by Sidney Ivens
Using a forefinger, Chris digs the chicken timer from a jean pocket and waves it.
I sketch a plate of spaghetti and meatballs and glance at Auntie Rob. “You and I will pull together this one. Mama’s sauce is the best.” I open the recipe box and thumb through the index cards. Pluck out three of them and lay them out like a storyboard. “This will knock the judges over.”
Now for the sweet finish. I draw an ice cream scoop in a footed dessert bowl.
“Two desserts. A lemon sorbet to cleanse the palate. We’ll do an Italian Cream Cake with buttercream frosting. Chop up the pecans and coconut super fine. There’s no time for Mama’s cheesecake. Too bad.”
“Next, the ambiance. Here’s what I’m thinking.” I turn toward Elena. “Fun fact. Most people go to restaurants within five miles of their home. Let’s reflect the neighborhood and the building’s history. Get one of the uniforms manufactured there. We’ll fold it up and display it and several medals underneath.”
“I’ve got a couple.” Chris briefly salutes.
I grin at him. “Knew you would—”
“Nick.” At the open door, Cos is back, breathing hard, hands and arms bracing the frame. “We’re screwed.”
“Don’t tell me. They had a dragon fly over to barbecue their meat.”
“Worse. They had these beautiful Asian ladies dancing around in yellow and peacock costumes, a couple of guys playing instruments. The dancers got behind the one in the headdress so it looked like she had multiple arms.”
“Like my class,” Elena says, her voice fading.
Cos paces and cracks his knuckles. “Tif says it’s probably the Thai restaurant on the north side. If their food scores are as high, it’s over.”
My mouth is dry. Damn. What now? I can’t book anyone at this late hour. Italian entertainment’s kind of limited, Sinatra and Pavarotti are dead, and Andrea Bocelli won’t exactly clear his schedule to sing for us.
The stress is getting to us, including Elena, who’s dragging fingers down her cheeks. “All I can do is Powerpoint. And I thought bringing your mother’s photos would bring us luck.”
“Shh. It has.” Leaning closer, I press my forehead gently against hers and then pull back so I can gaze directly into her eyes. “We got this.”
She moves and bumps into the recipe box. A handwritten card pokes out from the rest, with the note: “Yummers.”
Yummers. Spa Night.
I get an idea.
“Chris. Auntie Rob. I’m thinking about the audience. We’re last to present, and by now they’re tired and hungry. Maybe we can do something about that.”
“Nick. Hey, man.” Cos’s raised voice floats over the laptop station. “The thought just hit me. If they’re bringing out Asian dancers, what’s Division One going to do?”
It’s almost as though someone plugged a wet sock into my cavalry trumpet. Dread sits like a muddy sediment in my stomach.
Whatever Div1 is planning, I don’t want to see it.
Pyrotechnic equipment.
“What the hell?” I stop skimming index cards, aware the hush in the huge room won’t last for long. Elena and I are huddled along the left-hand aisle of the Affluence Room, about twenty feet from the curtains. My brain’s wiring has been pulled apart. Forget trying to memorize bullet points. This craptastic hangover says not so fast. My gaze unwillingly drifts back to the tall metal canisters arranged in a row near the stage.
I lean over to whisper to Elena.
Before I can utter a sound, everything goes black.
The audience stirs a little in their seats.
“Let’s get ready to HUDDLE!” Off-stage, a male voice yells, his sonic boom of a voice vibrating around the room, his tone identical to the white-haired announcer who introduces boxing matches.
My stomach lurches in fight-or-flight mode, as though a saber tooth’s got me in his sights and is licking his chops. Div1’s going all out. Super Bowl Halftime, showstopper big. In comparison, we’ll be the preschool singalong.
Elena reaches for my hand and leans over to whisper. “I thought we’d go in order. You know, Team One, Two, Three, etcetera.”
No, Lexi planned on me witnessing this spectacle first-hand. It was part of her psychological warfare, another installment on how to bludgeon your opponent.
