Fearless Love

by Meg Benjamin

“Five minutes, chefs,” the loudspeaker droned.

  Darcy lined up the plates of beet salad, red and gold beets interspersed with white disks of goat cheese, a sprinkle of chopped apple on top and a ladle of dressing over it all. “I’ll take this to the judges’ table,” she said.

  He nodded, barely listening. The plates of quail lined up on their own tray, pristine and glorious. He checked the panna cotta. Ready to go.

  Darcy returned and reached for the quail. Joe shook his head. “Get the panna cotta. I’ll take the quail over.”

  Ahead of him, Clem was carrying a tray of fried chicken. He smelled cayenne and sweet spice—the stuff would probably be ambrosia. “Looking good, Chef,” he murmured.

  Clem turned, glancing at his quail. Her lips edged up in a faint smile. “I should probably say something shitty about now, but I don’t feel like it. Nice looking quail, Chef. Real nice.” She paused, lowering the tray toward the table, then glanced back. “We’re pulling for you, you know. All of us. If it can’t be me, I want it to be you.”

  His throat tightened. “Right back at you, darlin’. In spades.”

  Lee Contreras unloaded his main dish at the judges’ table. Joe peered over his shoulder—looked like some variation on snapper Veracruz. His other dishes were already being carried toward the judges.

  The announcer turned toward Lee. “Chef, tell us what your philosophy was today.”

  Joe blinked. What the hell? Nobody mentioned he was going to have to come up with bullshit. His main philosophy when he cooked was getting the stuff to taste good.

  “Crap,” Clem muttered. “Whose bright idea was that?”

  Contreras gave the announcer a slightly grim smile and launched into a brief paean to Gulf seafood that sounded more or less made up on the fly. One of the perils of going first.

  “Any ideas?” Darcy murmured.

  Actually, no. He blew out a breath. “I’ll think of something.”

  The judges were tasting the snapper now, nodding and doing their best to have no expression at all. Joe recognized a food writer from Austin and an executive chef from a boutique hotel in Dallas. A couple of the others were foodies, a minor chef from the Food Network and a blogger from New York. The last two were chefs from out of state. Nobody he knew, fortunately. He figured there were about as many people out there who hated him as there were people who liked him. Relics of his misspent time in New Orleans.

  Clem folded her arms across her chest. “I’m up next, then you.” She gestured toward the sheet posted next to the tables for the food.

  “Should be an interesting contrast.” Joe gave her a dry smile.

  “Should be at that. May the best man, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “Make it best person.” He grinned again. “You look less like a man than anybody here, with the possible exception of Fairley.”

  Clem snickered, covering her mouth. He heard a quick explosion of breath behind them and turned to see Fairley staring at him, his face pink with outrage.

  “Hey, Todd,” Clem drawled. “Long time, no see. Not that that’s been a problem for me.”

  Fairley turned pointedly toward the judges’ table, folding his arms across his chest. Clem snickered again.

  Contreras was serving up his dessert now, which looked like some kind of pot de crème. It must have been good. The judges seemed to be struggling more than usual to stay expressionless.

  “Ms. Rodriguez?” One of the assistants trotted to Clem’s side. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Absolutely.” Clem gave him a broad smile, then winked at Joe. “See you later. After I collect my medals.”

  “Go to it, darlin’.”

  As Clem walked toward the judges’ table, Darcy stepped beside him, wiping her hands on her thighs. “So far, so good. Contreras did seafood just like we thought. What’s Clem doing?”

  He shrugged. “Watch her and find out.”

  “And what was your philosophy today, Chef?” The announcer sounded faintly patronizing as he bent low to move his microphone toward Clem. He was probably making the same mistake a lot of people made, assuming her short stature meant she was a shrinking violet.

  “Kick-ass cuisine,” Clem replied suavely.

  Darcy snorted while Joe bit the inside of his mouth to keep from guffawing.

  The announcer leaned back slightly. “Kick… Um…I see. And what dishes have you prepared to demonstrate your, er, cuisine?”

