by Libby Klein
“Duck season.”
Gigi pushed her way between us. “Will you two stop fooling around. We’re on the clock, and that gnocchi isn’t going to make itself, Maxwell.”
Tim wiggled his eyebrows. “I gotta go.”
I grinned back and tasted my lemon-lavender filling. Then I took it to the bottom oven and poured it into the hot ramekins. I checked the time and pulled out the food processor.
Next to us, Vidrine was calling a time-out. Ivy yelled that there were no time-outs.
“But honey, my blender won’t blend. It’s an emergency!”
Bess hollered over from the judges’ table. “For God’s sakes, ush shomething elsh.”
Vidrine started to cry in frustration, until Louie handed her his blender and peace was restored.
I measured flour, sugar, and butter for my shortbread. I would have to be very careful with the lavender. Lavender sneaks up on you. Too little, and the judges won’t know it’s in there. Too much, and your dish will taste like hand soap. I thought my cookie dough was well balanced with a nice floral back note.
There was a loud whir, followed by Vidrine screaming. “Sa ki mal!”
The kitchen arena came to a momentary standstill when a pink sauce exploded from Vidrine’s blender and doused her in a sticky mess. She cried to Ivy and the judges like Tonya Harding to the Olympic Committee. “A blender isn’t supposed to spin that fast. Someone must have tampered with it.” Her sous chef handed her a dish towel to wipe her face.
Gigi muttered, “Drama queen.”
I glanced at the clock and put the lid on my food processor. I pushed the buttons, but nothing happened. I checked to see that it was plugged in, and then swapped outlets. It still wouldn’t come on. I jiggled it around, starting to panic, when there was a loud ruckus on the other side of the kitchen.
Adrian threw a sauté pan across the room. I felt my blood run cold. Oh Lord, I hope he doesn’t cry sabotage again. I jammed the food processor lid on over and over, but the dang thing wouldn’t fire up. In a huff, I grabbed a wooden spoon and mixed my dough by hand.
Chef Louie called out, “Does anyone have a stand mixer my pastry chef can use? Ours only works on high.”
At first, no one moved. Then Chef Philippe’s pastry chef offered up hers. She said she was making meringues, so they could swap.
Ashlee leaned against the judging table. “What do you think about what’s going on in the kitchens today, judges?”
Miss New Jersey said, “I don’t think all their stuff works.”
Horatio hung his head, then said, “We can all see that, Brandy. Do you have a thought about how they’re handling it?”
Tess approached the other end of the judges’ table and patted Miss New Jersey’s hair. “That’s all right chica, you’re very pretty.”
Bess was struggling to keep her head up. “I think it’s a real shame and a discredit to the art. Chefs have to know how to work without all the fancy appliances today. Back when I started teaching, we didn’t have immersion blenders and food processors in every kitchen. A chef had to learn to cook with his bare hands.”
Aunt Ginny was overheard muttering to Mrs. Dodson, “Who was she teaching? Cleopatra?”
The audience laughed, and Aunt Ginny asked Mrs. Sheinberg, “What are they laughing at?”
Mrs. Sheinberg answered, “Just some crazy yenta.”
Adrian was royally freaking out now. “How do you expect me to make a sauce when none of my burners will light?”
I patted my dough flat on the worktop and looked over my shoulder at our stove. All the burners were lit, and several pots were frying, sautéing, and boiling. A brilliant flash followed by a loud whoosh came from Oliva’s kitchen, and Marco screamed in pain. His arm was on fire.
I abandoned my dough and ran to Marco, as did Adrian and Tim. Adrian pulled his chef coat off and used it to put the fire out. Marco was burned badly on one arm up to his elbow. Hot Sauce Louie ran through our kitchen with a bucket of ice water, accidentally bumping Gigi who dropped her platter of frogs’ legs into Tim’s Meyer lemon sauce. We plunged Marco’s arm deep inside the bucket to stop the burn. Ivy yelled for Roger to call campus paramedics. Oliva had the grease fire under control, but she was angrily trying to tell Ivy something while pointing at the deep fryer.
Ivy looked at the deep fryer and back to Oliva while shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
I picked up troppo caldo and temperatura. “She’s saying something about the temperature of the fryer being too hot.”
