Johnny "The Bag" Velazquest had many interests, some foundational and others passing like a warm summer breeze. Every couple months, he would read or watch something that would start a brief love affair with a certain topic, then, after a few weeks of obsessing over it, he'd move onto the next thing. His bedrock interests - those that stuck around and formed part of his id or whatever - included cooking and making money. Things that had interested him in the past were WWII, the life of Lord Timothy Dexter, the early history of video games (from Tennis for Two to the Video Game Crash of 1983), and, most recently, the mafia.
A while back, he and Lincoln were flipping idly through the channels when they came across a movie called GoodFellas. It had Robert De Niro and Joe Pesci in it. Johnny assumed it was a comedy since he'd only ever seen Joe Pesci in comedies, so he went in expecting a fun, light-hearted romp. What he got was a stark and brutal depiction of the American mafia. Guys got "whacked" left and right, bodies turned up on meathooks and slouched in Caddies, some dude got mud-stomped for telling Joe Pesci to go get his bleeping shinebox, and so many F-bombs were dropped that by the end of the movie, the ground was scorched and nothing would ever grow again. Worst of all, in one scene, these guys led Joe Pesci into an empty room under the pretense of making him a full member of the mob, then, just as Joe Pesci realizes what's going to happen and moans "Oh no," they shoot him in the back of the head. Spurting blood, he slumps to the floor with a limp thud.
Johnny and Lincoln both gaped in shock. "They killed Joe Pesci," Johnny muttered numbly over and over again. The last person on earth he expected to watch die was My Cousin Vinny and he couldn't lie, he was kind of traumatized.
And fasciated.
Up until GoodFellas, Johnny's understanding of the mob came from stuff like The Godfather, where it was all tuxedos, family, and respect. It was kind of lame, to be honest, but GoodFellas showed the mob as small, money obsessed thugs who weren't into all that "I'll make him an offer he can't refuse" stuff.
GoodFellas depicted the mob as cool.
In the weeks after, Johnny devoured everything he could find on the mob, watching documentaries, reading stuff online, buying books from the flea markets and yard sales his mom dragged him to. What exactly was it about the mob that interested him? He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he thought it was the fact that it was a secret society that existed underground and made up its own rules. Then again, the Bloods, Crips, and Hells Angels did the same thing, and Johnny didn't give one crud about them.
You know what the mob reminded him of?
Wrestling.
Okay, okay, hear him out. Back in the old days, before WWE became a giant corporation and wrestling was just another TV show only a tiny handful of diehard fans watched, wrestling was a secret society too. Every region of the country had its own wrestling promotion with its own stars and TV shows, and the whole point of the game was to swindle people out of their money. The mob did it by force, wrestling promoters did it by lying. "Hey, come watch these two guys who hate each other feud for six months, then battle it out in a cage." Meanwhile, those two guys were best friends backstage and played cards together before the show. Wrestling and the mob both had their own code of silence - kayfabe for the former and omerta for the latter - they were both full of young and hungry guys trying to make a buck, they both had their own culture and language, and they were both uncommon lines of work that existed apart from mainstream society and bound everyone in it together in an overarching brotherhood.
That still didn't make wrestling cool, though.
The other day at dinner, Johnny pointed out the similarities between Cosa Nostra and "the business", and Dad got really offended. "Wrestling is nothing like the mob," he said, spraying bits of potato.
"Yes it is," Lincoln said, not because he knew any better but simply to needle Dad. "Both are full of lying, money hungry crooks."
Dad's face turned beet red and tears streamed down his cheeks. He looked like a soyboy Wojak meme only blacker. "Take...that...back."
"Lying crooks, lying crooks," Lincoln chanted.
Dad shook like he was going to explode, then whipped around to face Mom. "Elizabeth!" he whined, "they're making fun of wrestling again."
For a moment, Mom looked at him with a tired expression, then heaved a long suffering sigh. "Boys, knock it off."
