Page 7 of Best Served Hot

I’d figured that would be a draw for any fancy food writer, and, sure enough, Bennett almost jumped out of his textured gray sneakers. Were those made of wool? I wasn’t all that up on the latest fashion trends, but Alice told me all the tech people were wearing those now. “At the crepe booth, you said?”

“Yup,” I said, trying to beam disarmingly the way Emerson Leigh did. From the way Rhino grimaced, I assumed I looked like an orangutan ready to fight. “But from what my friend texted me, it doesn’t sound like he’s going to be there very long.”

Bennett nodded, a jerky, abrupt motion. “Thanks for the tip.” Ignoring the non-Rhino friend, who was groaning about how they’d been waiting in line soooo long already, he stalked off into the crowd, pulling them along behind him. We moved forward, filling their open positions.

“That was masterful.” I turned to find Alice goggling at me. “When did you become such a good liar?”

I widened my eyes innocently. “Me, lie? Never.”

Alice giggled. Actually giggled. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever seen Alice giggle. Laugh, sure. Giggle, no. “That reminds me of this thing that Kelsey does when the guys ask her to take notes in meetings, because she’s new and she’s the girl. She makes her voice all high and . . .”

I spent the rest of our time in line listening to how great Kelsey Courtney was, drooling over the smells of the food we passed, and laughing over how confused Bennett was going to be when he got to the crepe stand and found no famous chef cracking eggs. Hopefully, it threw him off. Ruined his day. Even if he wasn’t here in an official capacity.

Finally, we got close enough where we could see the menu. There were some tempting-looking little salads and teas, but it appeared that the main centerpiece of the booth was the shaobing. My previous day’s research had told me that shaobing was a type of layered flatbread popular in Northern China, super flaky and often flavored with sesame, which could be filled with anything sweet or savory. It looked like the chef had chosen some of the traditional fillings as options, including red bean paste or mung beans with egg and tofu, along with some less traditional options, like Cubano pork, and s’mores.

“We should try some traditional and some less traditional,” I said.

“Definitely the red bean paste,” said Alice.

So we decided on that, plus the s’mores and whatever the chef recommended, because they just sounded so good. Any more than that and we might not have room for more food, and we still had to try a lot more booths.

I was going to have so many leftovers to bring home. Which made me very happy.

The shaobing smelled so good I wanted to tear into them right away, but of course we had to step to the side and get some good photos first. Fortunately, the lighting in this area was great. Once the photos were done, I had Alice film me taking my first bite of the shaobing recommended by the person at the window—the one with the Cubano filling. I closed my eyes as I chewed. And swallowed fully before I spoke.

“If you don’t try the shaobing with Cubano pork today, you’re missing out,” I said. “It’s just an explosion of flavor. The pork is tender and practically falls apart at my teeth, and the pickles add a nice vinegary crunch against the meatiness of the pork and ham and the richness of the cheese. And that structure! I’ll never be able to eat a Cubano sandwich on ordinary bread again, not after the flaky crunch of the shaobing. I hope you caught the steam that billowed out when I took that bite. I’d bathe in it.” Was that too weird? Too late. I couldn’t wait another second before digging in. The s’mores and red bean ones were already getting cool from the way we’d pulled the outsides apart to get good photos of the filling.

An hour later, I was just about full-term with a bouncing, beautiful food baby. Alice and I had photographed and eaten jerk chicken over plantains, spicy and sweet; cups of icy, sweet, rich halo-halo piled with red beans and fruit cocktail; lobster roll sliders stuffed full of delicate shellfish on buttery brioche; pani puri, the fried Indian hollow rounds of dough loaded up with mashed potato and chickpeas and sweet, tangy tamarind chutney. My camera was happy. I was happy.

Alice was stuffed. “I don’t think I can eat another bite,” she moaned, swaying as she walked. “I couldn’t even drink anything. Not even wine. And I love wine.”

I was swaying as I walked, too, but I had my own superpower. I never really got full. My food baby just turned into twins. Or triplets. “Okay, that means more for me. Or more leftovers,” I told her, eyes swooping from side to side. I still wanted to try the empanadas Jada Knox had been eating . . . or would it be a waste of time for me to eat the same thing as her, since she’d broadcast it to her hundreds of thousands of followers before me and my own would just swipe through? Should I focus on some of the more obscure booths? “And you know I think wine is nasty, so I definitely can’t drink any right now, either. I still really want to try Chef Dominic Nguyen’s bánh xèo with prawns and mint. Here, take my phone, film me talking, and I’ll do a viewer poll.”

I handed it over and she held it up; I talked a bit about the bánh xèo again and then went on. “There’s Chef Liz Branch’s fancy pizza that I’ve been eyeing all day—I hear the crust is crispier than most, even with all her toppings piled on—and there’s that Belgian waffle stand that’s a wild card but could be amazing . . .” I trailed off as I noticed Alice staring over my shoulder, eyes wide like she’d seen a guy flicking peeled-off toe skin into the fryer. “What is it? Is there something in my hair?”

“I think you meant, ‘Who is it?’ ” someone said from behind me, and I could hear the sneer in his voice even before I turned around. It was the guy in the rhino polo, blond hair plastered tight to his head with sweat, Bennett and his other friend standing to his side. “John Waterford was never here at all. Was it really worth it to steal our place in line?” He scrunched up his broad face. “They were out of the s’mores shaobing by the time we finally made it up there.”

“It had nothing to do with stealing your place in line,” I told him hotly, then remembered that I was supposed to be acting like Emerson Leigh around them. I pushed my shoulders back, lifted my chin, tried to relax my brows so I wasn’t frowning. “Hey, I’m sorry! Someone told me that thing about John Waterford and I passed it on. I had no idea it wasn’t true.”

Rhino snorted—ironically, exactly like a rhino—and turned to go. I relaxed my shoulders, hunching a little, figuring that would be the end of it.

And then Bennett said, suddenly, “No, I know you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” He had a plummy way of speaking that I absolutely should have expected, like he was enunciating every word, making sure the ends didn’t trail off and the beginnings didn’t mumble. “You’re Emerson Leigh’s friend. Julie Zee Eats NYC.”

I kind of liked how he separated out my username, making it four separate words rather than the one run-on word it tended to slur into in my head. The sentiment was another thing. “I don’t know if I’d say friend,” I told him. “More like father’s employee.”

He waved a hand in the air, his blue-gray eyes pinning me in place. “That’s irrelevant.” I felt a little bit like a butterfly on a corkboard. “She told me she’d shown you a picture of me. She called me right after she did it since she felt bad. I’d asked her not to share any photos of me with anyone, because of the Scroll. I had to look you up to make sure you hadn’t posted it.”

I bristled at the way he said had to. Like clicking on my name and looking at my face was such an imposition.

“So you knew who I was, and you know food, and I estimate there’s at least a ninety-five percent chance you know who John Waterford is, which means you were probably lying.” He cocked his head. “Why?”

All their eyes on me made my skin hot. My eyes darted frantically to the side. I could run. And probably disappear in the crowd. I’d escape.

But for what? Everybody knew who I was and where to find me. I’d be considered a coward. And I wasn’t a coward. I raised my chin defiantly, though my cheeks still burned. “It was just a joke. A prank from a fellow restaurant reviewer, if you will.” A dumb explanation, and knowing that made my cheeks burn harder, but it was better than the truth. “I didn’t know you were reviewing any of this today.”