  Clem waved her hand airily as the appetizer was placed in front of the judges. “The Faro Tavern does bar food, ladies and gentlemen. The best bar food west of the Mississippi. For your appetizer, you’ll find fried green tomatoes with remoulade sauce. A classic throughout Texas and the South. Only our remoulade has a little Texas kick, courtesy of a sprinkle of chile de arbol. Enjoy.”

  The judges took a few bites each. Several of them abandoned any attempt at staying expressionless. The blogger grinned at Clem and gave her a thumbs up.

  Darcy sighed. “And we were right about Clem too. Best in her class.”

  “Hang in there, darlin’,” Joe murmured. “It ain’t over ’til it’s over.”

  “Chef LeBlanc?” The assistant looked a little harassed. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Ready as I’ll every be.” He sighed. “Lead me to it.”

  MG squeezed into the crowd of standees toward the front of the room. She’d left briefly to make another uninformative call to the hospital and lost her prime seat at ringside. Now Clem was talking about her dessert, a peach cobbler with cinnamon ice cream that the judges seemed to like a lot. As far as theatre went, Clem seemed to have the edge over the others. She was so tiny the judges had to lean forward to see her, but her voice was so robust, not to mention her vocabulary, that she had the crowd hooting its approval. Joe had a tough act to follow.

  He didn’t look worried. He stood at the side, grinning when Clem made one of her cracks, his arms crossed over his chest, the top button of his jacket undone. She had a quick flashback to a couple of nights ago, Joe’s body wrapped around hers, her hands propped against the wall.

  Her skin suddenly felt hot, and she checked her watch for a distraction.

  Clem moved off the stage to loud applause from the crowd, including Joe, who moved forward to take her place. The crowd stirred slightly as he did. “Who is that?” a feminine voice murmured behind her.

  Her friend said something inaudible and they both giggled. MG’s face flushed warm. He was a chef, goddamn it, not some piece of meat.

  Right. Like you’ve never ogled him yourself.

  “Chef Joe LeBlanc, executive chef of the Rose Restaurant. Assisted by sous chef Darcy Cunningham.”

  Joe gave the announcer his lazy smile, and one of the women behind her did something that sounded like a growl. MG gritted her teeth

  Mine. Hands off!

  “Tell us about your philosophy for this meal, Chef.” The announcer was back to bland again. Apparently, he figured nobody else was going to mess with him the way Clem had.

  Joe’s accent was maybe a little heavier than usual, but he didn’t seem to be laying it on too thick. “We’re a Hill Country restaurant, ladies and gentlemen, and we’re proud of that. Our philosophy at the Rose is to use the best ingredients we can find, and to find those ingredients in Texas whenever we can. Today’s menu features Texas produce, Texas meat, Texas cheese and Texas grits. We serve the best, y’all.” He grinned as the crowd cheered.

  MG managed a slightly ironic grin of her own. If Todd Fairley hadn’t stolen the fois gras, that statement wouldn’t be true. They’d have had mangoes from Mexico and fois gras from New York State. But thanks to Fairley, Joe could now make a play for the hometown crowd. She wondered what Fairley would do to make up for it.

  “What’s your first course, Chef?”

  Joe nodded toward the plates being placed in front of the judges. “This is a roasted beet salad with goat cheese and a raspberry walnut oil vinaigrette. The goat cheese is from Black Diamond Farms outside Stonewall.
The beets were grown north of Garland.”

  And the walnut oil was from California, but clearly Joe didn’t see any need to point that out.

  The judges sampled the salad carefully, cutting off bites of beet and goat cheese with the light sprinkling of grated apple on top. Joe leaned casually against the podium at the front, smiling affably, the picture of unconcern. MG wondered if she was the only one who noticed the slight tension in his jaw.

  One of the judges, looked down at the salad thoughtfully, then cut off a second bite. Glory, hallelujah!

  Joe kept his smile in place as the judges marked their scorecards and the attendants removed the salad plates.

  “What do you have for an entrée today, Chef?” the announcer asked.

  “Our entrée is quail from right here in the Hill Country. Stuffed with pecans and North Texas cheddar. Served on a bed of Texas grits with bacon from Doheny Farms. The sauce is based on jalapeno jelly from Dripping Springs.”

