by Libby Klein
Adrian sprouted purple down to the dragons on his meaty forearms.
Tim spoke to him in feigned pity. “Ouch. I guess you’re not as big a deal as you thought.”
Adrian stormed off backwards while pointing at Tim. “I’m gonna wipe the floor with you, Maxwell. Just wait till you see what I got planned for yooze. You may have fooled Isabel, but after this week everyone will know who the better chef is.”
Chapter Four
Once Adrian had backed out of the arena, Gigi snorted. “What was that all about?”
“And what did he mean by you may have fooled Isabel?” I asked.
Tim rolled his shoulders back and blew out a deep breath. “Isabel Georges. She’s a very accomplished and respected chef in New York City and a CIA alum. I beat Adrian out of a prestigious internship in her Soho restaurant, Lardon, twenty years ago, and I guess he never got over it.”
I looked to where Adrian had exited. “Well it sounds like he’s got some kind of plan for this week.”
Tim looked from me to Gigi to Gigi’s boobs. “Come on, let’s get out of here before there are any more incidents. Adrian’s personality intensifies when he drinks, and the cocktail cart is open for another hour yet.”
I told Tim and Gigi I would see them at Tim’s restaurant in a bit. Then I went to the main foyer where I’d signed in. Ivy caught me on my way out the door. “Leaving so soon?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. We’re going to strategize before the big event this weekend.”
“Good idea. There’s some tough competition in the room. The winning chef gets their picture on the cover of South Jersey Dining Guide for the summer. That’ll bring their restaurant a lot of business, and everybody wants it, so bring your A game.
“I’ll do my best.”
“And hey, I’ll be by your place tomorrow around four to welcome the judges when they arrive. I’ve arranged for town cars to drive each of them to the bed and breakfast. Just send the accommodation invoice to this address here.” She gave me a business card for the administrative department of the local television station.
I hoped they’d pay quickly. I would have to go buy supplies for the guests first thing in the morning before baking for Gia. I called Aunt Ginny during my drive back to Cape May and filled her in on our last-minute guests.
Her only comment was, “What are you, some kind of nut?” That was about as on board as I could get her before I arrived at Tim’s.
Maxine’s Bistro was a converted white clapboard fisherman’s cottage down by the harbor. Black, shuttered windows were topped with blue awnings, and weathered, wooden window boxes graced each frame. I parked in the crushed-clamshell parking lot on the side. Tim was waiting for me at the door. “Is this the first time you’ve been here?”
“Yes, I think it is.” As long as you don’t count driving up and down this road at night like a maniac trying to spot you through the windows, it is.
“Well shame on me. Come on in here and let me show you around.”
Tim took my coat and hung it by the door, then he guided me by my elbow through the maze of rooms painted in soft colors of provincial blue and white, each room peppered about with white linen-covered tables and tufted blue chairs. Every table topped with a candle in a jar and the usual linen napkin–rolled cutlery. One set of customers sat at the table in front of the fireplace. Their server was just asking if they needed anything else. She gave Tim a subtle nod when we went by.
“Come on, I’ll show you the back of the house.”
The kitchen was a small stainless-steel galley loaded with pots, pans, and mixing bowls. Two line chefs in starched whites were standing at the open back door, smoking cigarettes.
“How’d we do?” Tim asked them.
One of the chefs shook his head. “Twenty covers. I sent Gail home early.”
Tim sighed. “Alright. Come on, Restaurant Week fame.”
I didn’t see a pastry station like Gia’s momma had at Mia Famiglia. “Where do you make your desserts?”
“I don’t have time to make desserts, so we use frozen.”
“Wait a minute, I think my heart just stopped.”
Tim breathed out a laugh and pulled me close. “I’ve been waiting for the right pastry chef to come along.”
“You have?” I teased.
“Mmhmm. Know anyone?”
“That depends. How much does the job pay?” I gave him a coy smile.
His lips twitched, and he looked at my mouth. “I’m broke. I can only pay in kisses.”
“Hmm. I already get paid that in my day job.”
