Restaurant Weeks Are Murder

by Libby Klein

  Ivy’s skinny, yellow headset-wearing PA stood and gave the audience and chefs a salute.

  Most of the seniors had no idea what she had just said, so they gave a polite wave back.

  “Every kitchen has a pot of boiling water, the double ovens are preheated to 350 degrees, and the bowls to your countertop ice-cream makers are in the freezer. You’ve all had time to familiarize yourselves with the dry goods and cold storage in the shared pantry. Each day’s competition will be a special three-course meal consisting of an appetizer, an entrée, and a dessert.”

  A quiet muttering in Italian was heard from Oliva’s team.

  “Is there a question?” Ivy asked Oliva.

  Marco stepped forward and gave a nervous laugh. “No, she just ask is that special because it so small? In Italy, every dinner is minimum five courses.”

  The audience and the other chefs broke out into laughter.

  Ivy continued with the instructions to the chefs. “Each chef will be given a mystery basket with three ingredients that must be incorporated into their dishes. You have one head chef, one sous chef, and one pastry chef per restaurant team. Each chef on your team has to prepare one of the three meals using their mystery basket.”

  What? What was that?

  Gigi gasped, and her hand flew up to her mouth. Tim ran his hands through his hair and shifted his weight.

  Ivy turned to the audience. “And each head chef has agreed to offer their three competition dishes in their restaurants each night of the event, win or lose.”

  The audience whispered excitedly amongst themselves about that little twist.

  “And now for the big announcement.” Ivy smiled and waited for a dramatic pause. “In addition to the publicity and bragging rights, South Jersey Dining Guide has offered an award of ten thousand dollars to the chef with the highest score at the end of the competition.”

  A collective whoop went up from the kitchens, and the testosterone level in the arena doubled. Even Tim had a crazed look in his eyes, like he was mentally spending the prize money.

  “Now here are your hosts, Wake Up! South Jersey’s very own Ashlee and Tess, who will introduce our panel of celebrity judges.”

  Ashlee and Tess came out to work the crowd and get the judges involved while Ivy went from kitchen to kitchen to answer any questions. When she got to us, Gigi lunged at her.

  “Did I understand that each member of the team has to create their own dish?”

  “Yes, that’s right. The judges thought it would cut down on production time if all three dishes were prepared at once, so they aren’t sitting here all day, plus it will better showcase the talents of each restaurant and how well you work as a team. Bess Jodice says a chef is only as good as the rest of their line.”

  We’re screwed.

  “We didn’t realize that.” Gigi pointed a finger at me. “She’s not a real chef. She’s just his ex-girlfriend.”

  Ivy looked from me to Tim and back to Gigi, who was manic at this point.

  “We need time to get a real chef from one of our restaurants.” Gigi turned to Tim. “I could call Alice and see if she can get a babysitter.”

  Ivy consulted the clipboard in her hands. “The team captain for Maxine’s Bistro is . . . Tim Maxwell.”

  Tim gave a tight-lipped nod. “That’s me.”

  “There’s no time for you to make a substitution now. If you’re worried about your standings, all you can do is drop out and apply again next year.”

  Tim’s lips tightened. He looked from Gigi to me.

  I was so humiliated, I was trying to disappear into the set, but I had on this stupid apron the color of flashing tow truck lights.

  “No, we’re staying in. I think Poppy can do it. She may not have formal training, but my girl’s got some skills.”

  Ivy grabbed my hand. “Good. I think she can do it too. Plus, we have nowhere else for the talent to stay if you drop out. Oh my gosh! Ashlee and Tess!”

  Ivy ran to the front of the arena to rein in Ashlee and Tess who were trying to teach the audience that consisted of mostly culinary school students and senior citizens, their morning show theme song.

  Gigi started to hyperventilate, and I wasn’t far behind. Tim gathered us into a tight huddle.

  “Everybody just breathe. This isn’t a big deal. Poppy knows how to bake. She’s been making fantastic desserts since we were young. We can make this work.”

  I nodded confidently, but I was totally faking it.

  In a small voice, Gigi said, “I never looked in the pantry.”

  Tim cocked his head to face Gigi. “You didn’t?”