And here comes the first cudgel. Bright piercing strobe lights flicker at the ends of the stage. The music mixes a hip hop turntable with a percussive beat.
Flames explode, ten Poofs! in succession. Dry ice floats at the bottom of the stage, filtered by blue light.
The audience goes whooaah.
Football players in gold helmets and silver uniforms storm the stage, bursting through a giant paper sign. It leaves off the name but shows Division One’s logo—the image of a gold trophy with a hockey stick, football, basketball, soccer ball and a racehorse head and hooves spilling out of it. The football team trots down the center aisle and moves out of the Affluence Room exits.
Streaming from backstage, waiters and waitresses in referee stripes follow the players. They jump off the stage and then dance down the aisles.
Dressed in a scanty cheerleader uniform, Lexi struts across the stage with a mic, long-nailed hand in the air. And she starts to—wait for it—
Rap.
After a hard day of being am-bi-tious
Feast on appetizers, oh so de-li-cious.
In the aisles, a spotlight bounces around the waiters and waitresses, who point to their serving trays and spin around.
Lexi continues her riff:
Enjoy our sports games and selection of drinks . . .
While the evening plays out and you exchange winks.
On stage, their Ambiance room lights up. They’ve rigged the divider walls with marine blue LED lights. Behind the bar, the liquor bottles form the shape of a city skyline.
Get her number and make a hot date.
Come back here for all our top-rated plates!
The spotlight lands on a flirty couple at the bar, seated on stools, two professional models playing footsie. The guy’s in a black suit and the hottie’s in a silver dress that slides up her thighs. They toast each other with cocktail glasses. Behind them, a wall of TVs comes alive, bright blue screens of sports highlights, football, soccer, basketball, horse racing and hockey.
Lexi continues her rap rhythm:
Get over to the only ONE. . .
Her hands and fingers form air quotes, again helping brand Division One without saying the name.
ONE blasts across the giant screens and famous sports faces appear. A hockey goalie rips off his helmet, grinning. “Where am I going to tonight? ONE answer, baby!” Next, a quarterback pauses mid-interview to wink: “Only ONE place to go in Chicago.” Finally, a power forward sinks a lay-up and stops to lean close to the camera: “Only ONE!”
On stage, Lexi raises one arm and pouts into the microphone:
Where the nightlife’s won and done.
Defiant, she drops the mic, blond extensions curling down her back.
For the second time in her routine, it’s lights out. All goes black.
Flames pop and flare six feet high. Smoke dissolves into blue light, and more dry ice drifts across the stage.
The audience applauds wildly. A few people stick their fingers in their mouths and whistle.
The dark curtains sweep to a close.
That wasn’t a presentation, that was a premiere. A lump of wet cement hardens in my gut and forces its way through my gurgling digestive tract. I’m waiting. Waiting for the albino tigers to show. For the effin’ Cirque du Soleil.
The cards slide from my hand onto the floor.
“Nick.” Elena scoops them up. “Don’t let it get to you. We’re the Little Engine That Could.”
“No. We’re the little engine that derailed. The little engine that had casualties.”
The emcee emerges, waddling like a lime-vested goose, his head a ball of blond cotton against the dark curtains. “Our audience loved t
hat ONE, eh? Let’s hear it for Team Two! Next up is our last contestant, Team Seven. You’ll rate them on their ambiance and concept. Before that happens, let’s all take a breather and a potty break!”
He would have to associate “last contestant” and “potty break.” Man, it would be so easy. Scrape my pride off the floor and spare Elena and everyone else. This boat’s sinking, no sense in pulling them aboard. The captain goes down with the ship.
I glance over at Elena, who’s clutching the index cards. Huffing bangs from her eyes and biting her lip, her flushed face radiant.
She’s holding onto it with both hands. Hope.
What the hell. Little Engine it is. The Little Engine that ran on spaghetti sauce.
I square my shoulders and lead her to the stage stairs, placing my hand on her back as she mounts each step as a gentleman would. Once we’re on stage, she scurries toward the folks pushing our dining room set toward the center of everything.
