by Jeff Oliver
“Pedestrian,” sighed Chrissy, a vegan food blogger in hipster glasses who had scored a book deal after her celebrated Twitter feud with Paula Deen.
“How about a sage-infused hand-picked artisanal lamb shank steak with a maple mousseline and oregano-curried oxtail tartar with jalapeno aioli?” suggested Etienne, whose lumberjack beard and fully-tattooed forearms were compulsory in Portland kitchens.
“Why don’t you just blow Alain Passard while you’re at it?” said Tanya. “Can we all agree that we’re going farm to table?”
“YES,” everyone said.
“And that it should be some kind of elevated comfort food?”
“YES.”
“I can use the bone marrow to start an offal app,” said Chef LizZ, who spelled her name that way. Her severe buzz cut and Suicide Grrrls neck tattoo implied that the spelling was non-negotiable.
“No fucking offal, LizZ. Offal is Awful,” said Chef Nisha.
“Guys, we’re in Israel. Let’s stay locavore,” suggested Chef Ghana, who had left an investment banking job at Morgan Stanley to open Mrs. Nice, a popular East Village eatery featuring duck confit Jamaican patties. “We need to tell a story with this meal. Think about it—the story of Passover.”
“An elevated Seder plate,” said Tanya. “Genius.”
“Too Jewish?”
“Let’s add a Palestinian element,” said Etienne “A stuffed vegetable mahashi?”
“Leave it to the French guy to add a dash of anti-Semitism,” said Chef Cowboy.
“Salope putain!” said Etienne.
“I’ll work on the shank bone.”
“I’ll devil the eggs with shaved truffles.”
“I’ll do pomegranate-glazed charozet.”
“Twenty-two minutes left!” CJ Bazemore called out.
And just like that, the chefs got to work, with a focus and determination that seemed unimaginable seconds before.
CHEF GHANA (INT.): “We settled on an elevated Seder plate, which was an inspired idea if I do say so myself. It was nice to have the whole team onboard.”
CHEF JOAQUIM (INT.): “The Seder plate idea is idiotic and slightly racist, but fuck it. This thing bombs, Ghana’s the one getting thrown under the bus, not me.”
CHEF CHRISSY (INT.): “As the youngest chef on the team, I’ll read the four questions. Oh wait. All four questions are the same: ‘What was Etienne thinking adding a Palestinian element to a Seder plate?’ That dude is all ten plagues.”
Back on the terrorists’ side, Salid moved with the grace and strength of a Bolshoi dancer. He tossed spices in the air, twirled saucepans, chopped with laser precision, inhaled aromas, and nipped sauces from the tip of a wooden spoon as he solved an ever-evolving math problem to which he always knew the answer. The others stayed busy, tidying up when they weren’t chopping or mixing under Salid’s instruction. “Let it simmer,” Salid said. “The key is patience.”
“Four minutes left!” CJ Bazemore called out.
“He’s incredible,” Ruti said from the control room. “A natural talent.”
“Definitely easy to watch,” admitted Sara. “But he still has to face the judges.”
With only a minute left, Salid Jackson-Pollacked his sauces into an artful crescent on the plates and delicately balanced crispy tarragon leaves atop. He used his last few seconds to size up Team Mise En Bouche. He saw their training, their precision, their determination, but he saw no passion in their work.
“That’s it. Time’s up,” CJ Bazemore said, adding, “Put your hands in the ay-urr. I wanna see your armpit hay-urr!”
“We’ll get that in pick-ups.” Sara rolled her eyes.
“May I introduce our esteemed judges for this challenge,” continued Bazemore. “Sir Philippe Duvall is the Chief Culinary Critic for the London Times.”
A cravat-wearing bear of a man in a double-breasted suit and enormous gold cufflinks on his starched French cuffs nodded and frowned.
“And of course you all know author, social critic, international environmental activist, and former Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover girl, Bilha Tekeli,” said Bazemore.
The Supermodel, who wore a dress two sizes smaller than a Kleenex, gave her trademark sexy-face and coy wave.
Cameras were set for Team Mise En Bouche to present first. Chef Ghana walked the plates up to the judges’ table.
