Linc is quiet.
“Okay, Anjali, even if I do, don’t you have to have a parent or someone with you at the Food Network audition?” he asks. “How you gonna get around that?”
“I’ll think of something.”
That night, awake in bed, I do think of cooking. Quietly, I go to our kitchen, where there are always dry coconuts, ready for grating. So I grate. And I think of sweet bread. That’s when something else sweet comes to me — an idea for who can go with me to the Food Network audition as my “parent.”
Coconut Sweet Bread
3 cups flour
1 cup sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
2 cups finely grated fresh coconut
1/3 cup raisins (optional)
1 large egg, beaten
1/2 cup evaporated milk
1/2 cup fresh coconut water
1 teaspoon mixed essence or vanilla
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
1/2 teaspoon coconut essence
granulated sugar for dusting
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease and flour two 9-inch loaf pans.
2. Sift the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt together, and stir in the coconut and raisins, if using.
3. In a separate bowl, combine the egg, milk, coconut water, mixed essence or vanilla, butter, and coconut essence.
4. Add the liquid ingredients to the dry ones, mixing lightly but thoroughly so all the ingredients are combined.
5. Pour the batter into the loaf pans, filling them two-thirds full.
6. Sprinkle the top of the batter with granulated sugar and bake for about 55 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.
Makes 2 loaves
CHAPTER SEVEN
Competition
I braid my ponytail to keep stray hair out of my face during the tryout. My black T-shirt says “Island Spice Roti Shop” on the front. I tuck sneakers into my knapsack along with the small tawa Deema bought me a few years back when I was first learning how to make rotis. It’s no bigger than a smallish dinner plate, but it will be good for making the little rotis I’m going to use for my main dish at the audition.
Our house is so quiet. Everyone left for the day. They think I’m on my way to take the test at Stuyvesant, but the only kid I know who’s headed to that exam is Linc. I’m taking the A train to the Food Network studios. I open my umbrella against the sleet that is still coming down. It’s gathered along the curbs, a dirty gray mess I need to leap over when I cross the street. My heavy backpack bangs against my hip each time I jump.
The train is packed with workers headed into the city for the 8 A.M. work shift. Even though it’s so cold outside, all the bodies packed together make the car way hot. I stand between a fat lady in a fuzzy coat and a tall man in a suit. There are so many people I can’t get near a pole to hold on to, but together we all make a human wall. There’s nowhere to fall even if I lose my footing. I hold my backpack’s loop in my right hand, letting it rest on top of my foot. It’s so heavy it pulls me down, anchors me in place. My shoulder begins to throb.
Forty minutes later the subway pulls into my stop. The constant flow of passengers in and out of the train means I never did get a seat, and now my right shoulder is killing me. When I get to the top of the subway stairs at Fourteenth Street and Eighth Avenue, it’s at least stopped sleeting. I walk through the streets a few more blocks toward Chelsea Market, where the Food Network studios are located.
Inside Chelsea Market I walk along the snaking black hallway toward the middle of the complex to the café, where my “parent” is waiting to accompany me to the audition. She’s wearing jeans and a bright red V-neck sweater. Her blond ringlets frame her face. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in street clothes. She looks so young and cool.
“Hey, Anjali!” she says, smiling. “You ready?”
I’m glad to see her. “Ready, Chef Nyla,” I say.
“Today I’m just Nyla,” she says. “Your friend Nyla.”
I smile and feel my body relax.
“Let’s go, Nyla.”
I hoist my ten-ton knapsack over my shoulder. Nyla knows her way around this place. I’m right on her heels, following closely. We ride the elevator to the sixth floor.
There’s a young guy sitting behind a tall oval desk and a few kids sitting on the funky modern couches with their parents.
Nyla walks up to the desk and signs us in, then comes to stand beside me. All the chairs are full.
“They said the associate producer will be out to take us to the greenroom shortly,” she tells me.
Ten minutes later, a heavyset woman with cornrows comes out and introduces herself.
