Zin Mignon and The Last Supper: ZIN MIGNON, #3

CHAPTER 0

Brandy Bitterwine opened the lid of the donut box with care, revealing half-a-dozen freshly glazed prune Danish. The once esteemed restaurant critic for the New York Times sat at her office desk, gladdened that she’d opted to buy five, entitling her to a sixth one, free. Her eyes hopped from bun to bun before she selected the plumpest one, lifted it out, and slowly rotated it ‘til a particularly thick swath of frosting squared up to her lips. She closed her eyes, opened wide, and pressed the glistening confection into her mouth, clear back to her molars. She bit off a big crescent, felt the prune gelée ooze against her palate, and heard a knock on the office door.

Excuse me, Ms. Bitterwine, the New York Times intern stepped in, interrupting her moment of gluttony bliss. Did you see this?

Brandy mumbled as she chewed her Danish with zeal. See what?

People Magazine. Zin Mignon is on the cover again. Now they’re calling him ‘America’s Chef’.

An involuntary spasm rocked Brandy in her chair, followed by a belch, gag, and reflexive spat. Pastry crumbs sprayed across her keyboard.

*****

Ah, I get it, Jenny exclaimed. "So that’s the trick to the Russian Rye!"

See the difference? Zin beamed with excitement. It’s the perfect ingredient. But remember, it’s just one part of it.

Of course. Jenny fully grasped the departure from conformity. No wonder it’s so unique.

Zin and Jenny looked up as Nacho came strolling into the kitchen. Boss, two quick things.

Whazzat, Nacho?

Table 12. The arena rockers. They’re asking for ketchup.

Those guys with the big hair?

Yeah. They want it for their Stroganoff.

Nacho, you know the rules. You gotta be under eight years old to get ketchup.

Right. But they say they know Avalina.

Everyone says they know Avalina.

She does have two million followers on Instagram.

I’d rather have two million sprigs of Norwegian winter grass lightly crushed by the hooves of baby lambs.

The rockers? Nacho pressed. What should I tell ‘em?

The Stroganoff is perfect, Chef Zin said firmly. I don’t mean to be the persnickety chef, but we run the kitchen, and we prepare food the way it’s supposed to be prepared. If it needed ketchup I’d make it with ketchup.

So…?

Ketchup’s out of the question. Someone might take a picture and post it. But if you like you can take them some extra secret sauce. This batch has been simmering since Sunday.

Got it. And the second thing. Here’s the new People. You’re on the cover.

People? Zin’s mother Millie was elated. "People Magazine? Again? It’s so much better than Town & Country. You’re on every check-stand in America! Right next to the Enquirer!"

What’s it say? Zin asked.

That you won the Food Network Food Fight at Madison Square Garden, Nacho continued. With the best hotdog on a bun ever made, in the entire history of cooking. It says you’re a phenom, rich, famous, a superstar chef, and international celebrity. But besides that, you’re just a regular kid and a humble guy.

A perfect description, Jenny nodded.

And they’re calling you ‘America’s Chef’.

Son, I’m so proud.

Then there’s a bio and some family history. And a quick interview with Millie, who’s described as a fashionable and lovable mom.

Fashionable? Millie jumped. Lovable? That’s what it says?

I picked those exact words, Avalina said, walking into the kitchen. She was Zin’s brilliant and snappy business manager and professional millennial. It was all in the press release.

But even so, Millie said, that doesn’t mean it’s not true.

Mom, don’t get carried away.

Excuse me, Avalina cut in, changing the subject. My dad is here. On business. In his capacity as your attorney.

Must be important, Millie said, putting down People.

Avalina’s father was a leading corporate lawyer in Century City and Beverly Hills. He was known simply as Mr. Mark, or Mark to his friends and family. He’d represented Zin’s interests during the Food Fight, the extraordinary winner-take-all battle of two weeks before when Zin bested Smokie, the surfer and slippery hot dog peddler from across the street, and Monsieur Obituaire, the scheming Master at Le Cordon Bleu Cooking School in Paris. Zin’s stunning win also foiled food critic Brandy Bitterwine, whose sneaky plot backfired and brought her crushing embarrassment in front of an international audience.

Hello, Chef. Hello, Millie, Mr. Mark the attorney walked in impressively. His dapper suit, silk tie and cufflinks all seemed to glow smartly in the bright kitchen lights. May we speak in the office for a minute?

Nacho and Jenny took leave, off to their many duties. Avalina remained. After all, she was the business manager and had hatched the Food Network deal.

Mark dropped an envelope on the office desk. There it is, he said. Your check. From Food Network. Everything you earned from the Food Fight. Millie tensed and stared at the envelope, fixating, like a leopard who suddenly spots a rabbit. Zin appeared blasé, and actually paid more attention to a bunch of lavender carrots he held in his hand.

Is it a lot? Zin asked softly.

