Zin Mignon and the Riddle of the Russian Rye: ZIN MIGNON, #2

By MICHAEL DASWICK

     Find out why Zin was seen on CNN, ABC, FOX, NBC, etc! 

     ZIN MIGNON is back for #2 in the series about a 13 year-old wonder Chef.

     From the filthy streets of Brooklyn to the sizzle of Beverly Hills, 13 year old chef extraordinaire Zin Mignon serves a parade of royalty, celebrities and supermodels. As nasty rivals bring all the ingredients to crush Zin's dreams, he juggles the greatest kitchen in the world with a frantic search for his lost family legacy. 

     But the forgetful Mrs. Pirogi - Zin's sole link to his family past -- can't quite remember much about Zin's cryptic ancestry. With the Mustard Monks lurking and movie stars fighting for tables, why is he cooking for the homeless on skid row? His rivals try anything to take him down: the burnout hotdog salesman across the street sabotages with elephant laxative, while evil restaurant critic Brandy Bitterwine roasts Zin with... zero stars!

     With the help of Avalina, the brilliant 22-year old business manager, and his swim-teammate Jenny, Zin must fight to learn his family history that may not be entirely appetizing. Is it related to the secret of his incredible Russian Rye? While his fans rave and vile scoundrels close in, Zin's fragile artistic temperament is pushed to the boiling point.

     Then, Jenny has a brilliant idea. But will it work? Little do they know they'll face the ultimate challenge which could shut down Zin's kitchen forever. RIDDLE of the RUSSIAN RYE mixes food, fame and family, and twists its way to an emotionally tasty - or distasteful - ending. Humor meets humantiy in the back of the kitchen!

• Language: English
• Publisher: PLAYA CHICA PRESS
• Release date: Apr 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781513650920

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

Chapter 0

The pantry is my palette. Items on the shelves are like colors for a brush. Pick and choose. Blend ‘em, Mix ‘em. I don’t care how large or small your pantry is, the color and flavor combinations are endless!

Your job as a Chef is to play with the flavors ‘til the taste buds open, ‘til the mouth sparks start to fly. Until you find delicious.

The sad fact is, you won’t always get there.

But I’ll tell you a secret: it’s not just the food. The food is just the beginning. Because it’s the food that brings people together. And that’s why we cook.

---- Zin Mignon. WHY WE COOK presentation to Mrs. Hawkins kindergarten class, Schwarzenegger Elementary.

*****

GRAND OPENING

"The Diarrhea!"

Mom, that’s so gross. I don’t wanna talk about that.

We have to talk about the diarrhea.

"Ick. No. And can’t you just call it… the D word?"

"D word. Diarrhea. Either way we have to talk about it. It’s important."

No.

"Son. We were sabotaged by that slimy surfing hotdog salesman across the street. That’s where the D came from. We need to… clear the air about that."

No.

Millie sighed. Zin, I’ll give you a break this time. But only because last night you cooked up one of the best Grand Opening nights in restaurant history.

Thanks, mom.

So. Read the review from last night again.

"No. I’ve already read it twice. Mom, I wanna talk about Dad."

"Please read the review."

I need to know about dad. Look, it’s all here in Mrs. Pirogi’s letter. It says he came from a crappy orphanage in some dark forest in Russia.

I just love that review.

Mom! It says dad was essentially kidnapped from his orphanage in the middle of the night! By a guy in a hooded robe. With a horse carriage. That’s exactly what the Mustard Monks did to me! When they took me from Le Cordon Bleu.

It was Scowlakov Peasants’ Orphanage, I interjected. Chef, that was in the note. You read it to us yesterday.

Yes, Nacho! Exactly. Dad was only three years old. I’ve gotta contact that orphanage. Nacho, let’s Google Scowlakov!

I’m Googling it. Nothing…

Try some different spellings.

I’ve tried five different ways. Nada, boss.

Son, if it’s a little place, they probably don’t even have a website. Besides, you’ll probably need to look it up and do it in Russian.