Maybe Dad's head was shoved so far up Tony Kahn's butt that he couldn't see it, but wrestling was totally like the mafia, only lamer because at least the mafia was for real. If they came at you with a baseball bat, they meant it. In wrestling, it was all pretend.
Johnny's fascination with the mob lasted roughly a month, which is about how long all of his topical interests last. At its fever pitch, Johnny gave everyone in his life cool mob sounding nicknames. Johnny called himself "The Bag" and Lincoln "Lincy Chainsaw" because his busted teeth made him look like a low rent power tool. Dad became Jason Bagels, since he had three bagels every morning on his way to work. He dubbed Ronnie Anne Saniago "Wheels" because she was a bleep on wheels sometimes. Stella was "Stella Rice" as Asian people love to eat rice. Sid, naturally, was "Sid Two Shoulders." Johnny would swag around the school like a tough guy and threaten to whack people who displeased him. He tried to bribe his way out of a math test with gummy worms, and Mrs. Johnson sent him to the principal's office. He kept his mouth shut and did his time; he wasn't no rat.
Slowly, his infatuation with the mob waned and he went back to his normal stuff. On a blustery late afternoon in mid-December, he came home from his cooking class with a plateful of suck-fudge. He called it that because it was furdge...and it sucked. Since signing up for that class, Johnny had become proficient in baking. He could make anything and make it well.
Except for fudge.
But he had an excuse.
His teacher couldn't make fudge. She followed instructions from an old school cookbook (and the class, in turn, followed her instructions) but her fudge, and everyone else's, came out gritty and dry. Imagine taking a big ol' bite of sand and you'll get the picture. Johnny tried out recipes on his own time but something always went wrong. The last time it came out too goopy. Today, it came out dry again even though he added enough skim milk to drown a cow. He didn't understand where he was going wrong and it was starting to tee him off. If this kept up, his mobster would come out. They'd find the next pan of fudge to mess with him shoved into the trunk of a car. Badda-bing fuhgeddaboutit..
But seriously, this was starting to hurt his self-confidence. He loved cooking and baking and prided himself on being able to master any dish. He usually got stuff perfect after two tries, but fudge defied him. It was a real bummer.
Being sick of throwing his fudge into the garbage as that was the most final and dramatic admission of defeat, Johnny tried to pawn it off on Mom, but she got this deer in the headlights look and gave him some lame excuse about not wanting to spoil her dinner (that never stopped her from sneaking sweets before, but okay). Next, he went into the living room and thrust the plate out to Dad. "Merry Christmas."
Dad glared at him, and Johnny flashed a nervous smile. Get that stuff away from me or you're grounded."
Sigh.
Even Dad was sick of his failure-fudge, and Dad ate moldy McDonald's French fries he found under the couch.
Johnny knew better than to try Lincoln, so he went across the street. He knocked on the front door of 1216 and shivered against an icy blast of wind. Lights shone around the curtains covering the bay window and Johnny could hear the muffled sound of the TV set, but no one came. He tried the knob, and it turned easily in his hand.
He rolled his eyes.
Didn't the Louds realize there were bad people in the world? He kept telling them to lock their door but they thought he was clowning around or something. They'd see when the Open Door Bandit got them. In fact, they were probably already tied up in the -
A loud clatter rang out from the kitchen and Johnny jumped.
Uh...maybe he'd come back later.
And he would have, but now he was convinced something awful was happening to the Louds and that they needed his help.
Taking a deep breath, he went into the kitchen, ready to kick, punch, and suplex any bandits who crossed his path.
The only person he met was Mr. Loud.
Wearing a pink, frilly apron over a green sweater and a single oven mitt, Mr. Loud bustled between the sink, the stove, and the counter like a chicken with its head cut off. A huge pot of something boiled on the stove and the counter was strewn with an assortment of cans, boxes, and chopped vegetables. Mr. Loud stirred the pot, dashed over to the cutting board and chopped a carrot to bits, then raced to the sink and scrubbed a pot. Johnny watched him repeat his circuit three times before taking pity on him. "You need some help, Mr. Loud?"
