Restaurant Weeks Are Murder

by Libby Klein

  One by one, each head chef addressed the judges with their three dishes. We went in order of kitchens starting from the judging table around the room. I wonder if Philippe knew he’d be first when he requested that kitchen.

  Chef Philippe presented his dishes to the judges, and to everyone’s surprise, he hadn’t used any of the wrong ingredients. Bess gave him high praise. She loved the idea of putting rib eye in a quiche Lorraine in place of ham. “I really appreciate that you gave me such an inventive twist.” She held up a score card and gave Chef Philippe a ten.

  Horatio Duplessis was less enthusiastic. “Congratulations on avoiding all the sabotaged ingredients.”

  “Thank you, monsieur. I realized zee ingredients were wrong right from zee start, and we were able to correct in time.”

  Horatio narrowed his eyes and nodded, thoughtfully. “Hmm. Very lucky for you, wouldn’t you say?”

  The tips of Chef Philippe’s ears blossomed pink. “Yes, very lucky.”

  Bess’s scores tanked for Hot Sauce Louie and Vidrine. “How could you possibly have so many years working as chefs, and still move in blind ignorance? You discredit the art of cooking by not being able to tell the difference between flour and talcum powder. Shame on you. It is obvious that neither of you have had a proper education like that of L’École des Chefs.”

  Vidrine burst into tears.

  Louie responded to Bess, “Dude, that’s so harsh. I noticed something was wrong when I tasted the food, but it was too late to fix anything. We’re working against the clock here.”

  We watched from our kitchen in silence. I was trying to deal with rising queasiness. I knew Adrian and Oliva had both fallen for the sabotage. Philippe was our only buffer, preventing us from looking totally guilty for tampering with the pantry.

  “Chef Tim, please take your mark.” Ivy took the judges our plates with Roger’s help. “Rolling.”

  Ashlee and Tess introduced Tim to the judges for the camera’s sake, and asked him what he had made.

  “Judges, today we have made for you, an appetizer of pork-roll-studded meatballs in fresh Jersey tomato sauce, a Philly cheesesteak frittata with peppers and porcini mushrooms, and a blueberry galette with sweet corn ice cream drizzled with a peach salt water taffy sauce.”

  The judges tasted our food, and Horatio was the first to comment. “The meatballs are delicious, and this frittata is wonderful. It’s so creamy. But I don’t taste anything out of place. How did you avoid using mismarked ingredients?”

  “One of my chefs noticed her flour smelled of baby powder and began tasting everything. She discovered that many of the ingredients were mismarked and informed the rest of my team.”

  He called me his chef. My heart did a little leap.

  Tess interjected from the side of the judges, “Which chef was that, Chef Tim?”

  Tim responded, “Chef Poppy, my pastry chef.”

  One of the cameras swung to face me. Aunt Ginny and the biddies cheered, but I recognized that this was not necessarily a positive direction for the proceedings to take. It might look too convenient that I was able to recognize the problem foods. For all I knew, Tess and Ashlee were about to suggest I be burned at the stake.

  Bess Jodice took a sip of her tea. “Why didn’t you notify the producer of the error immediately?”

  Hmm. That’s a good question. Why didn’t it occur to me to let someone know?

  Adrian yelled from across the room. “Because they did it! He screwed with the pantry. It’s his MO.”

  Ivy silenced Adrian. “We’ll cut that out in postproduction.”

  Tim addressed the judges. “In the heat of competition, it didn’t occur to me that the ingredients were sabotaged. We thought they were simply mismarked, and that the other chefs would notice just like we did. We were busy making our dishes and fighting against the clock. If we had thought our colleagues might be compromised, we would have said something.”

  Good answer.

  Horatio dipped his spoon into my dessert. “I like the sprinkle of fleur de sel on the ice cream, and the sauce was a very clever way to use the salt water taffy. However, the crust is not flaky as a galette should be, probably from a lack of proper ingredient availability, which was not the chef’s fault. Overall, well done.”

  That’s when a light shone from heaven, and the angels began to sing. A New York Journal Food Digest critic just gave my dish a “well done.”

  “Of course, the bar has been set very low.” Bess Jodice put her spoon down and picked up her tea. “The frittata is lacking in imagination. I would have liked to see something more avant-garde, like a deconstructed benedict. The pork roll made the meatballs way too salty, and the galette is very dense and heavy because you used bread flour in the crust. As I write in my column for Food and Wine Digest, food should arouse to flights of fancy. As the competition progresses, I’d like to see more flair put into the dessert round than pie and ice cream. However, since most of your competitors have presented dishes that are inedible, I have no choice but to grant you a six.”

  Someone sounding very much like Aunt Ginny booed from the audience.

  Stormin’ Norman Sprinkler leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. “I’ve seen every episode of Chopped on TV.”

  Oh no.

  “So, I know what I’m talking about when I say that ice cream is way overdone. I’d like the pastry chefs to think outside the box a little more.”

  Gigi snickered next to me.

  “I disagree, Norman.” Miss New Jersey was making googly eyes at Tim. “I think this chef has shown great creativity. I like how he sprinkled salt on top of the ice cream, and that peach sauce is really good with the blueberry pie.”

  “You know he didn’t make that, his pastry chef did.”

  Miss New Jersey blinked.

  “The redhead.”

  Miss New Jersey shrugged. “Well, it’s still good.”

  Tim gave her a show-stopping smile.

  Gigi grunted like a bull getting ready to charge. Or maybe that was me.

  Our team received nines and tens with Bess’s six, and Tim returned to the protective cubicle of our kitchen, away from the slings and arrows of the other chefs’ eyes.

  Momma did not fare as well with the judges.

  “Chef Oliva, in addition to the fact that you used salt instead of sugar in your cake, I don’t taste any salt water taffy.”

  Marco translated for Momma, and she answered in Italian. “Judges, Chef Oliva say she told the pastry chef to leave the taffy out.”

  Bess blinked a couple of times. “You can’t do that. You have to use all the ingredients in the basket. Why would you leave that out?”

  Marco translated. Oliva answered him, and he rolled his eyes to the side. “She say she leave out the taffy because it stupid. It no belong in polenta cake.”

  Bess shrugged and held up a scorecard with a zero on it. Horatio was a little kinder and gave the older chef a three. Norman gave her a zero, and Miss New Jersey followed with a four.

  Chef Oliva narrowed her eyes and began a hot rebuttal in Italian. Marco thanked the judges and dragged her back to her kitchen.

  Adrian, the final chef to be critiqued, showed us all why it’s a bad idea to argue with the judges. Not only do you look like a weenie trying to make excuses and justify why you baked a baby powder cake, but every judge gave him a zero for being a tool.

  Horatio Duplessis refused to try Adrian’s entrée or dessert. “I can smell the soy sauce in your mousse from here. The fact that you were not able to distinguish soy sauce from vanilla only shows that you wasted thousands of dollars on a fancy culinary school education that did you absolutely no good. If I were the dean of the CIA, I’d sue you for slander just for using our name.”

  “You listen here you group of wannabe chefs.” Even the dragons’ nostrils on Adrian’s biceps were flaring. “Tim Maxwell has sabotaged this competition, just like he sabotaged that exam twenty years ago! He’s a fraud.”

  Tim flew in
to a rage and tackled Adrian in front of the judges’ table.

  Bess grabbed her teacup and moved away from the fight, while Norman and Miss New Jersey leaned over the table to get a better view of the brawl. Ashlee and Tess stepped over the fight and grabbed spoons to try Adrian’s bread pudding before it crashed to the floor.

  Ivy walked nonchalantly in front of the camera. “Cut! Did you get the tackle? That’s a wrap! Take it to post!” She walked over to Tim and Adrian. “Okay, break it up guys. Great energy for the camera. Everyone be back here same time tomorrow morning. Oh, and as of right now, the pantry is off-limits between filming, and anyone caught in there will be disqualified, ’kay?”

  The culinary school students came down from the stands to clean the kitchens and talk to the chefs.

  Tim and Adrian each attempted a final punch before getting to their feet. With a few parting slurs, they retreated to opposite corners of the arena.

  Tim threw a towel across the room, and it landed in the sink. “I’m leaving. If you’re coming with me, let’s go.”

  Gigi grabbed her purse and followed him out the door.

  Sawyer and Aunt Ginny came to congratulate me, followed by the biddies and the Sheinbergs.

  “I’m so proud of you.”

  “That was smart thinking with the taffies, Poppy honey.”

  “Bubula, you did great!”

  “Why you wearing that ugly apron? You need me to find you a better one?”

  Adrian laid eyes on Sawyer from his end of the kitchen, and had an immediate attitude adjustment. “Well, hello beautiful. Where have they been keeping you?”

  Sawyer giggled.

  Oh my God. Snap out of it!

  It was all too overwhelming. While the seniors chatted with the crew, and Adrian chatted up Sawyer, I slipped out to the locker room. I had to take a couple deep breaths to calm my nerves. Tears sprung to my eyes. I was kicking myself for not telling Ivy about the ingredients right from the start. How could I be so stupid to think it was part of the challenge? Now, thanks to Adrian dragging Tim’s name through the mud, everyone thinks we cheated.

  The door opened, and Vidrine entered the locker room. She was a lot less Southern charm and a lot more Jersey girl than earlier that morning. “Honey, the next time you know the sugar bin is full of salt, how about letting a girl know about it, okay?”

  “Vidrine, I’m sorry. I should have said something right from the start. I didn’t think—”

  She cut me off. “No, you didn’t think. And if I get sabotaged again, no matter who is behind it, you better believe I’m gone come up swinging, chérie.”

  She spun around on her pink Birkenstocks and headed out the door.

  I tore off the hideous yellow apron and threw it on the floor. I stomped on it a couple times, but that only made me feel marginally better. I cried a few more tears before washing my face. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and opened the gallery to the pantry pictures I took Thursday night. I scrolled through until I saw the container of juniper berries. I zoomed in. Tiny little blue-black pebbles, definitely not big brown nutmegs. Whoever tossed the pantry did it after the meet and greet and before this morning. That could literally have been anyone, but only one person was threatening that they had something planned for us, something in way of revenge. Maybe that plan was to frame Tim for sabotage, accuse him on camera, and destroy his reputation with all his loyal customers. If it was, I’d say Adrian Baxter had accomplished his mission.

  Chapter Ten

  “Poppy, do you have any Alka-Seltzer? The food today was jus debloraple. No offense.”

  “I don’t think we have that, Ms. Jodice, but I can make you some peppermint tea if that will help.” Or maybe some strong coffee to sober you up.

  “Tea’ll do jus’ fine. Don’t sweeden it! I have my own.”

  “Yes ma’am.” I left Bess in the library and returned to the kitchen where I’d been trying to hide since I’d slunk home from the competition.

  Aunt Ginny sat at the banquette drinking a cup of coffee. “Queen Bess again?”

  I put the kettle on to boil. “Yep. And she’s brought a bell with her to signal when she wants me for something.”

  Aunt Ginny shook her head. “You know who I bet she would get along with?”

  I gave Aunt Ginny a sly look. “Georgina.”

  “You read my mind. Just how many mimosas did she have at that catastrophe?”

  “I didn’t see her have any. Just that pot of tea Roger had to keep refilling.”

  “Maybe she slipped Roger a twenty to make the tea out of bourbon.”

  A stout matron of a woman entered the kitchen wearing a serviceable gray dress with a starched white apron and white cross-trainers. She was carrying a basket of clean laundry under one arm and a submissive Figaro under the other. “I found this curled up on the bed in the Scarlet Peacock. I’ve given him a stern talking to.”

  I took Figaro from Mrs. Galbraith. “That’s Miss New Jersey’s room. I don’t know how he keeps getting in there.” I put Figaro down and he slinked away.

  “I am finished with four of the rooms. I haven’t been able to get into the Swallowtail Suite these past two days. The DO NOT DISTURB sign has been up.”

  “Thank you so much Mrs. Galbraith. I really appreciate you coming in this week on such short notice.”

  Mrs. Galbraith thrust the basket of clean linens into my arms. “I am unaccustomed to not being trusted by the guests. But since yours is a new establishment, I will overlook the slight until you can build a name for yourself as having a safe and ethical establishment. I hope you understand that I expect to be paid for all five rooms, even though I can only clean four.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Galbraith. Of course.”

