Zin Mignon and the Secret of the Pickled Pigs' Feet: ZIN MIGNON, #1

By MICHAEL DASWICK

     

A frolicking trip to the pantry! Incredibly, the greatest Chef in the world is only 13 years old. He's Zin Mignon, the spectacular culinary mastermind who lives at the intersection of fantasy, laughs, gripping mystery, inspiration and humanity.

The four-book Series kicks off in the pathetic family Brooklyn deli where young Zin clutches a secret note from his dying dad. The cryptic words set Zin on a world-spinning quest, an adventure that takes him through the alleys of the homeless to the tables of billionaires, to discover who he really is and the greatness for which he's destined.

Is it a spoof on the celebrity Chef phenomenon? Or a sophisticated, inspirational and twisting mystery? Book One chronicles Zin's astonishing apprenticeship, where he's kidnapped from Le Cordon Bleu cooking school in Paris by the mysterious Mustard Monks and spirited away to the Monks' ultra-remote mountaintop abbey, where they worship food. They also show Zin the world's greatest cooking secrets. But why in the world are they showing Zin? That's the question both Zin and his comically materialistic mother will ask, over and over, as they strive to learn his shocking family legacy.

 

Soon enough, Zin shocks the cooking world. After all, despite a host of envious and evil detractors, he's become the greatest Chef on the planet. As billionaires send private jets for take-out, supermodels, celebrities and European royalty scramble to sit at his tables. Ah… but Zin's just a kid. He's easily distracted. Besides, he made a solemn promise to his dad -- to learn the incredible secret of his family legacy.

 

Find out why ZIN was seen on CNN, NBC, ABC, CBS. It's truly original, perfect for foodies and mystery lovers of all ages. A wonderful (and clean!) Series for kids who cook, or their parents and grandparents, who cook with their kids. Never to be taken too seriously; but maybe so. How 'bout all these amazing exploits? And the heartfelt compassion? High concept fiction is here, hiding under the tablecloth!

 

Book Two finds Zin in the challenge of his life, with his culinary empire on the ropes.

 

Book Three has the nay-sayers and evil-doers catching up.

 

Book Four solves all the mysteries, reveals who Zin really is, and what his family legacy is all about. The ending is, to say the least, nothing short of a shocker and a revelation. "How did he ever think of that?"

 

A Series of Magical Realism, full of pop-culture, twists and turns, laughs and tears. We ask… why can't a 13 year old be the greatest Chef in the world? Why can't every child be great at something? This Series shows you how! Try a nibble or two! Delicious kitchen-fiction.

Author MICHAEL DASWICK is the winner of both of Columbia's prestigious literary awards for creative writing and story-telling. He writes High-Concept fiction. He's the author of the gripping and much-acclaimed epic novel CHIP ROCK and the FAT OLD FART, its sequel CHIP ROCK and the CATALINA KID, and HALLBOYS, a collection of inspiring connected short stories.

The Zin Series is four books long, was written for his own children. It's suitable fun for all ages.

     

     

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: PLAYA CHICA PRESS
• Release date: Apr 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781513650906

MICHAEL DASWICK

Michael Daswick is the winner of both of Columbia's prestigious literary awards, the Bennett Cerf Memorial Prize for Fiction, and the Cornell Woolrich Fellowship in Creative Writing. He's written the acclaimed ZIN MIGNON series about a 13 year-old phenom Chef. CHIP ROCK and the FAT OLF FART is his literary opus. Michael lives in Scottsdale with his talented wife Kim. He has three wonderful grown children. 

Book preview

Yeah I know, being a dishwasher in a restaurant is considered lousy work. But washing dishes for the world famous thirteen year-old genius Chef Zin Mignon was, in a word, magical .

It was June 1, 2016 and I’d been working as Zin’s dishwasher for months, ever since he’d launched his incredible restaurant on the Sunset Strip. Zin Mignon. Our tables were the hottest on the planet, in the heart of the frenetic Strip. One of the poshest addresses in the west.

Hey, Nacho, he called across the kitchen. It’s time to experiment. If those dishes can wait, I could use your help.

I never said no to that offer.

