Chapter 18 #2
“A crushing blow to my manhood. So you’ve moved on from the idea of doing an omelet parading around as a breakfast burrito?—”
“Only because I realized that getting a layer of egg to be uniformly round and in the perfect thickness to be rolled is deceivingly hard to do. Not everyone can do that. And one of the chief characteristics of an excellent meal kit is that results need to be achievable each and every time. So I had to ask myself, what other meal can a customer recreate perfectly and consistently in a fixed and reasonable time? For that is important too. No one wants to spend hours on a meal kit. Results have to be achievable within thirty to forty minutes at the most.”
“You’ve given this a decent amount of thought,” says Luke with not a small amount of surprise.
“Of course, I have. After my experimentations with breakfast burritos led me to disappointing results, I moved on to reimagining a Shakshuka.”
I describe the poached egg dish in rushed detail, running down the ingredient list of tomatoes, peppers, onion, garlic, and its commonly used spices of cumin, paprika, and cayenne pepper.
I tell Luke how the dish comes with controversy, as there are competing claims of origin ranging from Algeria to Morocco to Yemen and more.
I also briefly mention how some cooks add sheep milk cheese, harissa, or preserved lemon to give a variation in taste and flavor.
And that if the eggs are scrambled instead of poached, the dish becomes more like a Turkish Menemen.
“So you’re making a Shak-shik?”
“ Shakshuka . And I was,” I say, grabbing my bowl of green goop and placing it under Luke’s nose. “The plan was to make it green as my own unique twist on the traditional red one, but then I was faced with a brand new set of problems.”
“Is one of them how this looks rather unappetizing?”
“ No , it only appears this way due to my overzealous mixing. Before I poured all my stress into it, this mixture was a delightful combination of Swiss chard, artichokes, zucchini, bell peppers, leeks, and dill. ”
“If the texture is the issue, make it again.”
“No. It’s the ingredients that are the issue.”
Returning the bowl to the counter, I flip to another section in my notebook.
A crudely drawn figure represents the customer, but underneath the doodle is a multi-page dissertation about who they are, what their values are, and what they are looking for in a meal kit.
Then there is a crudely drawn building, and underneath there is another multi-page dissertation about who the meal kit provider is, what their values are, and what they are looking for in their business.
“I don’t have time to explain, and I know this is a lot, but if you read this?—”
To my surprise, Luke grabs the notebook. I stand flummoxed when he starts reading—before snapping out of it and turning my attention back to the stove.
My mind races back to the challenge at hand.
How I do not have a dish.
Usually when this happens, it’s best to go back to the basics of taste. If I can land on a flavor bomb, the rest of the recipe might come together more easily.
My mind cycles through options: serrano peppers (spice is polarizing), black garlic (loads of work), chipotle peanuts (possible allergies might alienate a section of the customer base), numbing oil (high risk of sounding too similar to a desensitizing lubricant)…
“Your green Shaky-sack won’t work because the ingredients are too expensive,” says Luke, putting my notes down much sooner than I predicted he would. Has he really finished absorbing everything I’ve researched so quickly? Apparently so, since his conclusion is correctly deduced.
“Exactly,” I say. “You need the meal to source out to $6 to $8. If that’s how much the customer is comfortable paying, for the meal kit provider to make money?—”
“They’ve got to cost out affordable ingredients. Not to mention storage and?—”
“Expiry dates, yes!”
“How much have you looked into the supply chain?”
“You’re speaking about sourcing vendors, right?
I’ve been trying to, but it’s hard to get contact details off the Internet, and when I do call them, they won’t give me bulk pricing because I’m unattached to a corporation, and I’ve not got the authority to speak to anyone high enough in that department. ”
“Hmm. That’s frustrating.”
“Right?!”
“Even without that information, you’ve done a remarkably detailed market analysis. You must have done this before.”
“No.”
He frowns. “But it’s quite good.”
I’m caught off-guard by the compliment, and also experiencing a perplexing amount of synergy at being able to have a conversation with someone who not only understands how business matters have to relate to food matters, but also with someone who is coming to the same conclusions as me.
“So, based on all these criteria, what other dishes have you considered?” asks Luke.
“After passing the first round of the competition, I spent a lot of time brainstorming different recipes so that when this round was kicked off, I’d be ready for it—but featuring an ingredient like eggs is unusual. People don’t typically use meal kits for breakfast.”