“Hey, everybody.” She smiles. “I’m Paula, and I’m gonna take you all back to the greenroom. You’ll have a little makeup and then the producer will come out and tell you how it’s gonna go.”
All of the kids and their adults file after Paula into a door that leads to a bunch of cubicles, then through a back hallway that looks like it belongs in a warehouse. We finally get to an empty room with some couches and two chairs like you see at the hairdresser. The room is tiny.
“Here you go. It’ll be a little tight, but make yourselves comfortable,” says Paula.
Nyla grabs my hand and heads quickly to the couch, plopping us down abruptly to make sure we have a place to sit. The other contestants — a girl with red hair and a nose ring, an African American boy, and a blond girl with thick glasses and a sharp pageboy haircut — and their parents stand awkwardly in the center of the room or lean on the wall.
A woman with curly blond hair and square purple glasses comes in. She’s wearing a long skirt that looks like a bunch of fabric patches sewn together. The heels on her black leather boots are spiky. She’s also wearing a barely noticeable headset in her ear and holding a little black box in her hand.
“Hi, folks, I’m Brenda Wokowski, the executive producer of Super Chef Kids.” This lady is all business, no smiles. “Here’s the breakdown of what will happen today. We’re going to split up into groups of three contestants. The first are” — she looks down at the clipboard she’s carrying and my throat goes tight — “Anjali Krishnan, He Kyong Park, and Jimmy DeFazio.”
I’m up first.
Brenda looks around the room as I step forward along with a heavy kid in a Mets jersey and a slender Asian girl.
“Good,” Brenda says, looking each of us over. “A makeup artist will be coming in here in a second, just to give you a little touch-up for the camera. Nothing fancy. Please tell her if there is anything you’re allergic to.” She pauses again and looks at me and the other girl. “You’re okay,” she says, pointing at me. “You’ll have to put your hair back,” she says to He Kyong.
“After that we’ll take you into the studio and show you your stations,” she finishes. “I’ll see you in a little bit — good luck, guys.”
After Brenda leaves the room, we all just stand there, not really sure of what to do next. He Kyong goes back and sits in the cosmetic chair. Her mother begins to fuss with her hair.
The makeup artist hustles in a few minutes later. He is a young Latino guy with spiky blond hair and a nose ring. He’s also got a headset and a little black box clipped to his black jeans.
“Who’s first?” he says in a singsong voice.
Since He Kyong is already at the mirror she goes first, followed by me, then Jimmy. I pull off my jacket and sit down in the chair after He Kyong gets up.
“Hmmm,” says the makeup artist, whose name is Abelardo. He tilts my chin up with his fingers and looks at my face from different sides. “You have good skin tone, I won’t have to do much.” Abelardo works for a few minutes applying makeup with a sponge to the corners of my mouth and on my upper lip, then uses a big brush to dust my whole face with a powder that he tells me matches my skin tone.
“Fabulous,” he says, putting a little gloss on my
lips. “Try not to bite your lips.”
I nod and stare at myself in the mirror. Whoa. I’m surprised to see that I actually look pretty good.
When I come back to the couch, Nyla says, “Beautiful, Anjali.”
Brenda comes back just as Abelardo finishes making up Jimmy, who then mashes a Mets cap backward on top of his head. Along with our parents, we file after Brenda through more hallways and into a large kitchen with five parallel counters, each with a cooktop, drawers, and lots of utensils.
People dressed in black chef’s jackets embroidered with the Food Network logo dash around.
“New blood, Brenda?” a man calls out, smiling, as we walk past.
“You know it, Chef Rob!” she laughs back. She tells us, “That’s Rob. He’s the head chef of the test kitchens.”
Ahead of us a canvas curtain blocks the rest of the space. When we follow Brenda around it we see that, from the other side, it’s a backdrop of the city to make it appear as if we’re looking out of the window of a high-rise. The “window” is part of a false wall that makes up one side of the large kitchen where we’re going to cook.