  She sniffled. “I thought I was going to be next to you the whole time, and Poppy would bring us everything. I never even looked in the pantry.”

  I was feeling slightly more confident. “Stick with me when we go back there. I have it practically memorized.”

  Tim smiled. “Okay now, see. We can do this.” We put our hands in the middle and very discreetly cheered, “Maxine’s.”

  Ivy was addressing the stage again. “Before we begin, as a clue for today’s theme, we’d like to offer our distinguished panel of judges some mimosas.”

  Miss New Jersey and Stormin’ Norman whooped and gave each other a high five. Horatio twisted his mustache and gave a dignified nod. Bess declined the mimosa and gave the same speech about her tea and honey that she’d given at the bed and breakfast. Roger ran off presumably to Google how to make tea.

  Miss New Jersey held up her hand. “Cand I getb someb of dat tea too. I’mb all stuffed up from that dab cat.”

  Ivy punched on her headset. “Bring two cups, Roger.”

  Once everyone was settled, the tea was poured, the audience was silenced, and the chefs took their places. The cameras began rolling and Ashlee and Tess introduced the competition and opened it with the mystery baskets.

  I stood next to Gigi who was next to Tim, and we each had a mystery basket in front of us. My heart was pounding through my chest. I’m not ready for this. Whose dumb idea was it to be a chef ? I’d rather face a firing squad. It would be more relaxing. I wish I was back home watching Chopped on the Cooking Channel. I need to apologize to every chef I ever criticized. If I screw this up, any potential relationship with Tim is going to erupt into a fiery bag of poo on someone’s porch. Hopefully Gigi’s.

  “Today’s theme is Brunch at the Jersey Shore. You have one hour. Chefs, open your baskets.”

  Chapter Eight

  I threw my basket open. Brunch dessert. Brunch dessert. My basket contained sweet corn, blueberries, and a box of Fralinger’s salt water taffy. My heart sank. “What the?”

  Ashlee squealed to Tess, “Oh my God, this is so exciting!”

  Tess squealed back, “I know, right? The appetizer baskets have pork roll, tomatoes, and soft pretzels.”

  Ashlee leaned into the microphone. “And the entrée baskets contain rib eye chip steaks, asparagus . . . eww, gross. I don’t have to eat the asparagus, do I?”

  “That’s not in my contract,” Tess quipped.

  “And Italian water ice. What the heck are they going to do with that, Tess?”

  “I don’t know, Ashlee, but they’d better work some magic. They only have one hour!”

  I stared in horror at my basket while the hosts listed the ingredients for the cameras. I should be able to do this. I’ve been eating dessert for breakfast most of my adult life. Somewhere, I heard Ashlee or Tess yell, “Go!”

  Gigi broke me out of my trance by grabbing my arm and hurtling me toward the pantry.

  She hissed in my ear, “I need salt, olive oil, rosemary, oregano, garlic, marjoram, eggs, cream, and vodka!”

  I gathered the ingredients for her quickly while muttering where the stations were for staples, herbs, spices, dairy, and booze.

  She flew back to our kitchen in an invisible tornado. Other chefs ran in and out in a blur. I still didn’t know what I was going to make.

  Tim grabbed my arm. “I can’t find heavy cre
am or porcini mushrooms.”

  I grabbed the items and hurled them to him. He ran out behind Gigi.

  I was alone in the pantry, and my lip started to quiver. I have to get it together, I can cry later. What the heck am I gonna do with salt water taffy? It’s just sugar and coloring with some artificial flavor. Wait. It’s just sugar! I’ll melt it down and make a sauce. Then I knew what I was going to do. I grabbed dry goods and lard to make a pie crust, along with sugar, eggs, and cream to make sweet corn ice cream. I shoved a Meyer lemon in my apron pocket to balance out the blueberries, and ran back to my station.

  The room was buzzing with excitement—the head chefs calling out orders down their line, Ashlee and Tess chatting up the judges about the mystery basket ingredients, and Aunt Ginny yelling to me from the stands, “Make a pie!”

  I unwrapped all the pale orange taffy pieces, put them in a saucepan with a little cream, and turned the burner on low to melt them down. That would make a peach-cream flavored sauce for the pie. Then I took a cup of flour, and with a nervous hand, accidentally dropped it into my bowl. The cloud of dust that wafted up to my nose smelled strange. I licked my finger and tasted the flour. Baby powder? I opened the sugar and tasted it. Salt. I opened the vanilla and sniffed. Soy sauce. What is going on?

  My hands started to shake, whether from fear or anger, I didn’t know which. What is this? Is this a test? Is this some twist on the competition to see who notices their ingredients are wrong? Or did some idiot mismark everything?

  I grabbed Tim and Gigi. “The ingredients are wrong!”

  Tim was well on his way to making some kind of frittata. “What!”

  Gigi had goo all over her hands. “What are you talking about?!”

  “Everything is marked wrong. Let me see what you have.”

  Gigi was putting mint and tea leaves into her pork roll meatballs. Tim was trying to make a syrup out of Meyer lemon water ice and salt.

  Tim’s face flamed red. “Adrian! I bet he’s behind this somehow.” He dumped the pot of liquid down the sink and we all started over.

  I sniffed a bunch of dry herbs in the pantry till I found one mismarked tarragon that smelled of oregano and gave it to Gigi. I found a jar of honey for Tim to use in his syrup. Then I put together substitutions to make a galette crust. There was definitely no time to make a pie. I had lost fifteen minutes with the ingredient search, now I had to make mini galettes because a big one would never bake in time. I whisked my peach taffy sauce, threw together my corn, milk, and cream mixture. I added some honey because we didn’t have sugar, and I had to use some sour cream because I didn’t have time to cook a custard with eggs. I prayed the judges wouldn’t notice there was no vanilla in the ice cream; I just couldn’t find any. I whipped the mixture up and threw it in the ice cream maker. I also threw a sheet pan in the freezer. Thirty minutes left on the clock.

  Gigi was making some kind of tomato vodka sauce, and Tim was putting a frittata into one of the ovens. Aromas of deep fried dough, bacon, and artificial banana taffy were filling the room as the smells from various dishes melded. I tossed together my pie crust using what I hoped was whole wheat bread flour, lard, and the salt which had been marked sugar. My dough really should have had time to rest, but I was already way behind. I rolled it out to the thickness I wanted, and grabbed the sheet pan from the freezer. I placed the frozen sheet pan on the rolled-out dough to chill it, fast. I could hear Ashlee talking to the judges.

  “What is Maxine’s pastry chef doing with that sheet pan, Bess?”

  “She is using it improperly. There is a right way to do a thing and that is not it.”

  Horatio leaned in to the microphone. “It looks like she’s trying to chill her dough. It will never be flaky if it’s too warm. I’d say that was a smart move.”

  I dumped my blueberries in a large mixing bowl and added some honey, then I grated my Meyer lemon and zested it into the bowl. I gave it a quick taste. It needed a little something. I ran to the pantry and found whole nutmegs in a jar marked juniper berries. Those two things don’t even look alike. I added a fresh grating to the berries. I considered dressing up the berry mixture with a fussy liquor, but the theme was South Jersey Brunch, and, who am I kidding, we aren’t that fancy here.

  Roger came by and asked each of us what we were making and took a couple of pictures to upload for social media. “What exactly is a galette?” he asked me.

  “A galette is a free-form pie where you dump your filling in the middle of your crust, then fold up the sides and bake it on a cookie sheet. It’s supposed to look rustic, and it’s a life saver if you’re too short on time to make a fancy pie crust.” Or if you’re in an insane competition with your ex-boyfriend whom you really want to impress, but you’re running out of time, and you don’t want to be the only chef with nothing on the plate.

  I brushed a quick egg wash on the mini galettes, popped them in the oven and prayed. Then I checked the clock, turned up the temperature to 375 degrees, and prayed again. I tasted my peach cream sauce and saw that it was done, so I removed it from the heat and poured it into a shallow container to let it spread itself thin. Then I popped it in the blast chiller to thicken up. Tim and Gigi both had plates, and they were decorating them, so I went to get mine. I found four little square dessert plates and grabbed a handful of fresh mint from the oregano box, then checked on my ice cream. I gave it a taste. It could use a little salt to enhance the corn. I couldn’t add it now or it would melt, so I waited to sprinkle a tiny dusting on top when it was plated.

  I had a couple of minutes before I could take the galettes out of the oven, so I took a survey of the room. Every kitchen was in chaos. The chefs were furious. I saw Chef Adrian hurl a pan of something into the garbage. Vidrine was in tears.

  Ashlee was interviewing Chef Louie. “What have you made for the judges today, Chef?”

  “Dude, I made steak and potato hash, but . . .” He shook his head no. “Something is no bueno.”

  Ashlee responded to Tess, “Well it seems Chef Louie’s team is also having problems today, Tess. Are the judges worried?”

  Tess started asking the judges questions, but my timer went off just before Ivy called the five-minute warning.

  I put my galettes in the blast chiller, so they wouldn’t turn my ice cream to corn soup, and I grabbed my sauce from the freezer. I drew peach cream sauce in swirls around the edges of my plates. Then I plated up four beautiful rounds of sweet corn ice cream and stuck a mint leaf in each one, followed by a light sprinkle of salt. I got my pies from the blast chiller, and placed one warm flaky galette by each mound of ice cream.

  Tess called, “Time’s up!” We all stood back from our stations. Tim and Gigi came to see what I had made. Tim smiled at my plates, but Gigi shook her head. “That’s it? Pie and ice cream? We’ll never win with desserts like that.”

  “Geeg, cut her a break. She saved our butts with the heads-up about the pantry items. You almost made mint meatballs.”

  Gigi huffed and stomped away.

  Tim wiped a bit of flour off my nose. “Nice catch today, Mack.”

  “What do you think this was all about anyway?” I whispered. “You think it was part of the challenge?”

  Tim looked at Adrian’s kitchen. Adrian was complaining about something to Ivy, and he was pointing at us. “I’m not convinced of that. But, if it was deliberate sabotage, it had to be Adrian. He said he had something planned. This had to be it.”

  “But why would he sabotage everyone? We all have to share the pantry.”

  Ivy called a timeout. “I need everyone to stay right where you are. No one touch anything.” She pulled out her cell phone and walked from the room.

  “Oh boy.” I looked around the room. “Everyone looks pretty angry. I bet they all put something that was marked wrong in their dishes.”

  Tim nodded. “Everyone except us.”

  The realization hit us both at the same time, and we looked at each other with a mounting sense of dread.
/>   I breathed out. “Oh no.”

  Tim paled. “Everyone except us.”

  Chapter Nine

  Adrian rumbled into our kitchen like a monster truck in a demolition derby. “I can’t believe you had the gall to pull this old stunt again.”

  Tim puffed his chest out and clenched his fists. “You’ve got a lot of nerve to sabotage the competition, and then accuse me of it.”

  Adrian peeled out, and stirred up the whole arena. “Who else in here was a victim of Tim Maxwell’s sabotage today?”

  A tearful Vidrine raised her hand.

  The senior citizens in the audience turned into a roomful of Romans at the Colosseum. “Get him! Take the skinny chef downtown!”

  Hot Sauce Louie threw a dishtowel to the ground and rolled his sleeves up.

  Marco explained to Momma what was going on. Then he had to wrap both arms around her waist to restrain her from flying across the kitchen and going full MMA all over Tim. Even in Italian, we could understand that the string of profanity coming out of Oliva’s mouth was strong enough to cook ceviche.

  Gigi ducked behind Tim. “Whoa, that little old lady is terrifying.”

  Tell me about it.

  Ivy returned and ordered the audience to calm down, and Adrian to go back to his kitchen. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with my boss. They aren’t pulling the segment. They think the sabotage angle will make great ratings, so there are no do-overs. You don’t have to put the same wrong ingredients in your dishes at your restaurants tonight, but they want the mistakes on camera. Roger, make sure you tweet that the ingredients were sabotaged. We’re moving forward, and the judges will give fair and honest feedback. Don’t pull any punches because someone screwed with the ingredient labels.”

  That started a cacophony of complaint from the chefs, but Ivy wouldn’t hear it. “Tell it to the panel when you present your dishes.”