Millie snatched the envelope off the desk and held it high, like a jewel.

I’d say so, Mark shrugged. 34 million pay-per-view households. At $59.95 apiece. However, about 6 million of those didn’t pay; there’s always a bunch of techies who can trick the Internet and get TV for free. There were another two million homes with early-bird discounts. And remember, Food Network took a 30% cut of the gross. Believe me, I’ve audited the numbers fifteen times, inside and out. After sales tax, California state tax, federal tax, municipal tax, unemployment tax, tent tax, youth tax, elderly tax, hot dog bun tax, diet tax, cupcake tax, sugar tax, entertainment tax, cable tax, TV tax, wealth tax, and excise tax on top of the excessive income tax, you end up with about $425 million.

Millie dropped the envelope with a gasp as both hands clutched her chest above her heart. Zin stopped turning the carrots, looked at his mother, and looked at Avalina’s father. That is a lot.

Don’t forget, Avalina is entitled to 15%, per your agreement, as her commission for bringing the deal to the table.

Zin glanced at Avalina.

She smiled back. I get a shade more than $63 million.

Zin winked. Of course. And you earned every penny. Mom, please write Avalina a check.

Thanks, boss.

As long as you aren’t gonna retire and move to Hawaii.

No way. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.

Millie picked up the envelope, tore it open very carefully, and pulled out a long pale green bank check. I’ve never seen so many zeroes and commas.

Mom, you know what dad would’ve done if he’d ever seen a check like this? Especially one with his name on it?

"He’d faint. That’s what he’d do. He’d fall right over, into the potato salad. Then he’d go buy you a new apron, a new set of knives, some new sneakers. He’d probably give me a little walking around money and tell me to take a cab to Bloomie’s. And maybe he’d take us out to dinner. Your dad loved red-sauce Italian. But with a check like this maybe he’d really splurge, and we’d go for steak at Peter Luger’s."

If there’s a deli in heaven, dad’s there now, standing behind the counter, looking down on us. And he’s very happy.

I hope he’s not still scraping the bottom of the mayonnaise jar.

I don’t think he worries about that anymore.

$425 million. It’s mind-boggling, Millie whispered. "I’ve had so many dreams over my years, dreaming about a mere sliver of this. The slimmest sliver of a sliver."

It’s a vast amount of money, Mark nodded, very professional. "Zin, face it: you’re rich. Crazy rich. Ridiculously rich. So rich you can’t even get your arms around it. It’s almost too much money to count. But, with such money comes enormous responsibility. You’ll now be faced with hundreds of decisions that you never expected before."

Decisions about what?

"Well, for instance, how are you going to spend it? Or will you spend it at all? Will you invest? Save for your future family? Travel the world? Buy a house? Buy a car? Or buy a collection of cars? Additionally, you can put some of this money towards society. Help the world. You could set up a foundation; get involved in philanthropy."

What’s philanthropy? Zin asked.

Charity. Ask yourself: should I use this money to help others?

Zin tensed, as if suddenly struck by a freeze. Help others? Yes! I’d like to do that for sure, Zin said emphatically. Dad woulda done that.

It’s a very noble thing to do. Helping others.

"Mom! I love that idea! Think of all the good we could do! We could sprinkle money around like sesame seeds… but seeds that grow! How would I start?"

Well, Mark said, appreciating Zin’s mindfulness. You’d probably start by setting up a Foundation. I can help you structure that.

Awesome. I’d want to start that right away. Who would I donate money to?

There’s many many worthy candidates. Like the Kitchen of Brotherly Love, for instance. There’s a lot of fine organizations in need.

And we have a lot of money to serve them.

Yes. All these things will bear considerable discussion, Avalina’s father stated. But for now, after such hard work for everybody, as your attorney, I strongly advise you to take a deep breath and simply enjoy yourselves. Live a little. Congratulations.

Thank you. But there is one thing I wanna get started on right away. Zin put down the carrots. I wanna find out where dad came from. The secret he left in the jar of pigs’ feet. It’s been on my mind every minute. Mrs. Pirogi spoke of Skowlakov Peasants’ Orphanage, in Russia. That’s where dad came from when he was three. He left that place, and came to America with Mrs. Pirogi. And the help of the Mustard Monks. We gotta find Skowlakov.

How is Mrs. Pirogi? Mark asked.

Not well, Millie frowned. She was too frail to attend the Food Fight. Her memory has escaped her.

Zin shook his head. Let’s hope for the best. She was able to remember a few important things when we took her the Russian nesting dolls. She remembered the orphanage, and how she helped bring dad over from Russia when she was sixteen years old. She knew some of the old Mignon family secrets. But now she’s forgotten. Anyhow, I’ve gotta find out about this Skowlakov Peasants’ place.

What about that Virtual Assistant in Russia you found on the Internet?

She did all she could. Skowlakov told her they have records of how dad arrived there as a baby, but they won’t release them unless we pay hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Bandits! Millie spat.