  The judges dug into the quail carefully, at least for the first bite. After that nobody was careful any more. When one of the attendants tried to take away one of the plates, the judge held on firmly, giving him a quelling look. Joe’s grin had moved from guarded to genuine.

  “And for dessert?” The announcer looked like he wanted a quail of his own.

  “For dessert, we present lemon panna cotta, dressed with a compote of Texas pear and pomegranate.” He turned his smile on the judges. “We hope you enjoy it.”

  They did, if MG was any judge at all.

  “Thank you, Chef,” the announcer intoned.

  Joe inclined his head slightly toward the announcer, then toward the judges. And then he walked back to the sidelines with Darcy.

  The woman behind MG sighed again. “Wow.”

  Yes, indeed. She began to work her way across the room as Fairley moved into the spot Joe had vacated. She didn’t much care what Fairley was serving anyway. When she reached the far side, Joe glanced up and saw her, his smile spreading to show a slight dimple in his cheek.

  It was a good thing there were a lot of people around. Otherwise, she might have been honor bound to do something about that.

  He made his way through the crowd toward her. “Hey,” he said.

  She managed to keep her grin from sliding into the idiot category. “Hey yourself. You did a good job up there. The judges loved your quail.”

  “Looked like they did. ’Course they’ve still got to taste whatever it is the Beav has cooked up.” He took her hand, pulling her back to stand with him and Darcy.

  “And your philosophy, Chef?” the announcer was saying.

  “We believe in giving the classics a new twist, bringing them up to date, so people can enjoy them all over again. It’s all about deconstruction and reconstruction.”

  Darcy looked like she’d just sucked on one of her lemons. “It’s all about being a pompous asshat,” she muttered.

  “He’s definitely got that covered,” MG muttered back.

  “Shush, children.” Joe shook his head.

  The Beav’s appetizer—a salad including nopales marinated in chile-laced vinegar—didn’t strike her as all that interesting, although the judges seemed to treat it with respect. Still, she didn’t notice any of them trying to hold onto their plates when the attendants came to take them away.

  “And what’s your main dish, Chef?”

  Fairley seemed to swell slightly, like a toad getting ready to croak. “For my main dish, I present my reinterpretation of a Texas classic.” He waited, smiling, chin up while the attendants placed the plates in front of each judge. MG narrowed her eyes. It looked like white, waxed paper bags on the plates.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the twenty-first century version of Frito pie. Venison chili with black beans on a bed of fresh tortilla chips. Enjoy!”

  MG glanced at Joe. His forehead was furrowed. “What in the fucking hell?” he muttered.

  Darcy shook her head. “Absolute horse shit.”

  The judges looked at the bags a little dubiously. Fairley’s triumphant expression turned to irritation. Finally one of the judges tore the bag open, dumping the contents on his plate. After a moment, the others followed his example.

  “What are the chances they’ll like this?” MG whispered.

  Joe shook his head. “No idea.”

  She studied the judges’ faces, but they were back to deadpan again. One or two seemed to be taking several bites, while another one or two were a lot more restrained.

  “Pretentious shit,” Darcy muttered. “If you’re making Frito pie, make fucking Frito pie. Don’t screw around.”

  “And your dessert, Chef?” the announcer was saying.

  “My dessert is another reinterpretation of traditional cuisine. Ladies and gentlemen, moon pies, with Cointreau flavored crème fraiche.”

  Darcy’s eyebrow arched. “After chili? Is he nuts?”

  Joe shrugged. “Could work. Depends on size.”

  The moon pies that the attendants were placing on the judges’ tables looked like coasters. The judges were taking tiny bites, and MG wondered suddenly just how much appetite they had left after four partial meals.

  Finally all six judges leaned back and the attendants removed the moon pie remains.

  “Thank you, Chef,” the announcer intoned.

  Fairley nodded curtly at the announcer and somewhat less curtly at the judges before stepping away.

  “The judges will now confer with their score cards and we’ll announce the winners. While we wait, we invite you to try some of the dishes our judges have been sampling.” He waved toward a table at the side. The crowd moved toward the table so swiftly MG worried someone might be trampled in the stampede.