Zin looked at me. Google can probably translate into Russian, I said, optimistically.

Son, look. Even if that note is true, and even if you can actually trust Mrs. Pirogi’s memory, that was still over 50 years ago. Those little orphanages probably come and go like crumbs on a tablecloth.

Zin frowned. I didn’t think of that.

"Now can we read the review again?"

Okay. But as soon as we’re done I’m gonna call Mrs. Pirogi. I need to know.

You can try. But you’d better hope she’s having one of her good days. You know all about her dementia.

Zin stared at the letter in his hand, the letter Mrs. Pirogi had sent to congratulate Zin on the Grand Opening. But more importantly, the letter gave Zin a hint to his murky family history. His dying father had hinted about this shady history in the secret note left at the bottom of a jar of pickled pigs’ feet, in the old family deli in Brooklyn. Zin’s father, and the note, had said that Mrs. Pirogi knew the family secrets. But every time Zin asked Mrs. Pirogi about it, her old-age dementia clouded her memory. But her memory fluttered back when she found her set of Russian nesting dolls in her Brooklyn attic. That’s when she wrote Zin the letter mentioning Scowlakov Orphanage. But that letter only deepened the mystery.

"Son, I hope you realize I waited years for last night. I scrimped, I sacrificed, I lived without dessert for six years. I schlepped around those filthy yecchy Brooklyn streets, toiling in dad’s deli, day after day after day, praying that God would bring a single customer in the door. Then, miraculously, we move to SoCal. You put me on an allowance of $500 a month; and I survive! Finally, we have our Grand Opening, which is a smash! And we do it without a Manager no less. Your late father can wait."

We all stared at Millie.

Zin, read the darn review. For a third time. We can talk about dad later. And the diarrhea too.

It was the morning after Grand Opening Night of Zin Mignon, the glorious new restaurant on the Sunset Strip. Our trusted kitchen crew was assembled around the prep table, with several of the wait staff. The restaurant was named, of course, after my boss Zin Mignon, the genius chef who was then 13 years old. On the table in front of us lay a copy of that morning’s LA Times. There were also stacks of money. 100s, 50s, 20s and 10s. The piles of 100s and 50s were the tallest. Millie picked up the 100s.

Okay, mom. But only if you stop re-counting the money.

Now don’t be bossy. I might recount it ‘til my fingers bleed. $23,420. We finally have some good news. Read the darn review. Loud and clear, so the whole team can hear.

Zin sighed and lifted up the L.A. Times. "Okay, okay. So. Their headline reads: Naughty Americana is Pure Genius. A Big Win for Zin."

That’s what they’re calling your food, Millie tapped the table with her fingernail. Naughty Americana. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Do you want me to read this review or not?

I’m just saying… ‘Naughty’ ain’t such a nice word. Keep reading.

"The article begins, ’Call him a prodigy. Call him a savant. Call him a wizard, a master. Whatever words you choose for Chef Zin Mignon are completely insufficient to describe him and the culinary masterpieces which he produced last night at the Opening Gala of his breathtaking new restaurant.

‘Over the years, the heart of the Sunset Strip has seen such world-changing iconic venues as The Whiskey a Go Go, The Roxy, The Rainbow Bar, Tower Records, Spago, and The Viper Room. Well, there’s a new kid on the block….’

I love that line! Millie smiled.

‘The young Chef, Zin Mignon, at the mere age of 13, stands as a new cultural icon on our planet.

‘Zin Mignon grew up in between two alleys in Brooklyn, from a family of Russian immigrants. Before he could walk, Zin would crawl in diapers across the floor of his father’s deli.’

Is that really true, mom? Or did they make that up? Did you really let me crawl around on that filthy floor?

Yes. I told them that. You’d crawl under the cold cut case and try to reach for the pimento loaf.

Zin shrugged. ‘From these humble beginnings, Zin and his passion for food grew like a redwood tree…’

That’s a wonderful analogy.

Mom, that’s corny.

