Tracking Good Eats
Fictional crossover story. This playful story imagines Colter Shaw from the TV series TRACKER investigating the mysterious disappearance of Alton Brown.
Seattle, Washington. Early morning.
A producer from the Food Network paced nervously outside a small diner while staring at her phone.
“He just vanished?” Colter Shaw asked calmly.
“Vanished,” she replied. “Alton was filming a new food travel special. He stopped answering calls two days ago. His camera crew got separated from him after he chased a lead about the ‘perfect regional chili dog.’”
Colter looked at the stack of notes spread across the diner counter.
Recipes. Handwritten comments. Restaurant receipts.
One napkin simply read:
“Too clean. Fake smoke. Follow the vinegar.”
Colter raised an eyebrow.
“You sure this guy cooks for a living?”
The producer sighed.
“You have no idea.”
The First Clue
Colter visited the diner where Alton was last seen.
The owner recognized the photo immediately.
“Tall guy. Glasses. Talked about brisket bark for twenty minutes. Nice fellow.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Colter asked.
The owner nodded.
“Said he was chasing a mystery involving bottled barbecue sauce.”
“That sounds dangerous already.”
The cook leaned over from the grill.
“He kept talking about liquid smoke and something called ‘flavor fraud.’ Then he asked who supplied ribs to half the restaurants in town.”
Now Colter was interested.
The Food Blog Trail
Back in his truck, Colter scanned Alton’s laptop.
Hundreds of bookmarked food blogs appeared on the screen.
One repeated phrase stood out:
“Everybody tastes the same.”
Another file contained photos of identical smoked meats from completely different restaurants.
Colter called Bobby Exley.
“You know anything about centralized food distribution?”
Bobby laughed.
“I know enough to avoid gas station sushi.”
“This may be bigger than missing recipes.”
Velma Bruin joined the call remotely.
“I checked trucking records,” she said. “Multiple restaurants in three states are receiving products from the same industrial supplier while advertising themselves as local smokehouses.”
Colter smirked.
“So Alton Brown went hunting for authentic barbecue and accidentally found an operational food conspiracy.”
The Barbecue Festival
The trail led Colter to a regional barbecue competition outside Kansas City.
Smoke drifted through the air.
Live country music played beside rows of smokers.
Colter walked booth to booth sampling brisket while quietly asking questions.
One pitmaster finally muttered:
“Your TV cook friend poked around too much.”
“Where is he?” Colter asked.
The pitmaster pointed toward an abandoned warehouse near the rail yard.
“He found out somebody’s reheating factory-smoked meat and passing it off as authentic competition barbecue.”
Colter sighed.
“People really do commit crimes over food.”
The Warehouse
Inside the warehouse, Colter found stacks of commercial food packaging.
Industrial smokers lined the walls.
And sitting calmly at a folding table was Alton Brown.
He looked up while eating beans from a paper cup.
“Took you long enough.”
Colter blinked.
“You’re not kidnapped?”
“No. I was gathering evidence.”
“Without telling anyone?”
“I got distracted by terrible brisket.”
Alton pointed toward the smokers.
“They’re using artificial smoke concentrate, pressure-cooked ribs, and pre-made bark coating.”
Colter stared at him.
“You say those words like they’re federal crimes.”
Alton leaned forward seriously.
“Some things matter, Colter.”
The Delicious Conclusion
By evening, health inspectors and local authorities had arrived.
The fraudulent operation shut down.
The nearby barbecue festival suddenly became much more popular.
Alton and Colter sat at a picnic table sharing burnt ends from a legitimate pitmaster.
“You know,” Colter admitted, “this may be the strangest case I’ve worked.”
Alton nodded while examining a slice of brisket.
“Good bark. Proper smoke ring. Balanced seasoning.”
“You’re profiling the meat again.”
“Absolutely.”
Colter laughed.
“So what did we learn?”
Alton grinned.
“Trust people who care enough to do things properly.”
He paused.
“Also never trust ribs glowing under fluorescent warehouse lights.”
Colter pointed toward the smoker.
“That sounds oddly specific.”
“Experience,” Alton replied.
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