Chapter 35 Nico
THIRTY-FIVE
Nico
I’m about to shit my pants.
But at least I’m wearing them.
“Hey, everyone,” I tell the crowd of approximately one fuckin’ hundred, my voice only trembling a little. “Welcome in. My name’s Nico, and this is NakedReactions.”
Hawk Publishing had this fuckin’ idea for a launch party for the cookbook, that I do a live, fully clothed cooking demonstration for one of the recipes in the book, with a live Q and A session afterwards.
So here we are, at this independent bookstore in Brooklyn, and I hope to freakin’ god I don’t shit my pants.
“Today, I’m gonna make you all brown butter grilled cheeses with hot honey drizzle,” I say, gesturing to my rig, the portable induction burners, the cast iron skillets, saucepan, my mise en place—all things I’m staring at ‘cause I can’t for the life of me look anyone in this crowd in the eye, “and hope it’s good enough to convince you to buy the cookbook. ”
That gets a laugh, which spurs me on.
“First on deck is the butter,” I tell my saucepan, like it’s my emotional support animal. “Regular and unsalted. Always unsalted, anytime you use butter. You want control over the salt levels.”
It softens, then melts, then begins to foam.
“Now, browning isn’t just melting. We’re cooking the milk solids. They sink to the bottom and toast. That’s what creates all those nutty, toffee-like aromas—Maillard compounds, lactones, all the good stuff. You’ll know it’s ready by the smell. Just follow your nose.”
I swirl the pot as the butter hisses, then sings.
“If it smells like something you’d pour on your naked body, it’s ready.”
Laughter detonates across the room. A few gasps. I look up and grin.
“Hawk Publishing said fully clothed demo. They didn’t specify the rating.” Someone fans themselves with a promo postcard.
If Annie were here, she’d be rolling her eyes. That’s the corniest fucking thing I ever heard, Nico.
Phones start to come up. I hear someone, someone old, whisper, “Wow, he’s hot and smart and funny,” and my soul leaves my body.
“Next, we gotta heat the pan.” I indicate to the knob on the induction burner. “Cast iron, always. Why? One, heat retention. Once it’s hot, it stays hot. Two, even heat distribution. No cold spots or patchy browning. You want a sear so even it looks airbrushed? Cast iron’s your guy.”
A camera shutter clicks. Someone goes, “Preach.”
“Now,” I continue, “brown butter tastes incredible, but it burns fast.” I lower the induction setting. “So we keep the heat medium-low to low when it hits the skillet. Those toasted milk solids? They’re flavor, but they’re fragile. Too hot, and they turn bitter faster.”
I swirl the browned butter in, slowly, carefully. The scent blooms, nutty, caramelized, intoxicating. Someone in the crowd mouths “Oh my god” like it’s a prayer.
“We’re not drowning the pan,” I go on. “Just giving it enough fat to crisp and conduct. Fat is basically an edible blanket. It insulates, browns, and carries flavor. Without it, you’re just burning carbs and your dignity.”
That gets another round of laughter. A girl near the front claps once, unironically.
I pick up the slices of sourdough.
“Sourdough’s got chew. Tang. Structural integrity. If you’re using soft white bread, that’s fine, if you also enjoy disappointment.”
One guy points and nods like I’ve confirmed a personal belief system.
I butter both sides, lay them in the skillet, and press down with my spatula. A sharp sizzle ripples out into the crowd.
“Now this right here is the Maillard reaction—amino acids meeting reducing sugars under heat. It’s responsible for every delicious browned thing on Earth. Including toast that doesn’t taste like the plain, joyless stuff you choke down when you’re sick.”
A woman in the second row gasps dramatically, clutching her friend’s arm. Now I’m actively sweating.
“No flipping yet. This isn’t pancakes. Give the reaction time to develop flavor.” I peek underneath one slice. “You want the crust nutty, golden, and even.”
I layer cheddar and mozzarella on the crisp side of one slice.
“Cheddar for boldness, mozzarella for melt. One’s been aged, the other’s a stretch queen. Together? Slutty in the best way.”
The room howls. The indie bookstore owner in the corner gives me two very enthusiastic thumbs up.
I place the second slice on top and press again.
“One confident flip. You commit. This is not a situationship.”
I flip and pray. It lands. The room gasps. Phones flash.
“This is why we browned the butter first,” I say, smug now. “Richer Maillard flavor. More nuttiness. More depth. More pleasure. You’re welcome.”
As the second side cooks, I turn to the honey warming in the saucepan.
“This is hot honey. Red pepper flakes, apple cider vinegar. The vinegar adds acidity. Your contrast. Capsaicin activates heat receptors, which open up your taste buds. Basically, spicy makes everything sexier.”
