Chapter 7: The Blind Taste Test
1767 Words
(Amara’s POV)
Two days later, I was back on my feet. The pepper soup had done its work. The fever was gone, replaced by a renewed desperation to make money. I had lost two days of sales, and the rent for the shop was due at the end of the month.
I arrived at Baba’s Pot early on Saturday morning, but the street was already unrecognizable.
The Local Council had blocked off the road for the annual "Taste of the Town" Street Food Festival. Canopies were popping up everywhere like colorful mushrooms. Speakers were already blasting Wizkid’s Ojuelegba at a volume that rattled my teeth. The air smelled of charcoal, roasting suya, and diesel fumes.
It was chaos. It was loud. It was perfect.
This was my chance to make up for the lost revenue. I dragged my chalkboard sign out to the front.
SPECIAL TODAY: SMOKY PARTY JOLLOF & FRIED GOAT MEAT - ₦2,500.
I had spent my last savings buying the ingredients. I needed this to work.
I went to the back to drag out my generator. The "I pass my neighbor" was heavy, greasy, and temperamental. I pulled the rope.
Rrrr-ghhh. Cough.
I pulled again.
Rrrr-ghhh. CLACK. ROAR!
It sprang to life with a noise that sounded like a helicopter crashing inside a tin can. It spewed a thick cloud of grey smoke that immediately drifted toward the street.
"Oh, come on," I muttered, waving the smoke away from my face.
"Do you have a license for that noise pollution, or are you just trying to deafen your customers?"
I froze. I knew that smooth, deep voice.
I turned around. Tunde was standing just outside my boundary line.
He looked… unfair. That was the only word for it. He was wearing a casual black polo shirt that hugged his chest and dark jeans. He looked effortless and expensive. Behind him, the staff of The Garnish were setting up a sleek, white booth. They didn't have a noisy generator; they had a silent power inverter setup. They didn't have smoke; they had electric warmers.
"Good morning to you too, Tunde," I shouted over the noise of my generator. "Some of us don't have billions to spend on silent power."
Tunde walked closer, braving the smoke. He wrinkled his nose slightly but didn't back away. "I’m serious, Amara. That thing sounds like it’s dying. You can’t serve food with that smoke blowing in people’s faces."
"I don't have a choice!" I yelled back. "Unlike you, I can't conjure electricity out of thin air!"
He looked at the generator, then at me. There was that strange look in his eyes again—the one I couldn't decipher. It wasn't pity. It was calculation.
"Let’s make a deal," he said. His voice was calm, cutting through the noise.
I crossed my arms over my chest, getting palm oil on my sleeve. "I don't make deals with the enemy."
"Not even a deal that could solve your power problem?"
I paused. "I'm listening."
Tunde pointed to the center of the festival grounds where a small stage had been set up for announcements.
"The Council Chairman is judging the 'Best Jollof' competition at 2:00 PM," Tunde said. "I challenge you."
I laughed. It was a dry, harsh sound. "You want to challenge me to a Jollof war? Tunde, you make pasta. You make salads with leaves I can’t pronounce. You don't know Jollof."
"Try me," he smirked. It was a dangerous, confident smirk. "Here are the stakes. If I win, you have to put my signature dish—the Ravioli al Tartufo—on your menu for a week. And you have to wear a The Garnish apron while you serve it."
My jaw dropped. "That is humiliation. My customers will laugh at me. They don't eat Ravioli."
"Are you scared you’ll lose?"
"I never lose in the kitchen," I snapped. "And if I win?"
Tunde looked at my sputtering, smoking generator. He pointed at it.
"If you win, I will buy you a brand new, key-start, silent diesel generator. 5KVA. Delivered tomorrow."
My heart stopped.
A 5KVA silent generator cost almost a million Naira. It would change my life. It would mean no more pulling ropes, no more smoke, no more shouting over the noise. It would mean I could buy a bigger freezer.
"You’re serious?" I whispered.
"Dead serious," Tunde said. He held out his hand. "Do we have a bet, SpiceGirl?"
I froze. "What did you call me?"
He didn't flinch. "I said, do we have a bet, neighbor?"
I narrowed my eyes. I must have misheard him over the noise of the generator.
I looked at his soft hands. Then I looked at my rough, scarred hands. He had fancy equipment. I had firewood and a cast-iron pot. He had training in France or Italy or wherever. I had my grandmother’s secret spice mix.