"God, yes!" Mr. Loud moaned.
"I'll handle the soup," Johnny said.
Grabbing a chair from the kitchen table, he pushed it over to the stove, hopped on, and sat his fudge on the counter. He picked the ladle up and stirred the soup. Mr. Loud finished with the vegetables, dumped them in, then washed the last of the dishes. "Whew," he said when he was done, "that was something else. Thanks for your help, Johnny."
"No problem," Johnny said, "I love to cook."
"So do I," Mr. Loud said. He picked up the plate bearing the fudge. "Did you make this?"
"I sure did. Go one, have a bite, it's great."
The lie was bitter in his mouth, but he figured Mr. Loud would buy it. After all, the man ate beans and franks made from Vienna Sausages and cold lima beans, so it's not like he was a food snob or anything. He'd probably love it.
"Don't mind if I do," Mr. Loud said. He picked up a piece of fudge, took a bite…
...and promptly spat it out. He stuck out his tongue and furiously slapped the remaining bits of chocolate off with his hands. Johnny grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. Gee, he didn't think it was that bad.
Mr. Loud gagged, wretched, and clawed at his throat as though he were choking to death on the absolute vileness of Johnny's staggered to the sink, cut it on, and guzzled water straight from the source, his head bending at an impossible angle. Oh, come on, now he was just being dramatic.
Leaning heavily over the sink and panting for air, Mr. Loud shook like a traumatized tornado survivor. "God Almighty, that was awful," he said in the tone of a man who had seen hell and barely escaped to tell the story.
"I know it's not the best, but I tried, okay? It came out dry -"
"Evaporated milk," Mr. Loud said, "it needs evaporated milk."
Johnny opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He, uh, didn't use evaporated milk.
While the soup finished cooking, Mr. Loud whipped up a quick batch of fudge while Johnny watched over his shoulder. He used nutmeg, cinnamon, pumpkin spice, and evaporated milk. He whisked the concoction together with a sure hand, and watching him work, Johnny couldn't help comparing his grace and deftness to a surgeon's. "You're really putting all that stuff in there?" Johnny asked, raising one eyebrow.
"I sure am," Mr. Loud said. "It's unconventional, I'll give you that, but wait until you taste the finished product." He sprinkled in something from an unmarked container. "Can you hand me the salt?"
Ew. salt?
Johnny handed him the salt, and Lynn added some, then stuck the pan in the stove. "Now we wait."
Later on, Mr. Loud took the pan out and sat it on the counter to cool. After fifteen minutes had passed, he cut a square and Johnny ate it.
Oh.
My.
God.
It was delicious.
Johnny had never tasted anything so freaking good in his life. Fireworks burst in his brain and he formed into a rocket that took off, smashed through the ceiling, and boldly went where no Velazquest had ever gone before. When he came down from his high, he was weeping tears of joy. "That was amazing," he said, voice low with wonder.
"It's my own recipe," Mr. Loud said proudly. "Cooking and baking are my passion." He fisted his hand to his chest. "When I was a boy, I didn't know who I was. I lived in my older brother's shadow. My Dad wanted me to play football like him, but I had two left feet and buttery hands. I searched and searched for my place in the world, then my teacher Mildred persuaded me to try cooking." He held his head up and suddenly, he wasn't a flabby suburban dad, he was George Washington crossing the Delaware - stoic, larger-than-life - and a wave of pure respect washed over Johnny.
"Bro, I'm in a cooking class too. Cooking is legit."
Mr. Loud let out a melancholy sigh and turned away. "I always wanted a son to share my love of the culinary arts with. I see things like this and...I get choked up." He let out a strangled sob and held up a random piece of paper. Johnny snatched it away and scanned it.
