“Let’s try it.” August picked up the sandwich. Two slices of bread, garlic butter, hot chicken, and a pickle. I hadn’t been able to shove both pickles in there, so one was plated next to the onion rings. August bit into the sandwich, and I found myself staring at him and raking my teeth incessantly along the side of my lip. So…? What was the verdict? Could he chew any slower?

“Oh, for chrissakes,” I muttered, much to the amusement of everyone watching. I couldn’t even mutter under my breath without the mic picking up the sound.

August didn’t say a word. He handed over the sandwich to Clara and produced a spoon to try the mac and cheese.

Clara didn’t say anything either.

I narrowed my eyes at them and struggled to stand still.

“Oh.” August smirked and turned one of the onion rings upside down.

I cleared my throat and then chuckled. There was no use in hiding anything. It was possible one side of each onion ring was burned.

“Well, all right.” He was drawing this out. “Let me—” He grabbed the sandwich from Clara before she could return it to the plate, and he took one more bite. “Okay,” he said around the food, “the mac and cheese and the onion rings were fairly close to awful.” Ouch, motherfucker. “The bread could’ve been in the skillet a bit longer too, but this—this is damn good chicken. Really good chicken. Very hot. Thin, crispy batter, nice flavors, perfectly cooked meat. Fantastic.”

Was he… Was he playin’?

Did he feel like he could be brutally honest about the sides because he liked the main event?

“Good job, Anthony,” he said and placed the rest of the sandwich back on the plate.

The praise had dumbfounded me, and I had no time to come up with a quick response before August and Clara moved on to the next participant.

I’d cooked something that was worth eating. Mamma mia, I was gonna work this into every conversation about food for as long as I lived. I was officially the king of hot chicken in Brooklyn. Not giving a shit if we were gonna eat this or not, I picked up my sandwich and took a big bite.

Yeah, the bread hadn’t gotten enough time on the skillet, but damn, I was good. I was a god. A slow heat spread in my mouth and throat, gaining strength each time I chewed and swallowed, until my mouth was almost on fire. I coughed a little but kept eating. The sweetness of the pickle soothed the sting.

While August finished up with the last participants, Bethany snuck over to my station and asked if I’d followed the recipe.

“I think I used too much black pepper and cayenne,” I admitted.

She nodded firmly and returned to her own spot, only to jot something down in a small notebook.