Black Sheep

Chapter 5

"What's the ETA of the churros?"

"Two minutes, Nong-Chef!"

"Good."

SJ took a moment from assembling what felt like his hundredth pavlova–theirs was called 'Macuja,' in honor of the Filipino ballerina–to look out onto the crowd gathered in front of the Azucarera de Papi stall. His cousin's party supplies company came through, stringing softly winking fairy lights in garlands over the seating area fronting his stall, the tables adorned with little centerpieces made of bunting, sampaguita strands and little glass jars of pastillas. A camera flashed in front of him, making him conscious of the sweat beading on his nose.

"Churros out!" Dom called out, dumping the fresh logs of puff pastry onto the wire rack to cool. "Icing them in one, Nong-Chef!"

"Pudding out?"

"Yes, chef!"

From the chiller, Dom pulled out the little jars of dulce gatas, banana cream cheese custard and whipped cream that they had painstakingly assembled earlier that day. One of his cousins' waiters came by with a tray, and both he and Dom loaded it with plates of Macuja and the jars of pudding.

"Prims, can you tell who's there?" He asked his assistant as Dom started pouring out gumamela iced tea into waiting paper cups.

"I think most everyone you invited is here, Nong-Chef. Even the press."

"Mm. Start icing the napoleones churros."

"Yes, chef." Dom whipped out a pastry bag and called, over his shoulder, "The ladies from Bacolod Goodies are here too."

Damn, why was he blushing? Why did his body feel like freshly baked cookies shoved into the freezer–steaming on the inside, freezing on the outside, and guaranteed to be a gooey mess?

The waiter returned to the window. "Chef, out na po yung parfait?"

"Ah, yes." He could smack himself, but he did the sensible thing: haul out the next batch of jarred desserts they'd made, carefully piping rambutan infused-cream on the piaya parfaits while shaking pinasugbo dust on the quezo de bola ice cream ones. "Out!" he called, placing them on the waiting trays. He could moon over Ling, his long-lost-and-now-found-love, later. Right now, he had to focus on churning out the food for the launch.

"Churros out!" Dom called, carefully arranging paper sleeves filled with Dom's version of Silay's napoleones: elongated and deep-friend, a meld with the popular Mexican treat. Another waiter whisked those away. Dom leaned against the counter and wiped away his sweat. They kept the food stall chilly for the desserts, but both had felt the heat and the pressure of their first major event, all on their own. "All desserts out, Nong-Chef."

SJ reached out and patted his assistant on the shoulder.

"You should go out there. Mingle," said Dom. "I'll take it from here."

"Are you sure?"

Dom gave him a look, like he knew exactly why SJ was avoiding the crowd and let him know he was being silly.

"Okay, okay, I'm going," SJ muttered, wiping his face and removing his apron. He knew that this was part of the deal–that him going solo meant facing his guests, like a good host, and making small talk. If he hadn't been willing to play the game, he wouldn't have had a launch. He could have just as easily opened his stall and be done with it. But he was making a point, trying to build something; and he knew that for what he wanted to achieve, this was the logical starting point.

He circulated among the guests, asking after the quality of the food and how the night was going for them. He took their compliments in stride: SJ had a clear vision of his own abilities, and he knew that he and Dom had put together a superb menu consisting of impressive desserts that were logistically–if not easy, at least doable–to prepare. Someone with a web series stuck a camera in his face and interviewed him; he thought he'd been charming and personable. No trace of the sugar torch-wielding black sheep anywhere.