I’m not so fortunate. I collide into the cheerleader on steroids.
Sweat glistens along the curve of Lexi’s forehead, and black makeup leaks under her eyes. Chin high, she sneers a victorious smile. “Top that, bitch. I kick ass.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, biting back the sarcasm demanding airtime.
Someone tugs on my arm.
Elena’s shaking her head, mouthing “problem.”
Our A/V is DOA.
The production team can’t access our Powerpoint file.
Elena kneads her hands. “They can at least play our music.”
How magnanimous of them. What will they play, the Darth Vader theme song?
In the shadows, I spot Lexi between two people with headsets. No way are these freaking setbacks “accidents.”
There’s no time to investigate, we gotta hustle. Heavy rollers squeak across the floor, our dining room set is assembled on stage. People unload boxes and shout over each other.
From a distance, our room, our “ambiance,” is pretty convincing. Using my connections, I’ve located a peel-and-stick wallpaper for the divider walls, a brick pattern. Decorations include black-and-white photos from the 1930s to present day, vintage wine bottles and a WWI uniform in a display case. The table has ivory linens, and the Italian flag is hinted at, not blared—olive greens, faded reds. The place settings include plain white plates, napkins, white candles and simple greenery.
But the chairs around the table seem almost—lonely.
Off-stage, in the shadows, I see Tiffany with her parents. They’re crowded around the baby, fussing. Tugging back the blanket edge to get a closer look. Her folks must’ve brought the baby in for a quick visit. Cos takes the pink bundle and apes dopey faces at her. Probably scaring the poor kid.
Something clicks inside. When people are hungry, they want a meal, not explosions or fanfare.
“Elena.”
She’s shuffling through the index cards for the presentation. She pauses, tilting her head.
“Let’s get Cos, Tiffany and the baby on stage. Her sister and folks, too. They’ll act as our customers.”
“We’re on in less than a minute.”
“We’ve got time.”
She starts for Cos and his family, and then freezes mid-step. She turns to narrow her eyes at me. “Have you memorized the script for our concept yet?”
Does a bear you-know-what in the woods? Alcohol has never been known for its memory-boosting qualities. But I can’t tell her I’m winging it.
“Nick. You asked for me?” It’s Nemo, a waiter originally from Poland, and he’s good people, far from the bare-minimum type. Nemo hustles. He leans close so only he can hear, his sideburns almost appearing airbrushed in his low-fade haircut. I give him instructions and he leaves, dashing across the floor, a streak of black and starchy white.
“What’s going on?” By now, Elena’s back, while Cos and his family are getting into position. Tiffany’s mopping up something spotty from her shoulder.
I’m about to answer her when Cos interrupts.
“This okay?” Cos hisses, cupping his mouth to deflect noise while Tiffany holds the baby. In adjacent seats, her mom and dad finger the flatware and laugh nervously.
“Yeah,” I loud-whisper back.
“So far, so good,” Cos mouths the words. “Baby’s asleep and has her binky.”
I give him the thumbs-up. Then I tell Elena I need a binky. I’ve not been in front of a big audience in awhile.
She smiles. “Think of them in their underwear.”
“Does that work?” I grin.
And there it is, those code words a couple shares. Like the elevator ride up to the condo, her penciled eyebrows. Spa Night. Christmas sprinkles. The Spartan helmet rolling across the floor.
Details you only get living at the deep end.
We’re holding hands, and I’m shaking like hell from adrenaline. I pull in a long breath.
The curtains part, their heavy fabric hem brushing the stage floor.
“What a Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong plays in a sweet rhythm.
I scan the faces of the audience, the front rows of chairs occupied by people of all ages. They’re tired and want to go home.
I’m going to try taking them there.
The music fades.
“There’s trendy . . . and there’s timeless.” I stroll across the stage. “Memories and food are tied together. I can remember spaghetti sauce bubbling on the stove, Mama’s hands in dough, creating magic. The aroma filling the kitchen. Aromas make a house smell like home and stay with you for the rest of your life.”