Hold it, Chef. Avalina, Zin’s brilliant twenty-two year-old business manager approached with her clipboard. A few quick questions, if you have a second…

Sure.

Here’s another letter from Bon Appétit Magazine. They keep asking for your Beef Stroganoff recipe…

Chef sighed. Answer is still no.

…and the Russian Rye?

Absolutely no. Avalina, we’ve told them a million times. They don’t get the message, do they? Top-secret means top-secret.

Next. Selena called. Says it’s her birthday. Wants a table for eight at 7 o’clock tonight.

Famous people always say it’s their birthday. She forgot to make a reservation, huh?

Correct.

Rules are rules. If she has no res, she can stand in line on the sidewalk like everyone else.

Right. And here’s something new. Nice formal letter from the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce. Speaking of sidewalks, you’ve been nominated for a star on Hollywood Boulevard.

Me?

Yes. You’d be the very first chef with a star. Live performance category.

That’s pretty cool, don’t you think, Nacho?

Sweet!

So that one’s a yes, Avalina, Zin winked. At age thirteen, Zin was among the finest chefs in the world. We all loved to watch him work. That afternoon, he was just fooling around with his paring knife, like some people doodle on a scrap of paper. Zin had carved an onion to look like a miniature Stradivarius.

You’re masterful, Avalina admired. You do more with a knife than a painter does with a brush.

Chef shrugged. Avalina was some manager. Zin’s mother had wanted to ban tank tops and yoga tights in the kitchen. I was glad Zin had overruled her.

Nacho, let’s get going. The Prince will be here in an hour. For his weekly take-out. Zin flung a FedEx box in my direction. An international FedEx box. Open the box. Let’s take a look.

FedEx boxes arrived daily, from all over the world. Culinary geography lessons.

Inside I found some big plastic baggies. Vegetables.

Beets, Zin smiled. Direct from Italy. Very special beets. Grown in the church garden of the Blessed Virgin St. Agatha in Venice. They catch that Mediterranean sunlight just right. Then they’re picked and sent directly to the Pope.

"The Pope? The Pope in Rome?"

Yeah. He dips ‘em in holy water. One by one. Then he sends ‘em to me.

Sure enough, in those bags were dozens of moist beets. Zin inspected them. Perfect. Small but plump. Purply-red. They marinate in the baggies overnight as they fly across the ocean. The Pope’s water is so pure, it imparts the perfect flavor.

You’re gonna give Papal beets to the Prince? Avalina asked.

Sure. Why not?

He’ll never know the difference. After all, he’s only seven.

Then it’ll be our secret. Guys, wanna try the beets?

Zin was always full of surprises. He knew people in high places. He served beet salad to billionaires, movie stars, supermodels, and bricklayers. They loved every bite. And the thing is, nobody knew how those blessed beets were dipped. Zin disclosed very little. Zin had many such kitchen secrets.

They look delicious, I said. Then I saw it. And they’re paired with four leaf clovers!

Zin was elated. Yes! Nacho, that’s why you’re the world’s most valuable dishwasher. You taste with your eyes first. Try them. Do you think they’re good enough for our menu?

It was common for Zin to ask me to taste his food. And every time, I felt anxious. Boss, this always makes me nervous. Remember, I grew up on nothing but tacos and spicy carrots.

Zin winked. I trust your judgment. You’re part of this kitchen. Take another bite, close your eyes, and tell us what you think.

I lifted a fork and gently stabbed the little veggie salad. Zin had taught me how to taste food. I chewed slowly. Meanwhile, all work in the kitchen had stopped, all eyes were on me. Zin Mignon was putting me to the test. The slight crunch of the clovers. The beets were so soft, like chewing pudding; my taste buds were abuzz. Zin watched me, hand on his hip. Avalina tugged at her tank top. Zin’s Papal beets tasted so exotic, so wild. So many layers of flavor. Chef’s seasonings did not overwhelm the natural juices. They were there to complement what nature provided.

So, Zin asked, do we serve ‘em?

I thought hard before I gave my answer. I gulped, praying I was right.