Someone drops their phone. I ignore it.
I lift the sandwich, slice it diagonally (because I have standards) and plate it.
Then, I drizzle the hot honey in a slow, thick ribbon.
“This last part is optional,” I say. “Unless you have a soul.” I hold up a half for the room.
“Grilled cheese, brown butter, hot honey. It’s Maillard, emulsification, fat transfer, capsaicin, and personal growth. Also, it’s fucking delicious.”
Pause.
Someone near the back calls, “Eat it!”
“Slowly!” someone else adds on.
I do not.
“I’ve got a bunch here on the warming plate for you to try,” I tell them instead. Bookstore employees pick them up and start handing them out. “And if you like it, the recipe’s on page seventy-six. Buy the book and make your situationship eat it slowly,” I say with a grin.
The bookstore smells like bliss: butter, heat, toasted sourdough, and just a little vinegar-sharp sweetness. The applause is still going when the owner of the place—a guy in Warby Parkers and a vintage Death Cab for Cutie tee—steps up beside me.
“Can we get another round for our very delicious, very scientific, very fully-clothed chef?” he says, beaming.
The crowd laughs and claps harder. Someone, some old woman yells, “Take it off anyway!”
I grin. “You first.”
More laughter. The owner pats my shoulder. “Seriously, Nico, thank you. This was incredible… and you will be making me that sandwich before you leave.”
I nod, trying not to visibly sag with relief. “You got it.”
He turns to the crowd. “We’re gonna roll right into a little Q&A with our multi-talented culinary-chemist-slash-butter-thirst-trap. He’ll be answering your questions for a bit, and then we’ll open the signing line.”
A chair appears out of nowhere, pushed behind me by someone with kind eyes and a lot of tattoos. Annie’s are better. I wipe my hands on a towel, take a sip of water, and sit. The skillet behind me is still spitting faintly, the butter singing its dying notes.
I glance up and finally let myself get a real look at the crowd.
It’s packed. Wall-to-wall Brooklyn chaos.
Couples leaning on each other. Lots of women.
Lots. Solo food nerds with phones still up.
A few older folks scattered around, nodding like they’d seen it all, until I said “situationship,” and they nearly fell out of their seats.
There’s even a baby in the back, chewing on a copy of the book. Honestly, same.
I take a deep breath before giving the mic a little tap. “Alright. Hit me.”
A hand shoots up immediately, a wiry dude in the second row with tortoiseshell glasses and a pen tucked behind one ear.
“Okay, so, if you were doing this with rye instead of sourdough, would you adjust the butter or pan temp?”
“Great question,” I say, enormously grateful the question is not about my dick. “Yes. Rye bread’s denser and has less sugar, so it browns more slowly. I’d bump the heat just a touch and let it sit longer. But you also want more fat. Slather both sides.”
He nods solemnly, as if I just blessed his sandwich marriage.
The next question comes from the back, a woman with a giant iced coffee. “What kind of cheese would you like, pair with like, fig jam, instead of hot honey?” The ice in her drink rattles as her hand flicks with each of her “like”s.
“I’d go brie or a goat blend. Something creamy with some funk. You want that smooth and weird counterpoint to the sweet.” I gesture with my water. “That’s the chemistry—fat, acid, sugar, salt. You play the levels.”
Some murmurs of approval. Another phone click. This is going well. Too well.
The next question is annoying as hell, but I expected it, honestly. “So is this book real science, or just the sexy kind you use to get clicks?”
“Well,” I say, scratching the back of my head. “I have a PhD in food science. And I just finished my postdoc. I also have hundreds of thousands of subscribers on NakedReactions. So both, I guess.”
Thank Jesus that gets laughs.
“How does your mom feel about your content being on a porn site?” the woman with the baby chewing my book asks.
“She feels fuckin’ proud as hell!” I hear my mom yell from somewhere towards the back.
The crowd cracks up.
“Thanks, Ma,” I grin.
The next hand is up before I can even find where she’s sitting. A guy in a blazer, no shirt underneath, with his phone half-raised to record. Oh god. Here it comes.
“On that episode where you made that peach cobbler, was it just the fruit you were plumping, or was there some, uh, extra juicing involved?”
There’s a sharp inhale across the room. Half the crowd glances at me. The other half glance at their neighbors. I don’t know where to look. My hands? The floor? Inwards, to ask myself, How the fuck did you get here? or What the fuck are you doing?
I’m still trying to form a reply when a voice slices through the air like a Katana.
“Are you really asking if he fucked a pie?”
Heads snap. Necks swivel. I think the baby gasps.
Every single atom in my body freezes, and the sweat on my body turns into ice.
Am I having a stroke? Am I dead? Did I just astral project into hell?
I look.