Louie looked at the gauges on the deep fryer. “There is no way that oil is three hundred and fifty degrees. Look at how it’s smoking.” He bent down to adjust the dial and it came off in his hands.
Across the room, Chef Philippe calmly worked on his dishes.
An uneasiness began to niggle at the back of my brain. These were too many coincidences. What started out as a minor inconvenience had turned into something more nefarious. And this time someone was badly hurt.
The campus medics arrived and took Marco to the hospital. Ivy shouted that there were only twenty minutes left on the clock, but she would give everyone an extra five and hide it in the video. Vidrine, her braids dripping with pink sauce, threw her arm out toward Chef Philippe. “Does he also get extra time? He didn’t even stop to check on Marco!”
Ivy cracked her neck side to side. “Come on! Work with me people. Just finish up! Chef Adrian, use the empty station in Chef Oliva’s kitchen to make your sauce. Roger! Put an update about Marco on Snapchat!”
I rushed back to my kitchen where Gigi was in tears that her dish was ruined. She apologized to Tim because his sauce was now all froggy. He put his arm around her and told her it would be okay. And I angrily pounded my shortbread dough and rolled it out between two sheets of parchment. I quickly cut some scalloped circles with a biscuit cutter and put them on the sheet pan. I opened the bottom oven and shook my crème brûlées. They had the slightest jiggle, which meant they were done. So, I took them out and put the shortbread in their place. I tucked the custards into the blast chiller, and whisked together a lavender-grape glaze on the stove top, with cream, powdered sugar, and Pop Rocks.
Ashlee stuck a microphone under Tim’s nose. “Chef Tim, Miss New Jersey wants to know what you’re making.”
Tim sent a wave to Miss New Jersey, and I thought Gigi would drop a lemony frog leg.
“I’m making a Meyer lemon-glazed duck breast with sweet potato gnocchi.” He punctuated it with a wink.
Miss New Jersey answered back. “That’s so hot.”
Adrian called out from his new station in Oliva’s kitchen. “Yeah, well I’m making a duck confit salad with candied Meyer lemons over arugula, and it’s gonna be the best thing yooze ever tasted, gorgeous.”
Miss New Jersey yawned. “Whatever.”
I sprinkled my lavender-lemon crème brûlées with some raw sugar and crossed my fingers that the blow torch would work. After a couple of clicks, the blue-white flame fired up. Thank God! I caramelized the tops so they would harden and crack. Crème brûlée top crust is the bubble wrap of the pastry world. There was something very satisfying about breaking that shell.
Tess hollered from the judges’ table, “Five minutes!”
Then Aunt Ginny yelled from the audience, “Five minutes, Poppy!”
I pulled my shortbread out of the oven and dipped each one in the grape-lavender glaze, and then I sprinkled chopped pistachio nuts on top. I watched the clock count down until I had thirty seconds left. I wanted to give the shortbread glaze as long as possible to set. Then, I placed two cookies on the plate next to the ramekins and dusted the plates with a few lavender blossoms.
“Time’s up! Step away from your counters.”
We all backed away from our tables. Gigi leapt into Tim’s arms and gave him a hug, which he returned—in force—as I stood to the side and watched in horror.
Aunt Ginny pointed in our direction. “That’s going to be a problem.”
Two rows of white and pink hair shook their heads in mutual displeasure.
Ashlee stepped to the camera and made a grand gesture with her arm. “Chefs, it is time to present your dishes to the judges.”
Tess stepped in front of her cohost and struck a seductive pose. “Why don’t we go in reverse order today and start with Chef Adrian Baxter.”
Ashlee twisted her torso around to get her face next to Tess. “Chef Adrian, what have you made for the judges?”
Ivy yelled cut so she and Roger could set the judges’ table with the first round of dishes. Frozen items were stored so they didn’t melt before their respective chef’s turn at judging.
Horatio righted Bess who was leaning heavily onto him. She sagged over to Stormin’ Norman who tried shifting her back. The judges had the chance to stand and stretch, and Ashlee and Tess took the opportunity to have a cat fight.
In the stands, Aunt Ginny was facing the other seniors, and everyone was taking notes. She had Sawyer going seat to seat with what looked like a clipboard. The biddies were all a flurry of discussion, pointing at the chefs.