FATHER + SON COMPETITION
Would you and your son like to be on Food Network's hit cooking competition "Chopped"? Special father/son tapings are happening soon. 10,000 dollar cash prize for the winner. Sign up now!
Johnny's jaw hit his shoes. "Dude, Chopped is my Star Wars." He jumped off the chair and walked over to where Mr. Loud sobbed. "We should sign-up,"
In an instant, Mr. Loud's tears were gone and he was jumping up and down like a giddy girl. His beaming happiness warmed Johnny's heart. It occurred to him that he was going to be on freaking Chopped, so he started jumping up and down too. He and Mr. Loud clasped hands and started to chant. "Chopped! Chopped! Chopped! Chopped!"
Lori walked in and looked like she was going to say something, then she saw them. Without missing a beat, she turned and walked away again.
That night, Mr. Loud signed them up and a week later, they were called in for a tryout in Detroit.
It was held in a warehouse near the Detroit River, over which you could look into Canada. Three kitchen set ups were arranged in a line and you had one hour to make your best dish. Johnny whipped up his famous braised chicken with walnuts and a raspberry reduction, and Mr. Loud made an arugula salad with a homemade balsamic vinaigrette. They had been practice their "kitchen chemistry" as Mr. Loud called it, and they worked with the smooth precision of cogs in a single machine. Some people can tune out and navigate by autopilot when they mow their lawn or run on the treadmill, Johnny and Mr. Loud could do it in the kitchen. Mr. Loud called it "the zone" and in it, they worked by instinct alone.
A panel of judges - none of whom Johnny recognized from TV - tried their dish, and each one raved about it. Mr. Loud held out his hand and Johnny slapped it. Oh yeah, we got this in the bag.
"We'll call you," one of the judges promised.
Johnny and Mr. Loud waited on tenterhooks for a month. Christmas came and went and Johnny barely noticed, his suspense building and building until one day in late January, Mr. Loud texted him. WE GOT ON THE SHOW!
"BOO-YAH!" Johnny screamed and pumped his fist. He was sitting in bed and Lincoln was on the ancient PC shoved against the wall, doing homework. When Johnny yelled, Lincoln jumped a foot. "I'm going on Chopped!" Johnny sprang to his feet and did a very Carlton-esque victory dance.
Lincoln rolled his eyes. "The only show lamer than Raw."
"Yeah, go 'head and talk," Johnny said, swinging his hips, "you're just jealous."
"Soooo jealous," Lincoln said sardonically.
In early February, in the dark heart of the Michigan winter, Johnny and Mr. Loud packed into Vanzilla and drove to Detroit, where the taping was being held. It has snowed heavily the previous week, and a crusty white shell covered the ground. "This is going to be great," Johnny said from the passenger seat. "We're going to win it for sure."
"I know," Mr. Loud said giddily. "That'll show my dad."
He pulled out his cell and dialed a number. "Hello? Dad? How's it going? I'm doing good, just on my way to a….TV taping." He drew the last part dramatically out, a haughty expression settling over his features. It was clear that he was bragging. "Yeah, going to be on the Food Network. I might even wind up with my own show. Does Butch have his own show? Do millions of people watch and enjoy him selling used cars in Kalamazoo? Oh, gotta go, my limo's here. Caio."
"Dude, you just lied up and down," Johnny said. "That's...kind of messed up."
Mr. Loud waved his hand.
Two hours later, they joined three other father-son pairs on the set of Chopped. A full pantry occupied one wall and four kitchen set ups faced the judges. Johnny recognized all of them and resolved to get their autographs after he and Mr. Loud won: There was Alex Guarnaschelli. Amanda Freitag. Chris Santos, and Geoffrey Zakarian. You couldn't ask for a better line up. Ted Allen, the host, came out, and Johnny swooned. Man, this was actually happening.
