The Two-Plate Solution

by Jeff Oliver

  A knock came on the car door and both Sara and Al-Asari flinched. Jennings stood there next to a short man in a burgundy jacket and a comb-over. He appeared almost grotesquely happy, laugh lines spread all over his face. He carried a large metal briefcase handcuffed to his wrist.

  “My producers,” said Jennings, as the Manager slid into the backseat with her. He smiled and nodded enthusiastically. “Sara, one stop before we head back to the resort. We found a local judge for today’s baking challenge. Mr. Shavit’s wife is a halva legend.”

  “She’s amazing, I assure you,” the Manager said, elated by the turn of events. “Best halva in the Middle East!”

  They drove through the streets of Eilat. The Manager gave directions, breathless with excitement. When they arrived on his block of small, semi-detached houses, he could not contain himself. “You must come in. All of you, please!”

  Sara, Jennings, and Al-Asari followed the man to the front door of his home. When he opened the door, a wave of caramel and butter wafted into every nostril. Sara drooled on her chin.

  “Ruchama? We have company, my dear,” the Manager said.

  “Not now, Shlumie. I am baking,” a woman’s voice said from the next room.

  “Ruchama, very important company,” the Manager sang.

  “Can’t it wait? I will ruin the whole batch,” the woman said.

  Soon she appeared; tall, blonde, and curvy, patting flour off of her fingers and onto her baking apron.

  “Wow,” said Jennings.

  Ruchama was even more gorgeous in person—bright green eyes and wavy hair. A true bombshell, an Israeli Giada De Laurentis. The Manager couldn’t have been more proud.

  “This is my Ruchama,” he gushed, presenting her as if she was a work of art.

  “A sincere pleasure,” said Jennings. “Your husband allowed me a taste of your pastry. You have a rare culinary gift.”

  “Ach, that batch is two days old!” she said, embarrassed. “Shlumie, how could you? Come, taste this instead.” Ruchama disappeared into the kitchen, then returned with a tray of warm Moroccan date cookies. In seconds, the tray was crumbs.

  “How would you like to be on television?” Sara asked.

  “Today,” said her husband.

  “Television? But I am covered in flour,” said Ruchama.

  “Philippe must meet you,” said Jennings.

  “Philippe Duval,” the Manager emphasized to his wife. “You will judge next to Philippe Duvall!”

  Ruchama’s mouth dropped open. “B-b-but I am covered in flour,” she said.

  In minutes, they were all back in the car—Sara, Al-Asari, Jennings, the Bank Manager with his metal briefcase handcuffed to his wrist, and his gorgeous wife, Ruchama.

  “Now everyone will know,” the Manager marveled, squeezing his wife’s hand. “The whole world will know of my Ruchama!”

  Back at the resort, Jennings hopped onto the landline to talk to New York.

  “I’m telling you, Glen, halva is the new cupcakes. We’ll be way ahead of the curve on this. Think about it: The Network predicts major food trend in riveting Season Five finale. It’s organic and dramatic, and we have a gorgeous local talent to judge. Who?… We discovered her… She’s a knockout, like a young Cat Cora, but straight and Israeli. This will represent the coming together of the tribes. What do Jews and Arabs love more than killing each other? Halva. I’m telling you, it writes itself…”

  “She’s good,” Al-Asari said.

  “Best there is,” Sara replied.

  “He went for it,” Jennings said after hanging up. “Now what?”

  Sara shrugged. “I guess it’s cameras up for Nervous Bakedown.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Two cooking stations were set up on a grassy area near the hotel pool. Beside them were two fully loaded pantries, two identical stainless-steel fridges, and one circular table covered mysteriously with a burgundy tablecloth. The original cast of Natural Dish-aster: Season Five gathered at their cooking station taking educated guesses.

  “Probably another goddamn matzah challenge,” said Etienne.

  “I bet it’s a whole pig that we somehow have to cook kosher,” said Chef Nisha.

  “Not sure that’s even remotely possible,” said Tanya.

  “Exactly why it’s probably the challenge,” said Nisha.

  Philippe Duvall took a seat next to the supermodel Bilha Tekeli and adjusted his purple cravat. Next to them sat the bank manager’s wife, the “Halva Queen of Eilat,” Ruchama Shavit. She squealed when she first met the two celebrity foodies with whom she would judge.

  “I have a shrine to each one of you in my home,” Ruchama had gushed. “Mr. Duvall, I highlighted so many pages of your Restauran-tour series that it’s painted yellow. And Ms. Tekeli, if it weren’t for your work with the orphaned animal shelter, I would never have found my cat Norman. He was seconds from being put down, but why put a blind two-legged cat down if he is full of love? He is in my heart even now and I thank you. You have both changed my life immeasurably and I am not worthy of sitting next to you at this table.”

