#vincenzo having to deal with two crazy rich people

[crookedkingdomruinedme]

Chayoung: Do you think different paints have different tastes?

Hanseo: They do.

Vincenzo: …Why did you say that with such certainty?

[chefbarry]

The Foodie Files, Chapter Two: The Misadventures of Zucchini Bellpepper, Righter of Wrongdoing, “Slappin’ Pappy in His Nappy”

I was relaxing on one of those oversized lounge chairs with the wide plastic bars that somehow get stuck in your undershorts every time you get up for another drink. I was on an unnamed island in the Caribbean (it actually has no name) drinking whiskey sours at ten in the morning, thinking about my future. I was in witness protection, of sorts—I mean the federal government had nothing to do with it—I just had a run-in with a bad seed from the neighborhood, too long of a story to tell here in my normal rantings. But anyways, it happened in the alley after hours. It was a case of he said, he cried, he fell, he sued, but I escaped just in time, and practically shut down the office. The federal government was after me for other things, which I can’t get into here, and they suggested I leave town for awhile anyway. My Uncle Vincenzo worked for one of their clandestine branches, and he said he’d try to sort things out.

Speaking of the office, well the burned-down-abandoned-warehouse-turned-trendy-lofts that burned down again, and was now abandoned, except for my office on the second floor rear, that surprisingly was still intact, (I had nothing to do with it!) burned down again, so I had to move this time for real. I found a back room in an old Danish factory, where my on-again-off-again girlfriend, Raspberry Cardamom, worked as a pastry girl. She used to tour with the Allman Brothers as their concierge/handler/caterer until one day she served an unripe fruit and stinky cheese Danish and was banished from the road. She was the youngest student to ever graduate from the Johnson and Wales Pastry and Pudding Academy in Bismarck, ND. I met her through mutual friends of mutual friends and she actually helped me solve a couple cases back in the day, when girls actually liked to be called dames, didn’t mind earning pennies on the dollah, wore a too-short skirt and knickers now and then, and enjoyed an occasional slap on the patootie, when they got out of line! I actually paid her wage and a half, respected her opinion on world events, and enjoyed her company quite a bit. We were taking a break, but I got a good deal on the Danish back office. It was close to the back alley where I could come and go when I pleased, and I had my own landline.

So, after I moved offices, I hired Avocado Toast to run things in my absence until I figured things out, and felt safe returning to the neighborhood. Raspberry and Avocado got on well, and became fast friends, and probably enjoyed me being out of town for the while. I was returning to my uncomfortable lounge chair with another drink when my phone rang. I didn’t answer and let it go to voicemail. I needed to think. That incident from the alley really got to me, I don’t like to fight and I don’t like confrontation too much. I like to solve puzzles in life. I like simple things like watchin’ the Lone Ranger TV show, baked beans from a can, and Saturday nights at the drive-in, when a dame would bring you a sody-pop and ask you questions while chewing gum.

My phone rang again, I pulled the plastic bar from my tush out, and readjusted myself to a sittin’ up position more or less. It was from my office landline, so I answered. Avocado sez to me, “Zucchini, you gotta come back! Things are getting out of hand here!” I was having Avocado handle the occasional walk in customer, someone who might need simple private detection services like finding a lost child at the mall or needing help writing a fake resume. She continued, “I know you said to not be disturbed, but I gotta disturbs you! It’s my friend, Kali. Kali Flower.” I sat up straight and tossed my drink, straightened my cap (that was made of recycled gumshoe) and put the phone on speaker. “Talk to me”, I said.

She went on for about fifteen minutes, and I gotta tell ya, the case was compelling. It seems that Kali, a friend of Avocado’s, was in deep trouble. They met at the local San Antonio AFTER chapter meeting a few months ago. AFTER was a national organization founded three years ago in southern California by a couple tech dropouts. It stood for Annoying Food Trends Eroding Restaurants. People like Avocado Toast, Kale Smoothie, Bone Broth, and Goji Berry felt at home here—no judgement, no questions, no paparazzi. They could speak their minds without feeling threatened by society at large, having to answer to the latest health craze, angry vegans, or inquiring sous chefs. Kali was the newest member, and boy did she have it bad.

She came from a long and rich family of brassicas, going back to the old country. People used to walk into an apartment building and know right away that someone was cooking cabbage on the top floor. The only excitement she ever got was a good steaming or a puree into a nice warming soup. The only other characters she ever encountered outside her sulfurous community was a shallot, maybe some cream, a little salt, maybe on a crazy weekend night, some white pepper or a green onion. No one sent her family any junk mail, they were respected members of the community, and lived quietly among all the normal guys at the farmer’s markets. Once in awhile she would go up on the speakeasy stage and do a little stand-up or spoken word, but life was pretty simple.

Now all hell was breaking loose at restaurants and country clubs across the globe. The chefs and food trenders were going nuts trying to turn everything cauliflower. Pizzas, buffalo tenders, steaks, risotto, purees, fake potatoes, flour, tortillas, you name it, any food out there was game. If you needed it, it became cauliflower. If you weren’t gluten-intolerant (don’t even get me started), well, the cauliflower craze was going to scare you into being. And Kali was furious. She couldn’t go anywhere anymore. The food bloggers alone were giving her grief. They asked about her quiet Eastern European family. “Hey, what about Kale Fritters? Or Cabbage Pizza? Have you heard they’re trying to come up with Broccoli Lasagna Noodles? Did you see what Romesco is up to? Did you see Brussels is hooking up with Bacon?! Hey, how ‘bout a little slow dance when you’re done shaving on salad?” It was meddlesome and preposterous. I had to get to the bottom of this.

I took the first direct flight from my unnamed island to New York. My uncle Vincenzo met me there, and had me sign some cryptic looking document that cleared my name and settled out of court with that lowlife from the alley. It seems I would owe them one day, but for now, I could return to San Antonio in peace. First, we had to meet with the Apple Butcher. He was in New York on business. There was a small hands food purveyors convention and he was the keynote speaker. We went to meet up with The Vegetable. The V, as he was known back in Romania, had a strange mafia-esque tone to his voice. When he spoke, it felt like you were in trouble, even when he said hello. He was a fixer back in the old country, and he happened to be visiting his nephew, who was actually my uncle Vincenzo, long story, don’t want to get into it. I talked him through my case and asked if he could help.

V said, “What we gotta do is this. First, we bring back the pasta. Pasta makes everyone feel better. No matter this gluten thing, what the hell?, we eat pasta, we drink wine, we smoke a cigar, then we go to sleep. That’s how we do it back at home, and no one tries to change.” I said, Uncle V, can I call you that?” “No, it’s just V, Zucchini!”, he said. “Ok, V”, I said, “But cauliflower is taking over every menu item, you can’t order a rice pilaf without the pesky waiter asking if you’d like cauliflower rice instead, it’s pretty annoying, I mean, what’s the big problem with rice?” The Vegetable stood back and thought for a moment and then whispered a few things in my ear so the cauliflower food truck vendor standing nearby wouldn’t hear us. I knew what I had to do.

I met the vegetable purveyors after the convention in their hotel and we made plans to spray all the cauliflower fields in North America with gluten. Slowly patrons of cauliflower delicacies would start to realize that cauliflower isn’t the answer to the world’s digestive problems, and that you might as well eat pasta. Maybe everyone would start bothering butternut squash and his family and give the brassicas a much-needed break. We might be seeing acorn squash dumpling dough, or butternut squash crackers soon. I decided to go to the next AFTER meeting to see if I could drum up any new business.