Go on.

‘… as his abilities soared to heights never before achieved. Zin attended Le Cordon Bleu in Paris where he schooled his mentors. However, according to its Master Chef, Monsieur Obituaire, Zin was dismissed early, without a diploma, for undo showmanship and a chronic failure to take instruction or follow the rules of the kitchen.

That’s such a lie, Zin said. Showmanship? The Master tried to freeze me out from the very first day. They don’t mention that I out-cooked him fair and square. And dismissed? That’s not what happened.

He’s just jealous, Millie said. But this reporter really did her research.

‘Zin then vanished for 12 months. This period has generated countless rumors as to his whereabouts. He flatly refuses to talk about it. But during this period Zin forged his incredible secrets and the profound pathways to flavor, known only to him. In any case, Zin reappeared in New York a year later, at a lonely diner in Brooklyn, where his amazing dishes brought him great acclaim and national exposure. His five dollar charitable handout to a homeless man turned into a winning lottery ticket, which allowed Zin and his mother Millie to move west to Southern California. After a practical internship at the Century City Grill, Zin has opened his stunning dining house on Sunset, on the Beverly Hills / Hollywood border. He brings us an utterly amazing array of astonishingly innovative dishes which we’ll call Naughty Americana. There’s simply never been anything like it.’

Blah blah blah. Okay mom, they go on to talk about the food, she describes each and every dish. She loved everything. A lot. Her favorite appetizer was… All of them. She tried the meat, she had the piranha, the Stroganoff ties together the classic and the contemporary, and she’s absolutely puzzled how it can be so good. Then she tried the desserts, she goes through it all.

‘At age 13, the facts are beyond dispute. Zin has surpassed his peers in terms of creativity, whimsy, presentation, a mix of bold with the subtle, light with the hearty. When’s the last time your plate had a sugar beet carved into a six-inch Eiffel Tower?’

You took 20 minutes making that for her, and did you see? She wolfed it down in two bites!

Zin continued. ‘There are many wonderful pleasures a lucky diner will find at Zin Mignon. Perhaps the favorite treat of all is one of the simplest. Now hear this: Zin Mignon makes the best Russian Rye bread in the world. Period, end of discussion. He inherited the recipe from his late father. Trust me, you will eat slice after slice. Do not make the mistake that this reporter did when I asked for the recipe. I was told in no uncertain terms, Back off, it’s a secret. The secret, is locked up inside Zin’s delectable brain.’

How can a brain be delectable?

"I dunno mom. Sometimes these writers are so full of themselves. She goes on talking about imagination and our cutting edges which go in every direction, and she winds up saying a couple things diners must bear in mind. ’This is a family operation. Zin’s mother Millie is a delight…’

See? See the recognition? At least someone appreciates me!

‘… and gracious to all the guests, famous or otherwise. But in addition, I learned that Millie fired the manager that very afternoon, for insubordination, proving that this outfit runs a very tight ship. Whatever their structure, it’s top shelf and enables Zin to do his magic in the kitchen. However, some of the house rules will raise an eyebrow or two in this part of town. Zin Mignon has no dress code. Cheerfully, we were seated amongst billionaires and factory-families. We were also in the company of athletes, movie stars, and kids not yet old enough to ride a bike. A homeless person, complete with shopping cart, sat in the center of the room. And while Zin comped that lucky fellow, Zin Mignon welcomes everybody with one caveat, of which they are very serious. They only take cash. No exceptions. Many of us learned the hard way last night; it’s a five block walk to the nearest ATM.

‘So go enjoy a reckless and wild night of Naughty Americana. Yes, Zin Mignon has been open one night. Yes, its master is only 13. But genius comes not from age, but from ability and passion. To say that this may be the single finest restaurant in the country is not an exaggeration.’

Let’s cut out the article and tape it on the wall.

No mom. That’s tacky.