“What we have here is a deconstructed Seder plate,” she said. “A delicious shank bone of roast lamb encrusted with tarragon and a foam béchamel glaze, an oxtail maror liverwurst infused with date reduction, fried parsley spiced with local hand-picked lemon rinds, deviled eggs with za’atar, and tahini-infused charoset. We have also added a Palestinian element, mahashi, with braised prunes and pine nut puree. The Seder plate comes from a time when Israel lived in racial harmony, without walls, and Arabs were one with the Jews. Enjoy.”
“That interpretation of history is completely insane,” muttered Al-Asari in the control room.
The Cravat and the Supermodel picked up their forks. Bilha Tekeli dipped her fried parsley into kosher salt water and acted as she always did—as if she was full. She took a small sampling of the other elements and smiled when she tasted the maror. Duvall took bigger portions of everything, but he showed no emotion. His frown was immovable. Chef Ghana waited patiently, smiling and nodding.
“It eats well,” the Cravat said. “Good mouth-feel on the shank bone. A competent deviled egg. And I was happy to see a genuine Palestinian mahashi on the Seder plate. Haven’t seen that before.”
“Thank you,” Ghana gloated, but Duvall wasn’t done.
“Your oxtail is woefully overcooked and your charozet is poorly seasoned. The apple went limp on my fork. Rather disappointing.”
“Thank you,” Ghana repeated, now stoic.
She turned her attention to Bilha Tekeli. “Passover has always been my favorite holiday, and charozet was always my favorite part growing up. I liked to swirl it around on my tongue and let the honey drip down my chin all sweet and sticky,” said the Sports Illustrated cover model. “Unfortunately, this charozet lacked sweetness. And the oxtail, I agree, is dry. All in all, it’s a well-executed plate but lacks the joy I recall as a little girl.”
“Thank you,” repeated Chef Ghana, bowing and looking to the ground. She returned to her team, who gave encouraging pats on the back.
“ISIS terrorists, please introduce your dish,” said CJ Bazemore.
Sheik nudged Salid forward but he resisted.
“I cannot,” Salid said.
“Now you are frightened?” Sheik grinned. “Then be frightened. Or I crush you.”
He shoved Salid forward. The tiny chef found himself standing several feet from the judges’ table with half a dozen cameras fixed on him. His entire body shuddered. He picked up the plates and walked them over to the judges, hands shaking as he laid them down. “This is a traditional comfort food called sinaya,” he said, his voice barely audible.
“Speak up, boy,” The Cravat said. “You’re not this timid when you’re murdering women and children in Libya, I bet.”
Salid collected himself with a deep breath. He closed his eyes and thought back to what had inspired the dish.
The Cravat rolled his eyes. “Oh boy, we’ve got a real communicator here!”
Salid swallowed hard. His throat felt like sandpaper. He heard Sheik growl behind him, his hot breath nearly toppling him.
“My mother made me this dish at a time of great personal sadness,” Salid said, louder now. “It made me feel like a human being again. It reminded me how rich life can be even when you have great sorrow. That is all you need to know.” He bowed his head and waited.
“Acceptable description,” the Supermodel said. “Let us taste.”
The judges leaned forward, eager to scrutinize the plating of a dish that seemed a bit too—how could they put it?—a bit too Arab. But as they did, the sweet earthy aroma of the cumin, za’atar, and fried onions filled their nostrils, and their eyes c
losed blissfully.
There is a specific way that judges are supposed to eat a dish on-camera during a culinary competition. They are to look into the eyes of the chef and frown; they are to take a small forkful that contains many of the flavors; they are to chew lightly and dab the corners of their mouths after the bite, sip some water, and then frown, even if they are about to deliver good news. But something overcame both Philippe Duvall and Bilha Tekeli when the sumptuous aroma of Salid’s cooking entered their nostrils. Something primal. They felt a hunger seldom arrived at during this age of quick service. An aching hunger. But not for food alone—for the simple joy of being alive. The scent triggered a memory back to their happiest, simplest days, surrounded by family and friends, stifling belly laughs and tears at a beautiful story well told.
Reflexively, their forks contained a much larger portion than was permitted, and when the sinaya touched their tongues, they abandoned any sense of poker face and all but foodgasmed for the cameras. The sexiest woman in Israel and possibly the world moaned audibly. She repositioned her thighs in a way that made the Cravat look over for only a split second before using that disruption as an opportunity to take a second forkful of Salid’s dish. No one takes a second forkful. Not ever.