  “When did they decide to do that?”

  Darcy shrugged. “They let us know yesterday. We whipped up a few extra dishes.”

  “Very few in the case of the quail,” Joe said dryly.

  “So they’ll eat panna cotta.” Darcy shrugged again. “It’s cheap and it’s on the menu. Maybe some of them will come to the restaurant for more.”

  He gave her a slow grin. “Spoken like a true sous chef.”

  Darcy’s face flushed slightly. MG hoped it was with pleasure. She glanced at her watch. “I need to call the hospital again. Do you think it’s going to take them much longer?”

  Joe shook his head. “No telling. Go on ahead, darlin’. You’ve got some time.”

  MG felt the warmth of his smile all the way to her toes. She leaned up quickly and kissed him on the cheek. “Deal.”

  His arm slid around her waist and he pulled her back, dipping his head to kiss her lips. She heard Darcy chuckle beside them.

  “Get a room,” she muttered.

  “I intend to. Just as soon as this damned competition is over.” His eyes were dark again, staring down into hers.

  MG took a breath, willing her pulse to return to normal. “Well, okay then. I’ll be right back.” She stepped toward the door, giving him another quick smile, and beat a hasty retreat.

  All the way across the room, she caught envious glances from other women. Which, of course, she absolutely deserved.

  Joe tried to decide if a long judging period was good or bad. They’d been out almost a half hour now. Of course, they could be taking a Pepto-Bismol break. He would be himself if he’d had to finish up with that menu from the Beav.

  MG had returned to stand beside him again, checking her watch regularly.

  Darcy seemed to be moving from irritable to homicidal the longer they waited. He didn’t entirely blame her. The minute this sorry-ass competition was over, he was heading for the Faro for a beer. Maybe he’d get to hear MG sing.

  Finally, forty minutes later, the judges returned to their table. They still looked slightly dazed. Not surprising, given the amount of food they’d consumed over the last hour and a half.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, before I announce the judges’ decisions, let me thank you all for coming this afternoon. The firs
t annual Wine and Food Festival Culinary Competition has been a rousing success.” The man at the microphone stepped away slightly so that he could lead the applause. Joe recognized him—Arthur Craven, head of the Konigsburg Merchants Association.

  Craven leaned back to the microphone again. “Now, we have four categories here: best appetizer, best entrée, and best dessert. And the overall award for the best meal. Without further ado, let’s get on to the announcements.”

  “Yeah, let’s,” Darcy snarled.

  “Winners if you’d come forward when I announce your names,” Craven added, glancing around the room to make sure everyone was still around. Given the amount of time this was taking, Joe was almost surprised they all still were.

  “For best appetizer, our very first award goes to…” Craven paused for effect. Darcy growled.

  “Clemencia Rodriguez and the Faro for her superlative fried green tomatoes.” Craven clapped along with the crowd, oblivious to the noise it was making in the mike.

  Clem stepped forward, grinning so widely she looked as if her face might split in two. Craven handed her the award—a medal encased in Plexiglas. She waved at the crowd, still grinning.

  Darcy blew out a breath. “At least it wasn’t Fairley.”

  “At least.” Joe kept his arms folded across his chest.

  “Now we’re going to skip to the dessert before we do the entrée,” Craven explained.

  “Why?” Darcy muttered, arching her brows.

  Joe shrugged, keeping his gaze on Fairley.

  “Best dessert goes to…Lee Contreras of Brenner’s for his pot de crème.” Craven slaughtered the pronunciation, of course, but Lee didn’t seem to care. He took his medal then gave Clem a quick hug before stepping next to her.

  “Goddamn son of a bitch,” Darcy growled.

  “Steady.” Joe’s chest felt so tight suddenly it was almost difficult to breathe. Stupid contest.

  “They can’t have chosen that goddamn Frito shit,” Darcy muttered. “Tell me they can’t.”

  “Who knows, darlin’, who knows?”

  “Best entrée…” Craven seemed to wait even longer this time before breaking into a wide grin. “Joe LeBlanc of the Rose for that Hill Country quail.”