1
I Call Her Nancy
Emerson
* * *
It’s big. It’s thick. It’s delicious. And it’s going in my mouth.
There’s only one question.
“Will it fit?” I ask the sexy man across from me.
He smirks. Devilishly, of course. “Ah, the age-old question.”
Time to find out. “Come to me, you juicy, delicious thing,” I coo.
A dozen onlookers edge closer, staring at this big beauty and my lips. They aren’t the only ones. A nearby camera records our scene as my co-host works the crowd. “Show of hands. Can she do it?”
“I’ve got this, Nolan. I’ve handled bigger,” I say, all bravado and big mouth.
“I don’t know. You’re gonna have to prove it,” Nolan taunts.
“Go ahead. Underestimate me.” I relax my throat, part my lips, and then go in for the whole shebang.
I bite down, and wow. Just wow.
Involuntarily, I roll my eyes because this is tasty. With the camera on me, I indulge in another delicious bite.
“Yes,” I moan around the double-decker veggie burger.
With a satisfied sigh, I set the flavor extravaganza on the plate. Picking up a napkin, I dab a bit of low-fat pesto from the corner of my lips. Low-calorie, that’s our jam.
A boisterous redhead in the crowd offers a rocker salute. “Give it that killer moan,” she calls out.
“It’s your trademark, Veggie Girl,” the wavy-haired brunette next to her chimes in.
Ah, my people.
They want what they want.
I wink at the women. “Mmm,” I start, drawing out the moan for effect. The ladies cheer me on. Bless them. Just fucking bless them. Then I turn my attention to the glasses-wearing, hazel-eyed, dark-haired guy across from me at the table. “That was a good one,” I say to my co-host in all things food, dining, and double meaning.
A smirk plays on his lips. “Should I get you a towel to clean up after that up-close-and-personal encounter with the Double O Burger?”
Harriet’s Burger Hut doesn’t hold back on the innuendo for its signature meals—one of the many reasons why this former hole-in-the-wall burger joint in the Mission District has become capital-T trendy.
“You’re just jealous because these veggie burgers are always better than your full beef injection ones,” I tease, and Nolan drops his head in his hand, laughing.
He turns to the camera perched on a tripod at the edge of the table. “Do you see what I have to put up with? The mouth on this one,” he says, shaking his head.
“Oh, you love it,” calls a woman with her black hair in a high ponytail.
“I do,” he says in a stage whisper, then snaps his gaze back to me as we keep rolling. “Your mouth is the reason I get up in the morning.”
I waggle a finger at him. “Proof that I’m not the only one with a naughty mind.”
But YouTube shows cannot survive on innuendo alone. Setting my black-polished nail on the edge of the plate, I slide the veggie feast toward him. “Your turn. Try it.”
Nolan picks up the burger slathered in mushrooms, pesto sauce, and gooey low-fat cheddar cheese, then takes a bite. He gives nothing away as he chews. So typical. He puts it down with a whatever shrug. “It’s not bad.”
I slap the table, playing it up. “Oh, come on. The Double O is toe-curling.”
“It did seem like you were having a knee-weakening moment with the burger,” he deadpans.
“Foodgasm!” the ponytail woman calls out.
With a big smile, I meet her eyes. “You know it!”
“Let me guess. You’d do it again,” Nolan says to me, imitating one of my catchphrases from the show.
I lean across the table and swat his shoulder. “You bet I would. Food is one of life’s great pleasures, and some dishes demand encores.”
“What are you gonna give it, then?”
I rub my palms, prolonging the suspense. Viewers love to predict our ratings. Later, we’ll edit in a clock-ticking pause to give them the chance to place their drinking game bets as they watch.
Holding up a hand like I’m taking an oath, I issue my declaration: “On a scale of one to ten, I’m giving this bad boy a nine point four five.”
Nolan barks out a laugh. “How long since you’ve rated anything under a nine, Em?”
“We pick well! We’ve been to some fab places. Why should I punish the food just because all these great dishes have raised the bar?”
“How can everything be close to a ten, though? You’re such a Paula.”
“And you’re such a Simon. I don’t grade food on a bell curve. Don’t blame me for having excellent taste when scoping out spots for us to review.” Ha. So there. I fold my arms across my chest, adopting a stern stare as my eyes stray to his empty plate. He ate the Full Monty Cheeseburger before I sampled the veg one. “And what are you giving your beef burger, Mister Mean Judge?”
A lazy shrug is his answer. And damn, he’s good at those sexy shrugs. They reel in the viewers.