Ding goes the bell, and the knives get moving, dicing onion, tomatoes, peppers. Pans hit elements, and the temperature in the room ticks up a notch. This isn’t Vincent’s first time in Culinaseum, but Nacho Night’s always something special.
“Cora’s got a serious hard on for habanero,” he whispers to Jason.
“It’s cute. Look at the way her brow furrows.”
There is a quiet, broiling intensity in the room, and a smell that can only be described as Mexican. Vincent’s mouth starts to water.
“Sometimes I wish we could just eat dips.”
“I do,” says Jason. “It’s fucking wonderful, man.”