Three identical workstations are lined up side by side. Behind each one, an oven in pink, blue, or avocado green is built into the wall. The opposite walls have school lockers and chalkboards. I guess the space is supposed to look like a schoolroom, but it’s not like any school I’ve ever seen.
“Where do they film Power Chef?” asks Jimmy as we walk into the space.
“Right here,” says Brenda. “This whole studio is taken down and reassembled for each show. We film a series over the course of days or weeks and we store the sets in crates until we need them. You see them weekly, but they are really filmed over just a few days, a long time before.”
“Wow,” says Jimmy, looking around.
Just then a plump woman with curly shoulder-length black hair walks by.
“Hey! Sam!” Nyla touches the woman’s arm.
I recognize her right away. She’s Sam Vitelli, one of the Food Network stars and a judge on a lot of the cooking contest shows.
Sam looks pleased to see Nyla. “Nyla,” she says. “How you doing, woman? What brings you here?” Nyla and Sam hug each other.
Nyla puts her arm around me. “I’m here with my student who is one of the Super Chef Kids finalists,” she says proudly. “Anjali, this is —”
“Sam Vitelli,” I blurt. I’m totally gushing inside. If I die right now, I will be happy.
Sam’s checking me out. “I’m one of the judges,” she tells Nyla. “And I see they have our judges’ table set up! I’ll catch you later!”
“How do you know her?” I whisper.
Nyla says, “Believe it or not, we went to high school together. Her dad is a big-time publicity agent for restaurants and chefs and he got her this gig.”
I’m still ready to fall over from meeting Sam when Brenda comes in.
“Okay, folks, here we are,” she says. “This is Alfie. He’s going to walk you through what will happen on the set, and Roger here will mic you guys. The judges will be sitting in that corner.” She points to the long table where Sam Vitelli has parked herself next to a slender woman who looks like a model, and a kid a few years older than me.
“Hey, judges, stand up for a second,” Alfie calls out, and they all get up. Now that I can see them better, I realize the lady who looks like a model is Daisy Martinez, another Food Network chef and one of my heroes.
“Not that any of these folks need an introduction,” Alfie calls out cheerfully, “but allow me to formally acquaint you.” He pauses to laugh at his own dumb sense of humor.
“We have Sam Vitelli, star of The Culinary Tower. Sam — give a wave,” he says.
“Our next judge is another one of our most popular stars, Daisy Martinez,” he continues as Daisy smiles big. “And a very special guest, Connor Sebastian, from the Sebastian Boys!”
Connor gives us a small finger wave, then slumps back in his chair.
“Thanks, judges!” Alfie calls out, then turns back to us. “Parents, you can have a seat over there.” He points to some folding chairs set up on the other side of the set from the judges. Nyla gives me a thumbs-up.
When Brenda comes by to make sure everything’s okay, she does a double take and stares hard at me like she never saw me before.
“What’s that on your shirt?” she says.
“What?” I say, looking down.
“That writing,” says Brenda. “What does your shirt say?”
I smile proudly. “That’s my family’s roti shop — Island Spice.”
“You can’t wear that,” Brenda answers flatly. “You can’t wear a shirt that has advertising. It will look like the network is giving you free advertising or an endorsement. Do you have another shirt with you?”
Why would I have another shirt? I shake my head.
A production assistant runs up with a bag. “Who needs the T-shirt?” she calls out. I raise my hand.
“Here you go.” She tosses the shirt to me.
I go into the ladies’ room and find a stall. I unclip the microphone, letting it hang down while I take off my Island Spice shirt. The new T-shirt is bright yellow — my absolute worst color. And it’s so big that I look like I’m wearing my father’s clothes.
I think of Dad then, and Deema, and how I’m letting down my family and lying to them. I start to cry at how much I want all of this — and how much they don’t want it. Then I remember my TV makeup. Don’t cry, I tell myself. I tuck the oversize shirt into my pants as best I can. The short sleeves reach my elbows. Pulling the microphone wire up through the neck, I clip it to the collar and step out of the stall. When I get back to the group, Alfie is barking orders.
