“Looks can be deceiving,” I muttered and started fishing out the onion rings.

The audience chuckled with August. Then he addressed everyone. “Remember to clean out the skillet properly before you pan fry the bread,” he instructed. “That’s how you get a crisp, slightly blackened surface on the bread while it stays soft inside. Butter or oil in the skillet makes the bread stick to the iron easier, and we don’t want that. We don’t want the butter to make the bread soggy either.”

Slightly blackened.

I’d do my best not to turn it into charcoal.

While the onion rings joined the chicken to rest and cool off a little, I cleaned out the skillet over the sink. We’d been given empty cardboard cartons to dispose of the oil because God forbid I poured it down the drain.

“Three minutes to go!” Clara hollered.

Fuck my life.

After wiping down the skillet, I threw it back on the stove and tossed in the bread on medium heat. Then I filled the half-cup-sized bowl with mac and cheese and got the melted butter and pickles ready. Shit, the plate too. And the lettuce. Madonn’! I dug through the leftover ingredients in the crate on the floor and found the lettuce.

With thirty seconds left, I brushed garlic butter on the barely blackened bread and placed it on the plate. It was followed by two pieces of chicken, a side of onion rings that I stacked on the lettuce, the mac and cheese, and two pickles.

I didn’t know if it was edible, but I was willing to give it a go.

“Time!” Clara announced.

I took a step back, removed my ball cap, and ran a hand through my hair. Jesus, I’d actually done it. I put the cap back on and folded my arms over my chest, watching August get ready to taste test.

He better leave me some. I was starving and being bombarded by the smells from dozens of nearby food vendors.

Since this wasn’t an actual contest, there’d be no winner. But if my food came out edible or even decent, I’d return to New York like I’d won the Super Bowl.

Nicky wouldn’t hear the end of it.

Bethany glowed with happiness as August said that her hot chicken was perfectly hot and had the thin, crispy surface he loved.

I’d drained my water by the time it was my turn.

August and Clara stood in front of my workstation, and they inspected my plate and spoke to the audience. At least my food didn’t look bad. They even said it looked appealing.

“But does it taste okay?” Clara asked with a raised brow. For suspense, maybe, or to mess with me.