Miriam: Oh yeah girl. Enemy no. 1.
It takes me a while to get all the way down to thirty-seven, and then I have to wait even longer to get buzzed into the cooking studio, since I don’t have security clearance. By the time I walk in, I’m worried all the healthed-up hot chicken has been spoken for. I walk past the industrial refrigerator, my nose and taste buds tingling from the pungent scent of garlic and spice.
“Can you blow steam away while I snap this shot by the window?” a recipe developer says to the cooking studio manager. She garnishes a plate of what looks like chickpea curry with a smattering of handpicked cilantro leaves.
My eyes search for Dustin in the recipe dev bay, the same spot I always find Brijesh whenever he invites me downstairs to taste something he’s planning to present to the Food Baby editors. But neither Dustin nor Brijesh is there, and the bay is covered in remnants of Middle Eastern cooking.
I frown. Did I really miss Dustin’s recipe test by that much?
“Case!” a voice calls out from the far side of the studio. I track the sound, my head swiveling.
“Oh. Fuck,” I whisper.
Dustin isn’t testing this recipe for Food Baby consideration. He must have gotten it approved months ago. Because now he’s recording at the film bay.
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been allowed in here, and it’s never been on a film day.
I blink, frozen in place.
Brijesh is standing on one side of the counter, Dustin beside him, aproned up. The videography crew and all their gear are on the other side, sleek and ominous. It’s intimidating, how much gear they’ve got. In my head, I pictured a dinky little camera on a tripod like all my favorite vloggers use.
I was not anticipating my YouTube debut today. Or, like, ever. I can safely say I don’t have the right personality to fit in with the rest of Food Baby’s “on-camera talent.” To say the absolute least.
Brijesh beckons me impatiently. I gulp, walking forward. When I’m close enough to touch, he throws an arm over my shoulder and pulls my side against his.
“This is Casey,” he says, addressing the front-and-center camera lens. “She’s a financial analyst up on ninety-eight. For all you folks at home, that means she works beside my boss’s boss’s boss’s boss’s boss. And she also happens to be a born and bred Nashvillian. So we’re going to get her opinion on the healthed-up hot chicken.”
“Go easy on me, Casey from ninety-eight,” Dustin says, grinning at me widely.
We’ve never met, but I watch all his YouTube videos—even the ones he does for other brands besides Food Baby. Here are just a few of the creepy, parasocial factoids I’ve learned about Dustin through many hours of cooking-demo consumption. He is: of Jamaican heritage, a barbecue whisperer, scared of turmeric powder stains, and allergic to most nuts (same!).
Also, there is abundant fan fiction about him and Brijesh on the internet.
(I haven’t read it.)
(I have.)
“Do not go easy on him,” Brijesh tells me, countermanding Dustin’s request. “It’s in the public’s best interest for you to be scrupulous.”
“Noted,” I say, my voice audibly unsteady. I cross my arms over my chest, glancing down at the fancily plated dish on the countertop. I point at it and turn to Dustin, doing my best to ignore the camera. “You know it’s normally served on a piece of white bread with a pickle and a toothpick, right?”
Dustin sighs. “This is why I can’t have nice things.”
Brijesh grabs a fork and knife, cutting a piece of chicken for me as he talks to the camera about how multifaceted the flavor of the dish is. I watch (him, not the camera lens), enraptured, unable to do anything but smile at the sight of him in action. This feels ridiculous and panic-inducing to me, but Brijesh and Dustin make it seem like the most natural thing in the world. A couple seconds later, I forget all about the camera. Brijesh and I taste test while Dustin offers up the ingredients and tasting notes he was aiming to hit.
“It’s delicious,” I say after taking a bite.
“Gas me up, baby girl,” Dustin says.
“But it’s not Nashville-style. My lips aren’t peeling away from my face right now, which isn’t a good sign in the way of authenticity.”
“It’s healthed-up—” Brijesh protests.
“Yeah, I got that,” I interrupt. “And I do really like it. But in terms of using this recipe as a comp for Nashville hot chicken, I don’t think it works. It’s not fried, and the heat profile is totally different. Did you use cayenne?”
“Aleppo.”
I sigh. “I was lured here under false pretenses.”
“All right, who let her in here?” Dustin complains to no one in particular.
Brijesh mocks kicking me out, whipping a tea towel near my knees, and I back away, hands up in placation.
“That was great, guys,” says the video director as he steps away from the equipment. I wince at his implication—that we’re acting like this for show—and move toward the sink, firmly out of frame, under the pretense of washing my hands. “Let’s take five before the outro,” the director adds.
And that is my official cue to GTFO ASAP.
“Hey.” Brijesh rushes up to me, handing me a paper towel. “I know something that might make you feel better, or very much worse.”
I raise my eyebrows, shutting off the water. “Okay. I can handle it.”
“They gave the job you interviewed for to the board chairman’s son.”
In all fairness, Brijesh has never been one to mince words.
A beat of silence as it sinks in.
They gave …
The job I wanted …
To the board chairman’s son?
“You have got to be fucking joking.” My voice is deathly soft. Brijesh shakes his head. “Is that even legal?” I hiss.
“No clue. I don’t know who all knows. I got suspicious when I learned his last name.”
“Harrison?” I ask. Our board chairman is named Robert Harrison.
Brijesh nods. “New guy is Alex Harrison. He’s Korean American, biracial.”
“How do you know that? Did you already meet him?”
“Not yet, but I spent, like, two hours stalking his LinkedIn and Instagram to confirm his family connection,” Brijesh says. “I almost gave up, but then, under his tagged photos, there’s one with Robert on the Harvard alumni account from a few years back. His college graduation, I think. I’m sure they’re trying to keep the family relation on the down-low, but like, did they think no one was going to find out?”
Wait. A. Damn. Minute.
Korean American, who graduated from college a few years back?
Was Alex Harrison the guy in the elevator?
Blinking, I start to mutter, “I think I—”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Brijesh hisses. “He just came in.”