Wanna Bet?

Part 6

"You don't have an oven?"

Kiko looked adorably bewildered, clutching a white ceramic baking dish wrapped in foil as he surveyed my kitchenette. Unlike his fully equipped, magazine-worthy space, mine was more...shall we say, utilitarian?

"I texted you on Wednesday, remember? I said all I have is a single-burner induction stove, a frying pan, a saucepan, and a rice cooker. What more does a girl need?"

"I remember now. That was the same day you sent me that thread of people trying to sell mirrors."

"In response to your thread of misheard lyrics." I chuckled. "Anyway, who bakes adobo?"

"It's not baked per se; it's just that slowly roasting it in the oven is the best way to get the meat to denature––" He stopped at the blank look on my face. "Get it all soft and juicy."

I took the dish from him and set it on the foldable table against the wall, where I'd set placemats, two plates and two sets of utensils. He followed his nose to the simmering pot on my single burner and lifted the lid to take an appreciative sniff.

"Ready to concede?" I asked.

"Not till I have a taste," he chuckled.

I switched off the stove and gestured to the rice cooker. "Help yourself." He piled his plate with a mountain of brown rice and ladled a generous portion of my chicken adobo on it. I lifted the foil off his dish to reveal perfectly round discs of pork in a thick sauce, a touch lighter in color than my own. I placed a couple of slices on my plate of rice. Kiko took the seat across me.

"Ready?" he asked.

I nodded. Together we attacked our plates.

Silence for several minutes as we ate––or tried to process the alchemy happening in my mouth, in my case. The meat from Kiko's dish was fork-tender, almost dissolving on my tongue. The garlic had been slow roasted with the meat until it was no longer solid and became more like a spreadable jelly. The sauce...I could taste a hint of the coconut milk he used, not so much that it turned the dish into a non-spicy Bicol Express, but just enough to take the sharp flavors of garlic, vinegar and salt somewhere velvety and soft.

He moaned, breaking my own reverie. His plate was clean, and he stood to get seconds.

"I have to say it: Jane, this is fucking delicious."

"I told you so."

He poured sauce on his rice and returned to his seat, taking a huge spoonful and shutting his eyes tight in ecstasy. "What do I need to do for you to give me the recipe?"

"Say please." I took another bite of his adobo, savoring it. "So do I win?"

"I happily concede."

I sighed after another tender forkful. "I'd happily accept, except I can't. This," I pointed to the ceramic dish, "Is fucking divine."

"Noooo," he groaned. "Does this mean this is a tie?"

"You don't have to make it sound so terrible. There are as many ways to make adobo as there are islands in this archipelago; there are bound to be versions as good as the ones we make."

"I know. But...someone needs to win." He looked comically pained.

"In all fairness, I cannot designate a clear winner in this contest." I leaned closer to him to get the point across. "Face it, Kiko. We are both fucking adobo maestros."

He slowly nodded. "You know what this means?"

"No?"

"A taste test." His eyes gleamed with possibility. "We bring samples of our adobo, knock on our neighbors' doors––"