Each of the four pairs was given a basket with four ingredients inside. Soy sauce, a cooked rotisserie chicken, baby carrots, and honey. "You have one hour to prepare your best dish," Ted said. "Or you will be...chopped."
Johnny frantically ran each one through his mind and came up with the only idea he could: Glazed chicken stir fry. He told his idea to Mr. Loud, who nodded. "Right. Good one."
While Mr. Loud got the chicken started, Johnny dashed over to the pantry and grabbed an armful of ingredients, including apples, walnuts, arugula, and watercress. "I'm making an apple-walnut stir fry," he explained to the camera as he gathered the stuff. "It's gonna be bomb. Chris's head is gonna blow from how good it is." He turned to run back to the kitchen and almost collided with one of the cameramen. "Dude, move."
Mr. Loud hurriedly whisked a honey soy sauce reduction together while Johnny sliced the apples into little wedges, being careful so that each piece was thin and light and matched all the others. Here on Chopped, presentation mattered, and if your dish didn't look like something someone would pay 500 dollars for, you'd wind up out on your ear.
Across the kitchen, one of the other contestants, a fat boy about Johnny's age, dropped a metal bowl to the ground with a long clang. Soy sauce exploded across the floor in a sloppy sun pattern. "Sugar honey iced tea," he said with an exaggerated sigh. A black man named Tommy with a single tuft of hair on his otherwise bald head cut himself with a knife and bled all over his food. Normally, Johnny would feel for the guy, but not in the middle of a competition. Johnny was in it to win it and the only thing he cared about was winning.
And a good way to win was to psyche out the competition. "This guy's over here chopping himself," Johnny said.
The judges laughed, and Bill's face turned red with embarrassment.
"You know Bill...he's a cut above the rest."
Even Bill's son laughed this time.
A stagehand bandaged Bill's finger, and he was forced to throw out all but a few thin slices of chicken. Hahahaha. There was no way Johnny and Mr. Loud could lose now.
Johnny was so busy gloating over his foe's demise that he didn't realize his stir fry was burning until the stench of charred apples found his nose. His heart dropped and he rushed over to the stove.
RUINED! It was all ruined!
"Noooo," he moaned. Panicking, he grabbed it off the stove and ran it to the sink. His foot kicked a light cable stretched out across the floor and lost his balance. He fell and the skillet flew out of his hand. He watched it sail through the air with growing horror. It landed in the middle of the judges' table and went off like a bomb, splattering each one with hot grease and molten, black Zakarian fell back, screaming, and Chris Santos's hair erupted in flames. Alex took a face full of grease and screeched in agony, and Amanda opened her mouth to wail, and a smoking piece of carrot went down her gullet. The judges lay on the ground, moaning and quivering, and Johnny gaped.
Bill gave a booming laugh. "Who chopped himself now?"
Johnny gulped.
Three hours later, after emergency room visits, Johnny and Mr. Loud stood before the glaring judges. Each one was heavily bandaged and reminded Johnny of mummies. Johnny could feel their hot glares on him and nervously rubbed the back of his neck.
"This dish is awful," Geoffery said. "The chicken was mushy, the watercress was dry, and the walnuts tasted like rocks."
"I agree," Alex said, "I've had awful food in my life, but this takes the cake."
Johnny fidgeted. "Uh...you guys didn't even try it."
"I did," Amanda said, "and they're right. You're chopped."
A team of burly security guards appeared and dragged Johnny and Mr. Loud away, throwing them out of the building. They sat together in the snow and cold and nursed their broken dreams. "I'm sorry I got us chopped, Mr. Loud," Johnny said.
Mr. Loud sighed deeply. "It's alright. We didn't win, but we had fun, and that's what cooking is all about. You don't have to have the best dish, but you should have the best time."
He laid his hand on Johnny's shoulder. "It was to share my love of cooking with you. Maybe we can cook again one day."
"That'd be awesome."
From that day forward, Johnny and Mr. Loud were BCFFs.
Best Cooking Friends Forever.