Tim’s mouth dropped, and he pulled me against him when I laughed at his shocked expression.
“I might be able to give you a raise.” He leaned down to kiss me.
“What’s taking you two so long!”
Seriously, Gigi!
“Come on slowpoke, we don’t have all night.”
I have all night, but it might be close to your bedtime.
Tim sighed. “Let’s go upstairs. Gigi’s been waiting for us to go over the game plan.”
I followed Tim up a back staircase to his modest studio apartment above the restaurant. The living room was floor-to-ceiling wood paneling. On one wall was a beat-up plaid couch and a glass and chrome coffee table. On the other wall, a dining room table was made from an old door on makeshift legs. It had been refinished to a beautiful stained pecan.
“I didn’t realize you lived above the restaurant.”
“Yep. It’s a lot easier and more cost effective than having a second place. I’m here all the time anyway.”
Tim had bailed me out of jail a few months ago, and he said he put up Maxine’s for the collateral. He could have lost his home. He’d risked everything for me.
“Do you want something to drink?” Tim walked over to a small fridge and looked inside. “Gigi, where is that sparkling water I just bought.”
“It should be behind my Brie.”
Hold the phone! I tried to make my voice sound as carefree as possible. “Does Gigi live here too?”
Gigi had a smug look on her face, like she had been waiting for this moment to put me in my place.
“No, she’s just here a lot.”
Define “a lot.”
Tim handed me a sparkling water. “We’ve been going over menu ideas based on what the Restaurant Week mystery ingredients could be.”
Gigi leaned back on the couch, and I noticed she was leaning next to a peach and brown crocheted throw. I reached over and tugged it out from behind her shoulder.
“Oh my gosh, I can’t believe you still have this.”
Tim laughed. “I will treasure that ugly blanket till the day I die.”
“This thing is hideous.” I shook a corner in the air. “Look at all these mistakes.”
“No way, I love it.” Tim took the crib-sized throw from me and wrapped it around his shoulders.
Gigi jutted her chin out. “What’s so special about a ratty old blanket?”
“Poppy made it for me when we were seventeen.”
“They were supposed to be the colors of the Flyers team jersey.” I shook my head.
“But after she made it, she washed it with bleach. The look on your face when . . .” Tim couldn’t finish the story for laughing so hard.
I was almost in tears from laughing. “It was supposed to fit your bed, but then it took me six months to get it that size. You almost got a pot holder except Aunt Ginny made me keep going.”
We were both laughing at the memory only we shared. Gigi looked from one to the other of us, less amused. “Cute. Well, why don’t we get started discussing the competition.”
I took a seat on the other end of the couch as far away from Gigi as I could get.
Tim cleared his throat and tried to stop smiling. He picked up a legal pad from stacked crates he’d made into an end table. “Okay, so there are five other chefs in the competition. Chef Philippe.”
Gigi held up her tablet with a picture of the older
, most dignified chef in the competition.
“Right,” I said, “Sam the Eagle.”
Tim chuckled.
Gigi said, “Who?”
“Nothing.”
Tim continued. “Chef Philippe is classically trained. He specializes in French comfort food with an emphasis on plating. Thoughts?”
Gigi looked at the tablet. “I found him to be pretentious.”
Tim replied. “He is. But he has the reviews to back him up. What are his possible weaknesses?”
I thought for a minute. “Cooking styles other than French cuisine.”
Tim pointed at me. “Exactly. We may not be able to compete head-to-head with his expertise of French sauces, so I say we think multiculturally. And keep an eye on the presentation. Make sure the dishes complement the food. Use contrasting colors. Don’t put a yellow sauce on a yellow plate.”
Gigi scoffed. “No, of course not. Everyone knows that. Oh, you’re saying that because of Poppy. Sorry.”
Tim’s eyes met mine for a moment, and he seemed amused with my irritation. “Up next, Vidrine Petit-Jeune.”
Gigi pulled up a picture of the southern Haitian. “Vidrine didn’t go to culinary school. I think that will be to our advantage.”
I was about to tell Gigi to put away her soapbox when Tim said something that shocked me.