Chef, I told him. I swear, on my Mama’s old Mexican Bible. The beets are killer. But the clovers? They taste like they’re from a back yard in Bakersfield. Ain’t got no flavor.

Everyone gasped. Zin stared at me, then looked at Avalina. He tapped the tabletop with a tiny whisk. Then he whispered, "Nacho, it was a trick. You’re exactly correct. I clipped them from a dog park right around the corner. And everybody broke into laughter, and Zin gave me another high-five. That’s the lesson you can never forget. Always trust your mouth. It knows more than your brain."

Avalina grabbed a fork and sampled the beets. Chef, you’re amazing. You’re 40% mad scientist, 40% artist, and 40% chef.

Hold it, Avalina. I know you’re smart, but that doesn’t add up.

That’s the point. Your world is one of art, not science. The rules don’t apply.

***

I loved washing dishes at Zin Mignon. Normally, it was easy work: Zin never burned anything. No crusts or blackened edges on our pots and pans. Guests ate every crumb. Most plates and pans came back so clean they merely required a little soap and a simple rinse.

Was it weird working for a kid eight years younger than me? Sure. But Zin let everybody have a hand in everything. Zin took a shining to me from the first day we met at a sink in Century City. Later on, when he opened his own place, he asked me to go with him. I’ve stood at his side ever since.

Zin Mignon was a 13 year old culinary genius who found a secret note in a jar of pickled pigs’ feet which set him on an adventure to discover exactly where his family came from, and the true greatness for which he was destined. I witnessed his great rise to fame, learned his artistic motivations, and suffered the flaws and exasperation.

I also learned many of his secrets, some of which I’ll talk about (the Pope’s holy beets) and some that I won’t (his incredible Russian Rye bread). People want to know about Paris and Zin’s mysterious training, the murky world of the Mustard Monks, and how he became the toast of billionaires and supermodels. Then there was the eventual paranoia and kitchen lock-downs.

I was lucky. Zin told me all these stories as I did the dishes, tasted his experimentals, and shared his prep table. For instance, he’d say, Nacho, pass me the purple potatoes and I’ll tell you about my dad. That, of course, was always the heart of the matter. This is the story of a kid out to honor his father’s legacy, to find out who he was, and learn where he came from. Together, we had a blast. Here’s how it started.

*****

The APPETIZER

FACEBOOK REVIEW

*****

The tale of Zin Mignon begins at the bottom of a mayonnaise jar on a gritty and forgotten street. Zin was born in a narrow two-bedroom brownstone in Brooklyn, New York, just off the Rockaway Parkway. Canarsie. Seedy neighborhood, the Mignons lived in a simple apartment above a closed-down clam bar. Some winters, the only heat they had in the kitchen came from their toaster. It was close enough to the flight path of Kennedy Airport that the jumbo jets rattled the cheap silverware in the drawers. His mother and father’s names were Millie and Boris. Millie was a mom. Zin’s dad, according to Zin, was the hardest working man he ever knew. Boris ran a small Russian deli three blocks from their apartment. Seven days a week. 7 AM til 9 PM.

Zin’s dad was not considered one of New York City’s finest deli-men. In a borough full of fabulous delis, where many street corners held a cold-cut-capital or meatball-mecca, Boris’ Deli never made the grade. Not exactly a lofty example of sandwich-art, its recipe for respectability was watered down with budget baloney, left-over end-cuts, wilting lettuce and wrinkled tomatoes. No neighborhood knish, no steaming pastrami, no signature sauce. His pickles lacked snap.

Sadly, Zin’s father was not a great provider. At least, not financially speaking. He shaved pennies and nickels, he never spent extra to buy premium supplies. Boris taught his wife how to re-use brown paper bags: Millie. Fold ‘em flat. Smooth ‘em out so the people think they’re new. His reach-ins stored nothing but industrial grades of marked-down meat and his shelves stocked bargain-brand bites. He wasn’t inherently cheap; rather, Boris was a most generous person. He merely chose to save money so that his only child Zin could have the sharpest knives, a clean apron each day, and the latest cookbooks. Boris was a gruff but loving father who would do anything for his son. Born in Russia; that’s about all he’d say of his past. He admitted to suffering a hard-scrapple life ‘til he met his wife, and when their son was born, he was overjoyed. Boris’ entire world centered on his little deli in Canarsie, and he proudly placed Zin right next to him. Thus, Zin found food, and food found Zin. Boris taught Zin a great work ethic and provided books and tools for learning. The Mignon’s unique method of home-schooling. Zin loved every minute of these studies and Boris was proud to admit to anybody on the block that Zin owned all the culinary creativity in the house.

Before he could walk, Zin crawled across the floor of the deli, scooting in his diapers next to the borscht pot and the cabbage rolls. Zin flipped his first backyard burger at two years old on a beat-up barbecue built by his dad from an old trash can and the radiator grill from the front of a ‘68 Chevy Camaro scavenged from the gutter of New Lots Avenue. Impressed with the light char on the burger, a week later Zin’s father challenged him with a steak. He handed him a huge porterhouse and pointed to the crude barbeque. Zin cooked it to perfection. As his Russian immigrant parents watched, Zin seared it over a roaring flame which would typically be too hot for even an experienced chef. Boris marveled. The nuances of leaving perfect grill-marks on a thick yet medium rare steak were instinctive to the young child.

"I loved everything about cooking and food, Zin told us. Mom and Dad encouraged me to chase my culinary dreams. ‘Please don’t make me go to a real school,’ I told mom.

"’All you’d learn in the schools around here is how to be a troublemaker,’ mom said. ‘If anyone asks, tell ‘em you’re home schooled.’

That was it. Home schooled behind the deli counter. I didn’t play sports like the other kids. I never had to go to cotillion class. Instead, I helped my dad in the deli.

Zin hung around the deli all day, waiting for a customer to come in. It was during these long hours that Boris tried to teach Zin a thing or two about his deli trade. Lookit, son. When you slice da baloney, and all the lunchmeats, you wanna slice it extra extra thin. That way, when you put some on da bread, you can fold it like so. You can fold it over and over. And then you pile it up, and a lotta air gets in here. So it looks like there’s more than there really is. We save money.

"Yeah, but dad. If we slice it thicker, when people take a bite, they get more flavor. They’ll be excited and it’ll chew better. Then they’ll be happy with their sandwich and they’ll come back again. When they come back over and over, we make more money."

Naw, naw, naw. Listen to me. I’m your Pops. Ya gotta slice it thin. You gets more air in there. We saves money.

"But thicker meat tastes better."

Ya gonna argue wit me? Who’s payin’ da bills? You or me?

You are, dad.

There ya goes. Thank you.

One day, Zin told me, he was five years old and he was trimming fat off a hunk of rump roast. He set the fat aside. Hey, hey, hey, little man! What ya doin’ there, tossin’ away good food.

It’s fat, dad. People can’t eat that.

Oh, yes, yes they can. We can’t waste nothin’ ‘round here. Take da fat like this, and slip it inside the sandwich. You hide it under the lettuce. Makes the sammie look thicker, you see?

Yeah, but Pops. It tastes awful. They bite in and get this big yucky mouthful of fat! It’s disgusting.

"That’s the deli biz, son. People see the sammie first. It’s big an’ thick. They happy. And we’ve saved a penny. A penny here, a penny there, and sooner or later we have a dollar."

"But dad, I have an idea! I can save up all the scraps of fat, and the trimmings off the ends and edges of the pastramis and the salamis, and I can add spices and turn it into a spread. I can make a paté. It’ll be delicious. We can sell the paté with crackers! We’ll have something around here that no other deli has!"

Son, I love ya. But you ain’t a good deli man. We toss the scraps into the soup pot. People ‘round Canarsie don’t want no fancy spreads.

"Nacho, I would shake my head when my dad said things like that. But then, the little bell over our door would jingle, and we’d look up, and a customer would walk in. Well, not really a customer, but a homeless person. Getting out of the cold. And Nacho, guess what? My dad would welcome them every time. My Pops was such a bum when it came to running his deli, but he had a heart of gold when people needed something.

Here, here, he’d tell them. "Are ya