Jollof wasn't about science. Jollof was about soul. And Tunde didn't have a Nigerian soul.
I grabbed his hand. It was warm and firm.
"You’re on, rich boy. Prepare to cry."
The next four hours were a blur of heat and smoke.
The news of the "Jollof War" spread through the festival like wildfire. By 1:00 PM, a crowd had gathered around our two stalls.
On the left: The Garnish. Tunde was cooking with surgical precision. He had stainless steel pots. He was measuring his rice with a cup. He was using a timer. His Jollof was bright red and looked clean, garnished with perfectly sliced bell peppers and prawns. It smelled... expensive.
On the right: Baba’s Pot. I was in my element. I had abandoned the gas cooker. I had set up a firewood stove in the back. The smoke from the wood was essential—it was the smoky party flavor that no gas cooker could replicate.
I didn't measure. I poured. I threw in the bay leaves, the curry, the thyme, and the secret blend of ginger and scotch bonnet peppers. I let the rice burn slightly at the bottom of the pot—the "bottom pot" that gave it that distinct charred taste.
The heat was intense. Sweat dripped down my back. My bonnet was soaked. But I felt alive.
"Go Amara!" I heard Uncle Dele shouting from the crowd. "Show this small boy what real food is!"
I looked over at Tunde. He wasn't looking at his pot. He was looking at me. He wasn't looking at me with competition in his eyes. He was watching me chop onions with a strange, soft smile on his face.
When our eyes met, he winked.
I nearly chopped my finger off. Focus, Amara. He is trying to distract you.
At 2:00 PM sharp, the music stopped. The Council Chairman, a large man in a flowing Agbada, climbed onto the stage. He was joined by two other judges—a famous food blogger ("FoodieLagos") and the market women leader, Iya Sikira.
"Bring the rice!" the Chairman boomed.
Tunde went first. His staff carried his porcelain plate forward. It was beautiful. The rice was molded into a perfect circle.
The judges tasted it.
"Smooth," the blogger said. "Very refined. The texture is consistent."
"It is sweet," Iya Sikira admitted, though she looked suspicious of the prawns. "But it tastes like... hotel rice."
Then it was my turn.
I didn't have porcelain. I served my rice on a simple ceramic plate, with a piece of fried goat meat on the side. The steam rising from it smelled of firewood and home.
I placed it in front of the judges.
The Chairman took a spoon. He put it in his mouth. He chewed.
He closed his eyes. He let out a long, deep groan.
"Ah," he whispered. "This is it."
Iya Sikira didn't even speak. She just ate three spoonfuls in a row, nodding vigorously.
The blogger took a picture. "The smokiness is impeccable. It punches you in the throat and apologizes immediately. This is authentic Lagos Party Jollof."
The crowd held its breath.
The Chairman wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. He stood up.
"The decision is unanimous," he announced. "The fancy rice is good for i********:. But the rice from Baba’s Pot? That is food for the soul. The winner is Amara!"
The crowd erupted. The Okada riders honked their horns. Uncle Dele was dancing.
I stood there, stunned. I had won. I had actually won.
I looked over at Tunde.
He wasn't angry. He wasn't disappointed.
He was clapping.
He walked over to me, ignoring the cheering crowd. He stopped in front of me.
"Congratulations," he said. His voice was warm. "You beat me fair and square."
"I told you," I said, trying to catch my breath. "You can't buy flavor."
"I guess not." He looked at my sweaty face, my stained apron, and my messy hands. And for some reason, he looked like he wanted to hug me right there in front of the whole town. "I'll have the generator delivered on Monday morning."
"You... you really meant it?"
"I always mean what I say, Amara." He took a step closer. The noise of the crowd seemed to fade away. "I promised to fix your power problem. Now you can cook without the smoke getting in your beautiful eyes."
My breath hitched. Beautiful eyes?
Before I could respond, his phone rang. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and frowned.
"I have to take this," he said. He looked at me one last time. "Enjoy your victory, Neighbor. You earned it."
He turned and walked away into the crowd, his phone pressed to his ear.
I watched him go. I had won the war. I had won the generator.
So why did I feel a little disappointment that he was leaving?
I shook my head. Focus, Amara.
I turned back to my shop. My old generator sputtered, coughed one last time, and died completely. Silence fell over my stall.
I patted the rusty metal. "Rest in peace, old friend," I smiled. "Your replacement is coming."
- Writer