What are they up to?
Tim unwound Gigi from his side. “I think we did good today. We have three good dishes.”
Gigi gave my crème brûlées a side eye.
Tim nudged her. “Don’t you think Poppy’s desserts look great?”
Gigi shrugged. At least, I think she shrugged. Her chef’s coat hung on her like a bell due to her newly enhanced top shelf, so very little movement registered. “They don’t look half bad. I just hope they don’t taste like perfume. Lavender is very tricky.”
I’d had about all I could take of Gigi, the small and annoying. “Well at least they won’t taste like lemon frogs’ legs.”
Gigi frowned and looked down at her appetizer that had been dabbed with paper towels and served with cookie-butter sauce.
Adrian came from out of nowhere and pounced on Tim. “Did you sabotage my cooktop?”
Tim’s eyebrows dipped. “I wouldn’t even know how to do that. I’m not an electrician.”
“Well somebody cut the gas line on the range in my kitchen and none of my burners work. If I find out it was you, I’ll take you down so fast you’ll never even see me coming.”
The uneasy feeling crept back on me, and something started to click in my head. “You weren’t the only one with an equipment malfunction, Adrian.”
“What?”
Gigi tossed her blond curls. “Yeah. Weren’t you paying attention? Marco’s deep fryer practically exploded.”
“Vidrine’s blender was tampered with, Louie’s stand mixer, our food processor.”
Tim and Gigi both swiveled my way. “What was wrong with your food processor?”
“The motor’s dead. The lights come on, but the wheel won’t spin.”
Gigi cocked her head to the side. “Is that why you made your dough by hand? I just thought you didn’t know how to operate it.”
“It’s a food processor Gigi, not a spaceship. It has two buttons.”
Gigi huffed and turned away.
Adrian poked a finger in Tim’s chest. “That just proves my point that you will do anything to win.”
Tim turned back to Adrian, anger rising. “I didn’t tamper with anything.”
“Oh yeah!” Louie and Vidrine had come to join the argument. “Then who did, dude? ’Cause we lost precious time today trying to get our equipment straight. We had a double oven that only got up to two hundred degrees. My pastry chef had to bake her tarts in Vidrine’s kitchen.”
“And honey, my kitchen is messier’n a possum’s nest after that blender nonsense.”
I pointed to Oliva’s kitchen. “No one was affected more than Marco. What kind of deranged lunatic would cause a grease fire to win a local cooking competition?”
Adrian leaned in. “You’re just proving my point, Red.”
Philippe had made his way over to join us. “Mon dieu! We are all just chefs. Only one person here would have the know-how for mechanics. Hot Sauce Louie, what ever happened to your food truck that you said you had to repair all the time?”
Vidrine sucked in some air and slapped Louie with her dish towel. “Are you behind this!”
Tim and Adrian each took an offensive step toward Louie.
Aunt Ginny yelled from the stands, “What’s going on? Poppy! Should I get this on my iPhone for the YouTubes?”
Louie put his hands up. “Not me, dudes. My kitchen was sabotaged too.” He turned on Philippe. “I don’t remember you complaining about broken appliances today, Philippe.”
Adrian rolled his sleeves up. “Yeah. In fact, yooze didn’t even come help when Marco was on fire, did ya?”
“Zat’s what you think. We tried to make zee duck sausage, but the grinder would not grind. And I worked on my food because I am a highly trained professional.”
I glanced over at Marco’s blackened station and caught Momma calmly eating a plate of pasta.
I lowered my voice. “Please, everyone. Just stop fighting. We can’t turn on each other now. I think that’s what they want us to do.”
Louie tossed his head. “Like, what who wants us to do, babe?”
I lowered my voice. “The television crew. Haven’t you noticed? Even though Ivy yelled cut ten minutes ago, the red light on the camera is still on.”
Chapter Twelve
“What are you all doing? Get back to your kitchens!” Ivy returned to the arena. “We’re rolling in two minutes. Where is Bess Jodice? Why isn’t she at the judges’ table?”
“Maybe she’s out . . . you know.” Norman put his thumb to his mouth and knocked his head back.
