Allez Cuisine
“Cloud 9? Isn’t that that pretentious place over on Main?”
Iron Chef screeched to a stop in the market as she overheard the words. Her saddlebags were full of all sorts of goods she’d picked up throughout the afternoon, and before that instant she’d been brimming with anticipation of what she was going to make. Now, however? Now her ears were pricked and her skin was hot and she didn’t even have to strain to hear the rest of Some Idiot’s voice in the crowd.
“I dunno,” said another voice, “I’ve heard Cloud 9 is pretty good!”
There was a dumb, idiot’s scoffing noise. “Please. ‘Molecular grasstomony?’ Or whatever it’s called? Who wants to eat that? That Midnight Snack guy should just… keep his food, like, at midnight or whatever.”
Iron Chef turned on her heels and trotted up to the duo, steam all but boiling from her ears. She was, for once, more than happy to be pink, her blush of rage kept under wraps. She spoke, and tried to be cool and collected.
“Hi,” she said. “It’s ‘molecular gastronomy,’ you nincompoop. And I’d like to see you do better than Midnight Snack.”
The stallion duo—Old Enough and much, much bigger than she—stopped and stared at her with pure shock across their faces. The one who had spoken—the Prize Idiot, Iron Chef dubbed him—took a moment to regain his swagger.
“Get out of here, little girl,” Prize sneered. “This isn’t about you.”
“Actually,” hissed Iron, “Midnight Snack is my father, so it’s completely about me. And he’s got more cooking talent in his forehoof than you have in your whole body.”
Prize and his buddy, Dum Dum, began to laugh.
“Yeah, ok,” said Prize. “I’m a chef. I think I’d KNOW what was a load of stupid garbage and what is it.”
“You wanna bet on it?” said Iron hotly. “I’ll bet you anything my family beats you under the table. I’ll prove it right here, right now, if you want.”
Prize stopped laughing, irritation growing on his stupid ridiculous punchable face. “Ok, that’s how it is?” he asked. “You want to be embarrassed right here in the market?”
“That’s my line,” said Iron, setting down her bags. “I’ll embarrass you here, in the flower market, in your own restaurant, if you even really have one. It’s on, buddy.”
“You’re going to regret this,” said Prize, as a crowd was already beginning to form.
---
“The daffodil salad was so light and crisp, and the peaches lent themselves perfectly to the vinaigrette,” said Chairman Cuisine glowingly, overjoyed with himself that he’d managed to walk down to the market at JUST the right moment. “I can’t believe someone so young could make something so advanced as that goat-cheese stuffed squash blossom. The compound cheese with the herbs…” He thought about kissing his hoof, but he already had earlier in his review.
Iron Chef tried not to smile too broadly, keeping a professional deportment while Prize Idiot seethed quietly in the corner by his wilted greens that had way, way too much mushroom gravy on top of them. She felt like she could absolutely blossom in the fertilizer of his expression. Her heart felt light and she felt she could, and might, grow wings at any moment.
Was there any greater feeling than such sweet victory?