“Why? It’s often considered the most important meal of the day.”
“Yes, but you’re ignoring the variable of time.
Customers don’t have enough of it to spend in the morning on a meal kit when they can scarf down a yogurt or a banana and get on with it.
Especially during the weekdays. That being said, I do have egg dishes in my repertoire that can work for lunches or dinners.
I thought about egg drop soup first, but soup might not be thought of as filling enough for the judges, and then there are French croque madames, but that feels disconnected and fussy in some way. I don’t know…”
I trail off, noticing how strangely Luke is examining me.
He looks at me as he needs to shift things around in his own head.
I guess he’s seeing I’m no longer just someone who bakes cakes all day.
Not that there is anything wrong with that.
In fact, imagining him trying to produce anything as perfectly balanced and tasty as I’ve been making for his business meetings is comical.
Still, the concentrated staring from his end is unnerving, even if I’m starting to recognize burgeoning respect and mild wonder mixed in there .
I aim at him a quintessential Punjabi hand gesture, flipping my hand upwards as if it’s scooping the air, all to communicate an eloquent what?
He glances away.
“Anyway, I’ve always made my strongest meals when I cook with instinct, but this competition is messing with my head because I didn’t expect to make it to the second round, and now that I have, I want to do well enough to keep going.”
Correction: I need to. Especially now that I’ve got nowhere else to go. That reward money could solve my housing crisis. Not that I’m going to think about that right now. Have to concentrate on winning first. Have to pretend I’m not still unwell. Exhausted.
“And what would you cook if there were no guidelines?” asks Luke.
“Ah—”
“First thing that pops into your head.”
“Depends on?—”
“No, don’t overload that big brain of yours. What’s eggy and tasty?”
“—Egg bhurji, but that’s not innovative enough to stand out. The flavors are incredible, but I’m not inventing anything new.”
“Start with that. Worry about the twist after.”
“Easier said than done.”
“It will come to you.”
“Will it? Your faith in me is baseless. I make you the most boring of meals, by your own choice, of course. How do you know it will come to me ?”
He palms the cabinet above my head and looks down at me.
“You’ve just shown me charts, an essay on pricing and paragraphs of analysis getting perfectly inside the head of your customer.
My faith in you is not baseless. In fact, I’m the one starting to see how overqualified you are to be making smoothies in the first place.
So stop—don’t get in your head. Don’t doubt. Do your egg bhurji.”
His words are so pretty they’d make me swoon if I didn’t know any better. Not that my heart has gotten the memo. It’s racing. Badum, badum, badum …
I draw in a sharp breath, escape from under his shadow and get to cooking. Onions get finely diced, tomatoes are pulverized, and ginger, garlic, and green chilies are combined into a rough paste that I taste. Luke looks terrified and awed by my ability to tongue spice in its raw form.
As for my assistant , he cracks the eggs.
“There is so much shell in there,” I point out. “Haven’t you done this before?”
“No.”
“Did your nannies teach you nothing growing up?”
“I’ve never liked eggs.” Luke drags out the shell bits with the corner of his finger. “You do that well, you know.”
“Do what well?”
“Disabuse me of the notion that I’m perfect. Most people don’t dare.”
“Everyone should know how to cook. What if you lost all your millions?”
“Billions, Rita.”
“Did that really need clarifying?”
“It did,” he says. “And to answer your earlier scenario, in the highly unlikely event that I lose everything I’ve contributed to the Abbot fortune, I’ll learn how to cook. Meanwhile, I don’t have time for anything beyond work. There’s always business waiting for me. I can’t stop. I can’t rest.”
But you are taking time out now… You are helping me when you don’t have to…
We work some more in an uninterrupted rhythm until Luke clears his throat. “While we did have help growing up, I admit, I’d rather they have not been there at all.”
I hesitate since it’s not my business, but he’s also the one who has brought the topic up. “Why?”
“My father loved making people feel like they were below him. Having help gave him easy targets. And—I wasn’t pleasant back then, either.”
“Do you regret that?”
He looks sharply away, but I hear his answer.
“At least you feel bad…”
“It doesn’t matter.” He has the voice of a man already condemned. His chin drops down. “Some things can’t get erased. They shouldn’t be.”