Let me see your photo again. Zin turned the paper for us. The picture was large. He stood in his chef jacket and sneakers, holding a whisk in one hand, a loaf of Rye bread in the other. His posture exuded confidence. Millie smiled. We’ll have to keep that restaurant reviewer on our Christmas list. And we haven’t even seen what USA Today is gonna write. They were here last night too.

Okay, everybody, Chef said, folding up the paper. "I hope all our reviews are that positive. Meanwhile, we’ve gotta recap some other parts of last night. There was some other stuff that was … eventful."

Diarrhea, Millie said. And again, the word hit us all like a slap in the face.

Zin said, "Nacho, tell me. Who got it first? You know… the D word."

It was Timberlake, I said. He ran to the men’s room at 6:15.

And he was really movin’, one of our servers added.

Yep. By 7 o’clock we were almost outa toilet paper.

Silence filled the kitchen.

"Now. Everyone here on staff needs to know what happened, ‘cause people are gonna ask us. Given how busy we were, some of you may not have heard. We had two grumps last night. And then, there’s… the D word."

Everybody flinched.

Nacho, please give the re-cap. Start with the two grumps. And tell it like it is.

Sure, boss. They’re Smokie and Brandy Bitterwine. We all know Smokie, the parking lot attendant from across the street. He’s the burn-out who tries to sell his crappy hotdogs to our customers as they line up outside. Every day, for weeks now, people wait out front hoping Chef brings out some ‘experimentals’. And the other grump is Brandy Bitterwine, the New York Times restaurant critic…

And a big mean sour-puss, Millie interjected. She’s had a grudge against Zin since he worked in that little diner back in New York.

Yes! Zin said. She tried to make me go to school! We looked at our boss. Nacho, go ahead.

"Both Smokie and Brandy felt slighted and snubbed when they didn’t get invitations to the Grand Opening. They were super peeved. But yesterday evening, after everyone sat down, it turned out we had one open table."

Millie put her hand up. That’s my bad. I miscounted. There was an empty table-for-two right in the middle of the room.

"Yes. Room for two more. And policy is, we take whomever stands next in line. And who was next? Smokie and Brandy. But: Chef Zin preempted them when he saw a homeless fellow down the street."

A hobo, Millie added, staring at her son. With a shopping cart full of rags and empty beer cans.

Zin shrugged. So, I continued, "Chef invited him instead, which doubly insulted Smokie and Brandy. Brandy stomped off in a fit of angst, but Smokie revealed the bad news:

"’Dishwasher dude’, he told me, ‘your little kid cook is gonna take it in the shorts tonight. All your fancy guests ate my cheapo hotdogs earlier today as they stood in line. But I laced ‘em all with Laxx-a-Maxx. Elephant laxative! They’ve been poisoned! They’ll be flowing like Niagara Falls in minutes, and they’ll think it came from Zin’s food. They’ll all blame little Cap’n Crunch’!"

Everybody squirmed again.

"So that’s where the… D came from."

Disgusting.

Devastating.

Right. Sabotage, Zin said. "From Smokie. It’s important that everyone know, the D did not come from our kitchen. Is that clear?"

We all nodded.

And did you all happen to see what’s across the street this morning? Millie added. Go take a look. See what that rat Smokie is doing.

We ran to the windows and looked across the Sunset Strip to the little parking lot that Smokie ran. There, right next to his old VW hippie van, Smokie sat in a beach chair with a can of Red Bull, grinning beneath his surfer hair, gently patting a 72-roll bundle of toilet paper. The Cosco mega-pack, Millie said.

Back in the kitchen, "Mom, has anybody called this morning to complain about… diarrhea?"

No. All the calls are for reservations, and we’ve had a million. Everyone’s read the review and I’ve been swamped.

Wait a sec, a server stepped forward. "If everyone ate elephant laxative, and there was a run on the bathrooms… wasn’t it a…Debacle?"

We got lucky, Zin said. Thank God that Nacho found out about it. Once he told me, I figured out what to do.

Chef fixed it, I spoke up.