“Agreed. Not because she isn’t qualified and gifted,” he said as he saw my dagger eyes. “But because she won’t have had the benefit of having been in competition before.”
Gigi turned to me. “Yeah, the whole mystery ingredient fad on your TV cooking shows, that didn’t start with Iron Chef. Culinary schools have been doing that for ages.”
Tim nodded. “It’s a way to teach a young chef how to think on their feet and improvise with recipes. Now, she may not have been through school, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been through training. She is going to be a strong challenger. Some pretty impressive chefs have mentored her. Plus, she’s got a very creative fusion menu as one of her strengths.”
Gigi pulled up Slap Yo Mamma! online and read from Vidrine’s website. “Caribbean flavor meets Southern charm. She has items on here like coconut-shrimp tacos, passion fruit chicken, pineapple-braised short ribs, and lobster with mango butter.”
My stomach growled, and I moved one of the sofa pillows to cover it up.
Tim turned the page on his legal pad. “I think it’s safe to say that Chef Vidrine is able to think creatively in creating her recipes, but experience is on our side. Next is Chef Louie.”
“Gourmet burgers and dogs,” I said.
Gigi gave me a look like a skunk had curled up in my lap.
“What? Everyone loves burgers and dogs. I hear his place is one of South Jersey’s top ten places to eat at the shore.”
Tim tried to be diplomatic about it. “While he isn’t exactly the same caliber of say, Chef Philippe, Louie has a strong following. The Dawg Houz has lines down the block every day. And these aren’t your garden variety burgers and dogs. I’ve had his cherry gorgonzola burger and black truffle fries. Wow. He may look like he just washed up with the tide, but he knows his umami.”
Gigi leaned in to speak to me with maximum condescension and give Tim a better view down her sweater. “Umami is the fifth sense in tasting. Sweet, sour, salty, bitter—umami.”
I smiled at Gigi. “I know what umami is.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize they covered that on television.”
Tim cleared his throat again. “So, Hot Sauce Louie. Weaknesses?”
“I’d say the same as Vidrine,” Gigi said.
I considered throwing a pencil at Gigi’s cleavage to see if I could get it lodged in there. “I don’t know, I think he has maturity on his side. He might surprise us. Plus, he used to have a food truck, so he’s okay with working in a very small kitchen.”
Tim jotted down some notes. “Good work, Poppy. I didn’t know about the food truck. But then someone who’s been around the culinary scene as long as Louie has probably got a few tricks up his sleeve.”
Gigi pulled up a picture on her tablet and showed Tim.
“Okay, Oliva Larusso. I know very little about her.”
I knew this one intimately, so I chimed in. “Traditional Southern Italian. No formal training. She’s been cultivating her family recipes for generations. Mia Famiglia is one of the most popular restaurants in Cape May. I am surprised, however, that Momma . . . I mean Oliva—”
Gigi smirked.
“Would enter Restaurant Week because she speaks very little English. That’s why her sous chef, Marco, will be joining her. You met him tonight.”
Gigi said, “Oh yes, the one who kissed you on your face and said your boyfriend says hello.”
Tim paled.
“I don’t remember it quite that way, but yes. Hand me that pencil.”
Gigi passed me one of her pink troll doll pencils.
I held it in between my finger and my thumb to judge how hard I would have to throw it. “That was Marco. Her strengths will be that she makes very, very good Italian food. Weaknesses, I don’t know that she makes anything else. Chef Oliva doesn’t even think of her food as an ethnic category. To her, pasta is just part of everyday dinner.”
Tim’s voice was slightly strained, and he had a nervous eye on me with the pencil. “Okay. Same guidelines for Oliva as for Philippe. We mostly stay away from French and Italian, unless that is the most appropriate use of the ingredients.”
Gigi nodded.
Tim closed his legal pad.
“Um,” I started. “Are we going to talk about that bit with Adrian?”
Tim looked at the exposed beam ceiling. “Adrian Baxter. He’s a good chef. He’ll be tough competition. Eclectic menu. Nouveau American cuisine.”
