In this town, there ain’t room for the both of us.
Me... and that goddamned fire alarm.
She lives high up, holstered to the ceiling like a sheriff with no skin in the game. Cold-eyed. No sense of nuance. Doesn’t care that I’m building flavour. Doesn’t care that I’m working lean cuts of protein to the edge of transformation.
To her, it’s black or white. Smoke or no smoke. Criminal or civilian.
But I like my pan hot. Smoking hot.
I’m not here to coddle. I want the kind of sear that makes meat flinch—the kind that puts Maillard in all caps.
So I crank the flame and drop the flesh, and for a moment the kitchen holds its breath. The oil crackles like spurred boots on gravel. A thin plume of smoke snakes upward, barely more than a whisper.
And then I hear her.
That mechanical click.
The weapon’s been drawn.
I don’t look up. I just reach, trained by battle, born of repetition. Could be a chopping board, a baking tray, a tattered copy of Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat. Anything flat enough to swing.
And I fan.
Hard. Wide. Furious.
Like a gunslinger swatting ghosts.
The alarm doesn’t scream, not yet. She waits. She likes to watch me scramble.
A silent duel.
My shirt’s half off, I’m sweating, crouching under the vent like I’m hiding from aerial surveillance. I open windows, curse in three languages, pray to the gods of conduction.
The steak is searing beautifully—crust forming, edges curling, juice just beginning to bead. Art in motion.
And still she waits.
Like she wants me to blink.
Like she wants the smoke to thicken.
Like she needs an excuse.
REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Piercing. Inhuman. Like a banshee on amphetamines.
She’s triggered. Fully armed.
And now I’m not cooking. I’m dancing.
Fanning, sprinting, trying to disarm the law.
It’s never personal, she’d say. Just protocol.
But it feels personal.
Every time she goes off, it’s like she’s saying:
“Not in my house, cowboy.”
And yet I return, day after day.
With turmeric in my fingernails and ghee in my veins.
Knowing full well she’s up there, waiting. Watching.
Ready to raise hell over a little honest smoke.
Because the sear is worth it.
The flavour is worth it.