The Supermodel actually bent over and licked the plate clean of its sauces, a sight that many men and women on the crew leaned in to behold. The two judges had just completely lost themselves.
“Please remind the talent that these are the bad guys,” Sara said over walkie.
A producer awoke the two judges from their daydream. The Supermodel and The Cravat were irritated by the interruption. Their instinct was to cry out like newborn babies pulled too soon from the warmth of the womb.
The Cravat gazed at Salid, confused and suspicious, his eyes wet, his mouth unable to be utilized for anything but culinary pleasure. The Supermodel ran a finger slowly along her pouty lips to extend the tingling sensation she felt there.
Sara peeked her head out of the control room tent and called out impatiently, “So, how was it, Judges?”
“It was nothing short of brilliant,” the Cravat said in breathless amazement. His face was painted in genuine gratitude.
“The sun, the moon, the stars,” the Supermodel moaned. “The ocean, the valleys, the mountains …”
“Brilliant,” said The Cravat. “Bravo, young man. What you have created here is a unicorn in the culinary realm. A true chupacabra.”
“My body is tingling everywhere,” said Tekeli.
There was a pause in production as Sara spoke into the Judge’s earpieces. “Hey, gang, so that was great—exactly what was needed. We’re just going to want some negatives to even this out or else it won’t cut right.”
“Got it,” Philippe Duvall said, forcing a frown and trying to pull himself together.
“Some negatives, of course,” said Tekeli, straightening her miniskirt. The Supermodel looked in her compact mirror and applied some lipstick, a brighter shade of red than before. She looked in Salid’s general direction without looking at him directly.
“Candied dates? That’s a bit, um, derivative,” she coughed out, embarrassed by the insincerity of her words. “Yes, I’ve seen that before. It’s not terribly new, is it?”
“New?” Salid said.
“Absolutely not new whatsoever,” the Cravat cut in, thankful to have something to build on. “And the dish was a bit too, um, well, too little of it, frankly.” The Cravat looked down his nose at a plate all but licked clean. “Not nearly enough food overall. I mean, do you wish me to starve, sir?” he said with more resolve. “No, this would never make it out of my kitchen. My readers would be left wanting more. So very much more.”
“Precisely,” said the Supermodel. “There simply wasn’t enough food on the plate to eat. Terribly disappointing, that.”
Having never experienced criticism of his cooking, let alone from two internationally known food personalities, Salid genuinely felt hurt. “Thank you,” he managed, head bowed deeply.
“No, thank you, young man,” said the Cravat.
“Repo cameras for the announcement,” said the 2nd AD.
Sara headed out of the control room tent. Her next bit of business would require a light touch. She weighed her words carefully as she walked towards the talent.
Philippe Duvall and Bilha Tekeli stood by the Crafty Table sharing a single cigarette.
“Pretty close one,” Sara said, pulling out a cigarette of her own.
Both judges were aghast. “You still smoke those things?” the Supermodel said.
“Aren’t you afraid of cancer?” asked Duvall.
“But…”
“This?” Bilha said, looking at the cigarette she was smoking like it was something else entirely. “This is post-coital. Did you taste that dish? The boy is a master. Tell me, who did he train with? Chef Ottolenghi? Scheft? Shaya?”
“I see the world in a deeper way now,” marveled Duvall. He took the cigarette from Tekeli and lifted it to his lips. “It’s really about human love and kindness, isn’t it? That bond.”
“Yes, love. And mothers. And family,” Tekeli said, gazing off into the sky.
Sara was losing ground, so she ripped off the bandage. “It would really help if you gave this one to Team Mise En Bouche,” she said. “This is a sponsored challenge, and I don’t know how Oakley’s Beans would take it if the terrorists won.”
“Absolutely not,” said the Cravat. “If the terrorists lose, I walk.”
“Ditto,” said the Supermodel.
“I hear you,” Sara said. “And we should build on that. My concern is we’ll look to be pandering. This episode will air around Holocaust Remembrance Day. We may appear to be sympathetic to a sworn enemy of Israel and America. I mean, they should win, but just not this round, okay?”