We all looked to Zin. He said humbly: "I drew on my training, about food, how nature works, how various elements react to one another. I understand how a laxative works, how it affects your… insides. I thought I knew what to do, how to counteract the Laxx-a-Maxx. It was just a matter of getting everybody to eat the antidote.

I had to find something that everyone would try. And while I racked my brain, I knew we’d have to get all the guests excited. So I went to the dining room and announced to everyone, Welcome to our restaurant. It’s our Opening Night, we’re so glad all of you could join us. And if you can wait a few minutes, in honor of this special night, I’m putting together a special appetizer. It’s on the house, part of our celebration. I think you’ll enjoy them. We’ll be back in a few."

Everyone buzzed. Zin built up the anticipation, Millie said. Mouths were watering.

The line to the bathroom was starting to grow. I had to act fast. I trusted my training and instincts, and whipped up a special appetizer: Persimmon stuffed with a Cuca-melon, blistered with dates and dusted with tamarind chutney.

What the heck is a Cuca-melon?

Part cucumber, part watermelon. And if I recalled correctly, it plugs you up like a cork.

And we had some cuca-melon?

Yes! Two beautiful cases, flown in fresh from Peru. I was gonna use it later this week for a certain dish. Anyways, I made the appetizer. Nacho tried it first.

"It was terrific. The zest of the persimmon. The spice of the tamarind. The sweetness of the dates. And that Cuca-melon. Wow! And best of all, with the very first bite, I felt my tummy… pucker up."

It worked, Zin said. As soon as everybody ate some, instant relief.

It worked just like magic beans, I added.

We suggested they try it with the bread. Just like dad always said, people go crazy for our Russian Rye. Every guest gobbled some, and it did the job. It neutralized Smokie’s Laxx-a-Maxx.

D is for dodged a disaster, says Klaus, the sous chef.

D is for dazzling.

Son, you’re so smart. You foiled that punk and his hideous hotdogs. But he might try again.

I hope not. We need to get along with our neighbors.

We could laugh about it that next day, but I promise, it was no laughing matter on Opening Night. We marveled as Zin used every bit of his genius. Sure, he stressed up and sweated through a couple doo-rags. But with all the complexities and fine cooking of Opening Night, Zin conquered the elephant laxative as well. He was amazing.

*****

Zin dismissed most of the team so they could prepare for Sunday’s crowd, our second night. Zin, Millie and I stayed in the kitchen to discuss odds and ends from the Opening.

As the phone continued to ring, we reviewed. People in the food biz know how shaky opening nights can be. No matter how many times a new restaurant practices, no matter how many walk-throughs and shakedowns take place, openings never go smoothly. The unexpected is routine. Breakdowns are commonplace. Timing is a disaster. Complications erupt from the very first table and ripples turn into tidal waves. And given that Millie fired our General Manager exactly 10 minutes before the doors opened, things could’ve been catastrophic.

But our Opening Night was a 98% smashing success.

Millie meeted and greeted up front in her new dress. She was charming. The guests poured in from the street at 5 PM, and the last ones left at 1:40 in the morning. I just loved the sound of those champagne corks popping away, Millie said. So festive!

Zin served 256 entrées to 214 diners. Accounting for the extra meals, many guests simply could not make up their minds and ordered two main courses. Or extra dishes to take home. At 5:45 Millie ran into the kitchen. Zin! Bieber finally took off his hoody! He’s far more handsome than I thought. And Hailey is absolutely stunning. Biebs, by the way, ordered five entrées: two steaks, one fish, one lamb, one poultry. (Hailey went vegetarian.)

Down to the smallest detail, the service went beautifully, despite the loss of our manager. This was testament to Zin’s training regimens. The bartenders were polished. Drinks were impeccable. We all bore witness: Zin can run a kitchen. Food came out on time, hot, and beautifully plated. Servers were professional but never stuffy. And most important of all, customers --each and every one --found the food to be exquisite. The Naughty Americana that left the Zin Mignon kitchen was, in a word, flawless.

Breathless gasps were common. Applause