“Okay, kids, listen up.” Alfie’s clapping to get our attention. “Each one of you will have your own cooking station. The pullout refrigerators under the counter have all the perishables you’ll need to cook your dishes. The drawers have dry goods. The drawers on the side here have utensils and knives.” He points to a shelf just under the stove, where there are pots, pans, and mixing bowls. “You’ll notice there is a food processor and stand mixer on the counter. We’ve thought of everything you’ll need to cook your dishes.”
I try to concentrate on what Alfie’s saying. I should be excited to use all of this new equipment, but I still feel crappy and embarrassed about the T-shirt — and upset about going behind my family’s back.
“After you cook your own dish, we’re going to unveil a market basket,” Alfie is saying. “This is a tray of ingredients from which you have to create a dish on the spot. You can use any of the staples in your cupboards or anything left over from your own specialties, but you have to use all the items in the market basket.”
I hadn’t expected the market basket. Breathe, I tell myself, just breathe.
“How long will we have?” He Kyong wants to know.
“Half an hour for your dish, and half an hour for the market basket,” says Alfie. “There will be a fifteen-minute break after we unveil the market basket so you can use the bathroom, get some water, and think about what you want to do with those ingredients. Everyone clear?” He looks at the three of us. We all nod. “We’ll be getting started in a few minutes.”
I mentally go through the order of preparation for what I’ll be making — my shrimp burgers. I’ll have to make the roti dough first. While it rests, I’ll make the shrimp paste, then do the jicama slaw. It shouldn’t be too hard. I’m worried about that market basket, though — what if it’s something I can’t work with, like beef or pork?
The start signal has been given.
Quade Jerome, one of the Food Network’s emcee personalities, is running around the studio, weaving between the cooking stations like a basketball star on the court.
“So, tell us where you’re from, Anjali.”
“Richmond Hill,” I answer, not looking up from the shrimp I’m trying to quickly peel and throw into the food processor with the pureed gree
n seasoning.
Quade flicks a switch on the microphone with his thumb and leans in a little. “Come on, little sis, you gotta give me more than that,” he says pleasantly. He’s a light-skinned black man with green eyes. “Look at me and smile, show the camera some love!”
He switches the microphone back on. “For our non—New York viewers, tell us about Richmond Hill, Anjali!”
I try to smile, though he is really annoying me. “It’s in Queens. There are a lot of Indo-Caribbeans there, like my family.”
“Keep on cooking!”
I jump and go back to the shrimp.
“Are you making an Indo-Caribbean treat for us today?”
It’s hard to cook and talk. I nod. “Um, well, yeah, we eat rotis like I’m going to make for my shrimp burger,” I say, glancing nervously from my shrimp to Quade. “You can see the dough over there.” I nod over my shoulder to the roti dough on the counter. The cameraman pans to my dough ball. “And we curry just about everything.”
“Great! Can’t wait to try it — if the judges leave anything!” Quade says.
Quade runs over to Jimmy next and asks what he’s cooking.
“These are my grandma’s famous smothered Italian pork chops,” he says, smiling at the camera. “I’m from Bensonhurst — that’s in Brooklyn. And it’s Italian country! Mangia!” Jimmy leans toward the camera, one hand on the spoon and stirring tomatoes in a fry pan. He’s all showbiz.
I try not to pay attention as Quade runs over to He Kyong, who knows how to smile at the camera. Quade doesn’t even have to ask her what she’s cooking. She just starts talking.
“I’m making a simple five-mushroom salad that I’ll nestle on a bed of rice noodles,” she says sweetly to the camera lens. “It doesn’t take a lot of effort but it tastes like a million bucks!”
I roll my eyes. What does a million bucks taste like?
Next, I make the jicama slaw. I look around the kitchen for a grater but I don’t see one here. Opening some drawers, I notice a shredder attachment for the food processor. It means I’ll have to wash the bowl.
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