On the screens, up goes the photo of Mama and me, the blurred wreath, Mama working bakery dough. Me with flour on my nose.
I roam along the length of the stage. “Our lives are defined by food. The markers are there from the moment we’re born. Baby showers and christenings. Wedding celebrations, date nights and anniversaries. High school and college graduations. Celebrating that dream job. Introducing someone you’ve fallen for to the rest of the family. And after a loved one dies, we comfort each other with food.”
I pause. “A great meal makes us feel like we belong. It’s like when your mother says, come on over, I made all your favorites. And your saliva glands start going. You feel warm all over. Well, guess what. We make your favorites, too. Meat that’s tender and perfectly seasoned, from giant meatballs to fine steaks. Juicy chicken and succulent fish. Crisp salads and rich casseroles and steamed vegetables and pasta al dente. The best Alfredo and red sauces. Lasagna that gets passed around the table with potholders. Then, afterward, you’ll rub your hands together, because here comes dessert. Cheesecake and tiramisu layers. To go with all of it, cappuccino and espresso and the best wine.”
As I reach my final comments, the lights over our dining room go out and my microphone won’t work.
Lexi the Sequel, at it again.
This time, I’m ready for her.
I signal for Nemo in the back.
The room lights come up, and the audience starts humming with questions, people craning their necks toward the doors. Nemo and the wait staff pour in, carrying trays. A delicious aroma wafts over the room, spaghetti sauce and melting mozzarella.
They start to hand out pizza puffs and small bottles of water to each audience member, along with napkins of Tailgater’s address and logo.
I jump off the stage and walk out into the middle aisle. One of Nemo’s buddies manages to find another working microphone, which I lift to my mouth. “There’s an Irish saying: ‘Laughter is brightest where food is best.’” I look skyward and grin. “Mama, I wish the guy who said it had been Italian.”
The audience laughs.
“I was a dumb kid who didn’t tell my mother how much I loved her; so tonight Mama’s cooking will do the rest of the talking.” I take a bow.
Hearty applause rumbles throughout the room.
Then I hear glass shatter. Likely a tipped-over tray and pizza puffs spilling over laps.
But it’s no
t from the Affluence Room. It’s coming from the three screens behind me. I blink several times to see Aunt Robbie in her chef coat, serving up samples of our menu to the judges. At the bottom of the screens is:
OFF-SITE JUDGING
BLINDFOLD TASTE TEST
Chris reappears from being bent over, with fragments of a broken platter.
And the sound comes back, full force.
The judges are laughing. Laughing.
A gut punch, him being anywhere near the butt of a joke. A camera lens follows Chris as he crouches to the floor a second time to scoop up scattered vegetables and a New York strip. And I go right back to Thanksgiving, my feet sliding around on turkey grease.
His mouth is down-turned and his face is flushed, and I feel so sorry for the guy that I wish we could switch places. I glance over at Elena, but I can’t see her expression.
The camera pulls back to show the backs of six judge heads. One turns in her seat, and her profile reveals part of her black silk blindfold.
Chris opens his mouth, about to say something, when all three screens go blank, computer screen blue.
“Whoops! How many of you saw that?” The emcee strides across the stage, eyes popped open. Arms slightly bent, he raises his elbows and grins. The lime-green card he’s holding matches his tie and cummerbund. “The food judging’s a secret!”
A secret’s one thing, but the remote location’s weird. Who the hell knows why the celebrity judges have been isolated from the main room. Oversized personalities are known for their off-the-cuff comments and audiences love ‘em. Instead, the judges are housed somewhere in Area 51.
The emcee leans into the mic. “That aside, let’s go to the bigger picture. The audience has spoken! Are you interested as to which team you rated the highest? Let’s get to some scores, shall we?!”
Team One flashes and fades fast, and I can hardly take note; instead, I hone in on the next set of numbers, Division One’s: