pool of brown sauce and herbs.

“Rice,” I say suddenly. “It needs rice.”

Gus wags a finger in the air. “Rice! That’s perfect. We can put some steamed white rice in tiny bowls, Asian style, with chopsticks and soy sauce. A French-Asian fusion.” At that, he mashes his fists together. “Ka-pow.”

I grin. Ka-pow, indeed. The rest of the dinner goes fantastically.

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