Chefology

Varak Acém breathed in deeply, her eyes closed, tears running down her face from the smoke. And the moment. 

The smell of smoke nearly overpowered the smell of the cooking beef but not completely. There was the sweet scent of the sixth layer of honey caramelizing on the skin, the acrid scent of the peppers burning, the garlic a slight metallic smell. Varak opened her eyes as she stepped back, his goggles sliding back into place, watching the thick cut of beef—real beef, her marveled—as it spun on the spit she had crafted from an old tripole and a rotary motor from an old advertisement she had salvaged, burning over a fire in an old bathtub she’d found in the shop she’d bought.

It was time. She used her false arm to push the meat away from the flame and closer to the faux wood cutting block she’d designed for the shop.

As the meat rested, she looked at the real foods on display. Actual tomatoes, real bell peppers, onions that when they cut had made her cry—which had necessitated a historical archive search and a great deal of relief. And a year of learning how to make cheeses so she could have real sharp, medium, and aged cheddars alongside buffalo mozzarella—which had been most difficult to get the milk of since only one herd of them remained and it had only five females and they were in a Northican Arcology. The Northicans had a trade embargo against her home, the Gazalogy.

She put the meat on a new spit and moved it into place, now upright and spinning slowly as a series of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet flames kept the meat hot.

The seven stools in front of her stand also were colored the same.

She left the small production area to check how visitors would see it. A fridge filled with various drinks. A water heater. Matcha preparation area. Nearcaf dispenser. QwikFry’rs for cooking cassava fries and a sugar and cinnamon tray for the chocurros. Power ports for Bics to charge up if necessary. Trays with different sauces—she had made them all herself except for the soy sauce since she preferred Yamasa’s recipe. 

Her arm chimed. it was 4.59. She opened for lunch at 5.0. She noticed people were already lined up. Real food being served was a novelty.

She turned away, checking the place out again. The buns were the only thing he didn’t make herself but instead allowed a custom-made bread extruder that created a C-shaped and every time flawless bun. Each was dark as midnight due to the bamboo charcoal used as a flavorant.

Her assistant, a baseline street kid Varak had taken in off the street, appeared, holding a tray of bamboo trays that he set behind the counter. She was thirteen he thought but she had no bioplants at all and refused to get them. “Can I have a chocurro?” Zyva asked hopefully.

“I’ll make you one with lunch once we’re not busy.”

She nodded, pushing her blonde locks out of her eyes, revealing a heart-shaped face. “What do I do next?”

“Turn on the display and go put your apron on. And your shoes. Then tie your hair back and put on your hat. Then wash your hands and we’ll open up."