“Absolutely this round,” insisted the Cravat. “Screw Oakley’s Beans. They sell chemical-infused sludge.”
“From your lips to Hashem’s ears,” says Bilha. “By the way, couldn’t you have gotten a hummus sponsor? Sabra should have been all over this.”
Sara smiled, considering her next move. “Philippe, may I please have a word? About something else entirely.”
“Certainly. But I won’t change my mind. I assure you of that,” Duvall said. He handed the supermodel the cigarette. “Excuse me, Madame Tekeli.”
“Stay strong,” she said. “Sara is a snake in the Garden of Eden.”
“Agreed.”
Sara walked off with Duvall, who was already ranting. “I absolutely will not bend on this one. Feel free to send me packing. I have my integrity, and integrity cannot be bought.”
“I read your article in the Times,” said Sara. “I had no idea you were such a fan of Chef Hung Mhamia.”
“The man is my gastronomic god. His bimbombap is from heaven,” said Duvall. “But that’s in my bio. What kind of snake oil are you selling, Sara? Because I’m not buying.”
“What if I could get Chef Mhamia to blurb your new book?” said Sara.
Duvall scoffed. “Mhamia never blurbs,” he said. “That’s part of his mystique and, frankly, something that I respect deeply about him. A man of his talents and integrity wouldn’t shuck his name off like that. His brand is purity, earthliness. He cooks and eats only the cleanest farm-to-table herbs and plants. His fish are imported straight from the Sea of Jumpai.”
Sara pulled out her iPhone and flipped on her video app. On the small screen was a video of Chef Hung Mahamia sitting on a hotel bed. He had a bottle of Wild Turkey on one knee and a giggly brunette in a low-cut miniskirt on the other. Mahamia leaned forward, causing the camera to jerk and revealing that Sara was the one filming.
“You know Chef Mahamia?” Duvall was shocked.
“Wait for it,” said Sara.
The camera panned back to Mhamia. He pushed the brunette off his lap and grabbed an enormous bag painted with the Wok & Roll logo. “Fuck cooking,” slurred the great chef. “This place serves delicious shi
t!” He dipped his hand into the bag and gorged on a greasy eggroll.
“An egg roll?” Duvall gasped, clutching his cravat. “Mhamia detests eggrolls. He calls them the French fries of Asia.”
“Fucking delicious!” Mhamia laughed in the video. “Sara, stop hogging that General Tso’s chicken. You know, I make the same shitty recipe at Ahusa House in London and call it Kokahamusai. Philippe Duvall gave me five stars for it in that ridiculous rag he writes for. Ha ha ha!”
And then the video cut out.
Sara tucked the phone back into her pocket. “It’s prearranged,” said Sara. “I erase the video, he writes a lovely blurb for your book. His first. I can show you the text correspondence.”
Duvall looked dazed. His forehead glistened with sweat and his upper lip trembled. “The terrorists must lose,” he said, hypnotized. “I know that now.”
“What about Bilha?” Sara said. “How will you convince her to go along?”
“I’ll deal with her. Don’t you worry,” said Duvall. “You just get me that blurb.”
Duvall walked off, speaking loudly enough for the Supermodel to hear. “I won’t hear another word of it, Sara. The terrorists lose, we walk, and that’s bloody final!”
“Bravo!” Tekeli called out. “My hero.”
Duvall turned to Sara and mouthed: “Get me that blurb.”
Sara nodded and headed back to the control room with a grin.
“We have our winners,” CJ Bazemore announced. “The Cannibal Challenge goes to…” He pulled a card from the pocket of his silk chef coat. “Team Mise En Bouche! You are now one step closer to saving Chef Brandon’s life and defeating the evil ISIS terrorists. Plus, you win a $5,000 prize from Oakley’s Beans. Oakley’s Beans, the best beans in the business.”
The cast hooted and hugged. Sheik growled into Salid’s ear. “I thought you said you can cook. You lost to dog food.”
“It can’t be,” Salid said. “The dish was perfect.”
“The judges don’t agree apparently,” Sheik said.
Bilha Tekeli convulsed when she heard the announcement. She turned to Duvall, and was shocked to see him looking coolly detached.