  Aunt Ginny stuck her tongue out behind the chambermaid’s back.

  Mrs. Galbraith checked the tiny clock that was pinned to her starched white collar. “I’m off for the day. I’ll return at eleven tomorrow. Keep that cat downstairs. I found him curled up on the bed in the Scarlet Peacock again, and he’s shedding on my clean steps.”

  “Yes ma’am. I will do my best.”

  Mrs. Galbraith left the room and Aunt Ginny muttered, “Battle-axe.”

  I put two peppermint teabags in a warmed china teapot. I tossed Aunt Ginny a look of mild chastisement for her to ignore. “Stop calling Mrs. Galbraith a battle-axe. We have to be nice to her. You know I can’t get a replacement this time of year.”

  Aunt Ginny snickered.

  I poured hot water into the teapot for the peppermint to steep. “How does Figaro keep getting into Brandy’s room?”

  Aunt Ginny looked around. “Speaking of... where is the little devil now?”

  “Oh great. I’ll have to go look for the furry menace after I deal with the tipsy menace.” I put the teapot and tea cup on a silver tray and took it to the library where Bess had been joined by Horatio.

  “Did you see the look on Chef Adrian’s face when I gave him a zero?” Horatio leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Smug son of a . . . oh hello, Poppy. You did very well today.”

  I put the tray on an antique coffee table for Bess. “Thank you, Mr. Duplessis.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks when I caught Bess gluing scraps of tissue paper onto a tall vase. I tried not to freak out, but that vase cost more than I was getting for her stay here. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s called decoupage. I’m trying to sprrruce the room up for you. Conshider it a gift.”

  “That’s Lalique crystal, from France.”

  “Yesh, so ugly on their own. Now it will be a Besss Jodiccce original.”

  What would happen if I grabbed that vase and ran from the room? Would that jeopardize her judging our team in the competition?

  From the stairway, I heard Miss New Jersey sneeze. A moment later, she came into the library with a squirming pillowcase, which she handed to me. “Dis is yourbs. It wath in my closet.”

  The pillowcase said, “Merrroooowwww.”

 
“I am so sorry. I’ll go lock him in the back.”

  I cradled the naughty bundle in my arms and spoke to it. “Why are you so bad? The one person in the house who is allergic, and you’ve got to be all up in her business.” I walked into the kitchen with Figaro in the pillowcase. Aunt Ginny took one look at us and laughed.

  “This is going in your room for a while.” I let Fig out in Aunt Ginny’s large bedroom off the back of the kitchen. He turned and gave me a look that said, “I don’t care. I’ve been trying to get out of that closet all day.” Then he sashayed up to Aunt Ginny’s king-sized bed, jumped up to her pillow and turned in circles twice, then lay down. Before I closed the door, I saw him open one eye, look at me, and quickly close it again.

  I collapsed with Aunt Ginny at the table. My feet were killing me, and my back was on fire. “I think we’re going to have to advertise that we have a cat in the B&B, to warn people with allergies.” I took a sip of my tepid coffee. “Where was I before I was summoned by her majesty? Oh, the pantry. So now everyone is furious with us, as if we had something to do with the pantry fiasco. Why aren’t they mad at Chef Philippe?”

  “The fella covered in tattoos threw all the suspicion on Tim when he pitched that fit. He was a little over the top if you ask me. People put on a big show like that to cover up when they’re involved in something.”

  “Even if Tim did cheat twenty years ago, not that I’m saying he did, but he wouldn’t be foolish enough to do the same thing today, against the same competitor.”

  “He would have to be an idiot.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you think Tattoo Chef did it himself?”

  “Yes. And . . . no. I don’t know. He’s a bully, and he’s full of himself, but he also seems too prideful to make bad food on TV for revenge.”

  A tinkling sound of annoyance floated into the kitchen on the air of superiority and announced that servitude was required. Aunt Ginny leaned back in her seat and picked up her coffee. “I’m on a break.”

  I heaved myself out of the kitchen and into the library where Bess and Horatio were now joined by Miss New Jersey and Stormin’ Norman. I walked in just as Horatio was saying, “I think the producers are behind it, trying to create a scandal to boost ratings.”