Ivy clicked on her headset and shouted, “Roger! Find Bess Jodice ASAP.” She lowered her voice and shielded the microphone with her hand. “Yes, the drunk one.”
The chefs retook their places. Ashlee and Tess had stopped their cat fight long enough to drink a couple glasses of rosé. They were hovering over the judges’ table, giggling, when Roger finally brought Bess back to her seat. “I found her lying on the couch in the lobby.”
“I’m so sorry. I know thish will come as a shurprise to everyone, but I’m jush not feeling too well. I’ll be glad when thish day is over. I guess I’m not as young as I ushed to be.”
Ivy, once again in control, started the judging process. One by one the chefs presented their dishes. Nothing could please Bess except for Philippe’s duck au citron with lavender rice.
Horatio was not nearly as impressed with Philippe. “It was a crime against the culinary gods to put that much lavender in the rice. It was like eating a bottle of cheap perfume. What were you thinking?”
“Monsieur, I was thinking that I am a chef. A chef trained by the master Pierre Escargot himself. And you are simply one who thinks he knows food because his picture is in a newspaper.”
Mother Gibson slapped her knee. “Ooooh. You tell him, Frenchie.”
Tim knocked my elbow with his. “I told you his duck a l’orange is amazing.”
“It’s definitely a classic French dish.”
Horatio was not impressed with Tim’s now frog leg-studded duck au citron either. “The only dish on Team Maxine’s that has any flair is this lovely lemon-lavender crème brûlée and shortbread. What a delightful use of the Pop Rocks candy by putting them in a glaze. Well done.”
Well, I don’t know what everyone’s problem with Horatio is. I think he’s charming.
Miss New Jersey had a different sort of review for Tim. “I love this duck breast and these little orange thingies?”
“Thank you. Those are called sweet potato gnocchi. I’m glad you like them.”
“Oh, I do, and speaking of calling, here’s my number.”
Adrian ran his hands across his buzzed hair. “Are you kidding me! He’s influencing one of the judges!”
Ivy had to reprimand Miss New Jersey. “Brandy, you can’t say stuff like that on camera. We’ll cut that out in post. Roger! Don’t tweet that!”
Everyone else received scathing, albeit barely coherent, reviews from the former culinary school dean. Bess’s harsh remarks left Vidrine in tears over her grilled duck breast, but Hot Sauce Louie received his criticism with calm dignity, muttering to Tim as he walked by, “Dude, why is that old lady so mean? She needs a vay-cay.”
It was only for Horatio’s kind words of, “I really like how you turned the duck into a burger, Chef Louie. It was very unexpected,” and “The lemon-scented rice was lovely, Chef Vidrine. Just lovely,” that either of them held their heads high at the end.
Judging Oliva was a challenge because she had lost her translator and sous chef. “You do understand that the theme was Afternoon in Provence? But you made duck scaloppini. That’s an Italian dish. You didn’t keep to the theme. Do you understand why we are giving you a low score?”
Oliva smiled and nodded politely.
Roger recorded the judges’ feedback to play through Google Translator. When Chef Oliva heard the translation and saw the low scores, she gave some Italian feedback of her own—feedback that would not make it past the network censors and would have to be edited out of the final segment.
We wrapped for the day and the audience dispersed to their duties and gossip. Tim gave me a quick kiss good-bye, and he and Gigi were off to Maxine’s Bistro to prep for dinner. Aunt Ginny and Sawyer made a beeline for the kitchens.
“You did good today, Poppy Blossom. I want to taste that creamy bruleay you made.”
“Come to my station. I made two extras in case one of them was a flop.”
On the way to our station, Sawyer linked her arm in mine. “What was up with Tim and the blonde?”
“That would be Gigi. She’s recently been augmented.”
“Oh, good Lord. Well, she was stuck so far up Tim’s butt, if he farted she’d be in the pantry.”
“Hey. Where is my sixth ramekin? One is missing.”
Aunt Ginny grabbed a spoon and the remaining custard and gave the caramelized sugar a whack. “That’s all right, we can share this one.”
I handed Sawyer another spoon. “What were you all doing in the stands during the judging?”
Aunt Ginny and Sawyer paused with the spoons in their mouths, looking very guilty.