Gigi and I looked at each other then back to Tim.
“Uh huh. What about that whole scuffle at the mixer?” I asked.
“Yeah, he said you cheated at a competition,” Gigi said.
Tim hedged a bit. “Adrian and I have never gotten along. We were in the same graduation class at CIA, and, somehow, we had the same course schedule. My second year I actually tried to switch classes to get away from him, only to find out Adrian had also requested a switch. We both ended up in the same switched class anyway.”
I laughed aloud and had to apologize.
“He’s overconfident, but very accomplished. Our ranking went back and forth between first and second in our graduation year. The competition where he says I cheated, someone sabotaged his ingredients in a head-to-head cook-off, and I beat him. That put me first in my class at graduation, and he’s still bitter about it.”
“Then there was that internship at Lardon,” I added.
Tim rolled his eyes. “At the end of the day, I think Isabel gave me the internship because Adrian annoyed her.”
“Did you cheat?” I asked.
Gigi launched herself at me. “No way did he cheat. How can you even ask him that?”
“He was eighteen years old. You do dumb things when you’re eighteen.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them.
Gigi sat back and tried to fold her arms across her chest. “Well you would know.”
Tim stood up. “Okay, let’s not go there.”
Gigi put both her hands up. “She started it.”
I pretended to twirl my pencil and launched it at her cleavage. It wedged right in the valley, and the troll doll dinged her on the chin. I covered my mouth with my hand. “I’m so sorry. Your new boobs.”
Tim’s eyes nearly fell out of his head, and he had to excuse himself.
Gigi blushed and extracted the number two from the Bobbsey Twins. “Maybe we should just go over our duties for the event.”
Tim came back to the room and sat down. His face was scarlet, and he couldn’t look at me or Gigi without his shoulders shaking up and down again. “Okay, there are three courses. Each day we’ll have three mystery baskets, one for each course. We have to incorporat
e the ingredients from the basket into the dish.”
“This sounds exactly like the competition shows on the Cooking Channel,” I pointed out.
Tim looked at me, tightened his lips, and looked away to keep from laughing again. “I’m sure that’s where they got the idea from. Except we have more time to make the dishes, we have three team members working at the same time, and the event coordinator has agreed that there won’t be anything disgusting or extremely expensive in the boxes, since whatever we make, we have to serve in our restaurants the same night.”
Gigi had finally stopped pouting. “It’s pretty hard to get local customers to try goat stomach or monkey brains.”
Tim made a face. “Ech. Plus, no one is eliminated from the competition. We just accumulate points and notoriety.”
“If no one is eliminated, what’s the downside?”
Gigi adjusted her sweater placement. “If we make a bad dish, everyone will know about it. People will want to eat in the restaurant that made the winning dishes. So, Tim and I will work closely together to be sure our dishes complement each other and there are no failures.”
Tim consulted his notes. “Now that I know Horatio Duplessis is one of the judges, it’s more important than ever for everything to be perfect. Gigi and I will prepare all three courses. We’ve been practicing here in the kitchen after hours for weeks.”
I’ll just bet you have.
Gigi flashed Tim a big smile.
I asked Gigi, “Why didn’t you enter the competition yourself for Le Bon Gigi?”
Gigi blushed. “We’re closed for the month of January, plus Tim has been my mentor since I arrived in Cape May. I’ve been wanting to work closer with him, and this seemed a good way to do that.”
“Okay,” I said, “what do you want me to do?”
Gigi pulled a beginner’s guide to chopping out of her shopping bag and handed it to me. “You will do our prep work.”
Tim nodded. “Right. You can save us so much time by being our gofer to the pantry, prepping our meats and veg, getting our plates ready, that sort of thing.”
All the air was just sucked out of my sails. “That’s all you want me to do?” What about flambéing a cherries jubilee? Or folding together a light-as-air cheese soufflé? We’d had four years of high school culinary classes together and plans to run our own restaurant, and he wants me to chop onions and fetch him plates? There were no words for what I was feeling right now. At least no words I could say without Aunt Ginny taking a switch to my backside.