Of course, Zin smiled, now we’ve got the money to pay!

Absolutely not! Millie smacked the table. They’re not gonna shake us down. That’s like paying a ransom. I refuse to do it, on principle alone. There’s gotta be another way.

I still feel that Mrs. Pirogi is the best starting point. Maybe we should go see her in New York. If we take her something Russian, it might trigger some more recall. Besides, now that we have a little money, I’d sure like to see if we can help Mrs. Pirogi.

There was a knock on the office door and Jenny cracked it open and peered in. Jenny was Zin’s close friend and swim-club teammate who had great instincts and high spirits. Avalina had hired her as hostess and her duties had scaled up. She constantly reminded Zin to Be a Kid, and her suggestions to Zin before the Food Fight proved vital.

Jenny said, Sorry to interrupt, but Zin, the kitchen’s backing up. Klaus and Archie need some help.

Of course, Zin stood.

Jenny! Millie put up her hand. We’re talking about Skowlakov. We’re sorta stuck here, but maybe you can help. We need more information. The Internet is full of sites about family trees and ancestry. Maybe you could do some research.

Jenny lit up. Research on Skowlakov Peasants’ Orphanage?

It won’t be easy, Avalina said. I don’t think it’s a modern operation. A little orphanage like that in the Russian hinterland won’t have much of an online presence.

"Oh, but I love projects like this. Jenny was thrilled. I’m a good researcher. As long as you don’t mind me poking around, I’ll see what I can find. Maybe I can track it through orphan agencies, adoption records, foster homes…"

Cool, Zin said. See what you can learn. Right now, I gotta get behind my pots and pans. He shook Mr. Mark’s hand, then looked at Millie and smiled. Mom, please don’t lose that check.

"You kidding? I’d lose you before I lost this check."

*****

Monsieur Obituaire didn’t bother to knock. He pushed into Brandy Bitterwine’s office as she read the article on Zin in People Magazine. She rolled her eyes over the paragraph where Zin said he yearned to learn about his long-lost family history. She finished her third prune Danish, took one look at Chef Obituaire and hurled the People straight at his head.

How could you lose to a kid?!?! she screamed. I thought I could depend on you. Most kids his age can’t even order for themselves at a Waffle House. And all he did was cook a hotdog. A lousy stinking hotdog!

Obituaire fidgeted in his bony frame. The bun! I hate to admit it, but his bread is magnificent! It’s impossible to copy. That little weasel sure can bake bread.

"You had every chance to poach his recipe. But you can’t even steal properly! His secret family recipe was right in front to you, ripe for the taking, but you let the shrimp fake you out."

I underestimated him. The scar on his left cheek seemed to pulse. But I’ll steal his Russian Rye recipe if it’s the last thing I do. Count on it.

Dimwit. It was our big chance to decimate him, to close him down forever. But he cooked rings around you. Now he’s the most famous chef in the world. And the richest too.

He just got lucky.

Brandy brushed Danish crumbs off her bosom. Go back to France, she spat. "I can’t depend on you. Argh! I hate that despicable little creep. Mark my words, I will ruin him!"

*****

CHAPTER ONE

H ey Zin, Jenny says, What in the world are those?

Rump roasts.

Seriously?

Yeah.

"But why are they kinda… green?"

I’d say they’re more gray than green.

Okay. But why?

It’s the new rump roast preparation. I wanna try to use as many basic ingredients as we can. Jenny, if I could buy everything we need at Walmart, I would.

So, not so much fancy stuff anymore?

The hotdog at the Food Fight taught us all one thing: we don’t need to be fancy to be good.

So no more beets from the church garden of the Blessed Virgin St. Agatha in Venice, grown in that morning sunlight and sent to the Pope, who dips them in his holy water before he sends them to you?

Exactly. We can get beets from a field in Fresno.

And the gray/green meat?

It’s for the Stroganoff. I found it discounted at Walmart and priced to sell. Dad would be very proud.

You know what I think? Your Stroganoff tastes better than ever.

"Yeah, that’s what mom says too. And we’re serving more than ever. It all starts with the end-cuts and throw-aways. The dry stuff. I love cooking with leftover odds and ends. Then Zin dropped his voice. Besides, the Mustard Monks taught me the secret tricks of the trade. Stuff that ain’t in any cookbook, nowhere in the world."

As Avalina says, ‘You really are a genius’.

Speaking of Avalina, where is she?

She’s auditioning for the Bachelorette. She should be here any time now.

Oh, that’s right.

That show’s not for her, Jenny said. She’d never smooch all those strange guys.

*****

Minutes later Avalina walked into the office as Zin was juggling five heads of iceberg lettuce. She was dressed in her typical Malibu summer style, as if heading for the Pilates studio. Good morning, Chef. My goodness, did you see the line outside? It’s huge.

"You know what mom