  Tekeli shot Duvall a look. Both of them loved this poor creature on sight.

  “Nonsense!” said Duvall. “It is we who are honored. We tasted your halva—from heaven itself.”

  “I could not stop eating,” Tekeli said. “Thank God I don’t do nudes anymore. You have expanded my ass immeasurably!”

  “I am almost faint. You tasted my halva?” Ruchama said. “I am beyond honored.”

  “Tell me, Ruchama,” Duvall said. “Would you like to be a bit naughty and share a cigarette with us—a three-way?”

  “It would be a dream,” she said.

  In seconds, they were all laughing and smoking together, complaining about that sly fox Sara and calling the competition “a sham, but you know that the exposure is unmatched…”

  The terrorist contestants arrived and were staged in a neat semi-circle next to their opponents. The sun was high in the sky and the sea was calm—perfect for a shoot. Sara, Ruti, and Al-Asari took their seats in the control room tent. The Bank Manager sat on a chair in the back, resting his wrist with the metal briefcase on his lap.

  “Cameras up. Let’s do this,” Sara said into her walkie.

  CJ Bazemore, in an aquamarine silk chef coat with diamondencrusted waves across the back, settled on his mark. “Chef Cowboy, Chef Salid, your teams have chosen you to represent them in the elimination round,” he said. “Sadly, one of you will be going home.”

  Cameras cut to sad looks from Clora, who would either play Cowboy’s great love or his great betrayer (Post wasn’t certain which yet, and it depended on whether she hooked up with Joaquim on camera after eliminations). Regardless, a close-up of her was crucial.

  “The elimination challenge is a little game I like to call Nervous Bakedown,” said Bazemore. “And today you will be making a favorite of this region: halva.”

  “Yes!” Cowboy said, high-fiving his teammates. “I’m fuckin’ winning this!”

  CHEF COWBOY (INT.): “Never made halva in my life. Don’t even know what the hell it is. Just acted cocky to psyche out Osama over there.”

  “Here’s how the game works,” CJ Bazemore said. “Each of you will be given the very basics for Israeli halva: honey, tahini, and pistachios. To make halva, you will need only these things. But this is Nervous Bakedown.”

  With a grand flourish, Bazemore pulled the burgundy tablecloth off the round table to reveal a spinnable wheel split into eight separate sections. In all but two sections was an ingredient that would make any baked good nearly inedible: Dill pickles. Blue cheese. Salmon roe. Anchovies. Turkey jerky. And of course that old stinky favorite, durian. Two sections were left empty.

  “You must spin this table of ingredients three times,” said Bazemore. “If you spin the wheel and land on a blank, you are safe, but if you land on a space with an ingredient, then you must incorporate that ingredient into your halva.”

  CHEF JOAQUIM (INT.): �
�If Cowboy gets even one of those ingredients, he’s boned. Imagine anchovy halva. I’m gonna have sweet Clora all to myself.”

  “Chef Cowboy, since you are not a murderer of innocent women and children, you have the choice—you may spin first or pass to your terrorist foe,” said Bazemore.

  “I’ll spin,” Cowboy said, and again gave his teammates highfives.

  CHEF COWBOY (INT.): “Shitting a ton o’ bricks over here.”

  Cowboy approached the table, took a deep breath, and spun the wheel. It went around several times and then slowed. Cowboy turned pale as it settled on the salmon roe. But then, at the last millisecond, it clicked, passing into a bare spot.

  “Yee-haw!” Cowboy hooted, waving around his cowboy hat.

  “All clear for Chef Dex’s first spin,” said CJ Bazemore. “Salid, you’re up,”

  Salid stepped forward and grabbed the wheel. He spun, then shut his eyes. When he heard the wheel come to a stop, his team sighed while the others celebrated.

  “Ouch,” said Bazemore. “Unfortunately, Chef Salid, you must now incorporate blue cheese into your halva. Back to you, Cowboy.”

  Cowboy spun again. The table almost toppled over and it took half a minute for the wheel to finally settle. When it did…

  “Yee-ha! Now that’s how we do it in Texas!” Cowboy said, riding an invisible bronco. His team went mad.

  “Wow,” CJ Bazemore said. “Two empty spins. Only one more spin for you, Chef Dex, and no adds. Salid, you have blue cheese and two more spins.”

  Salid looked back at his group. Sheik was disgusted. He pounded his fist into his hand as if to say, “Win this or die.” Salid didn’t need any more motivation.

  “Aw shiiiiit!” Cowboy called out. “Armageddon!”

  And it was. Salid’s spin had stopped on anchovies. His head hung low, he took the ingredient and placed it on his cooking station next to the blue cheese.

  “Honestly, I have no idea how you’re going to do it,” said Bazemore. “Chef Dex, final spin. And in this final spin, you do have an option. You are allowed to skip your spin and choose the ingredients you want, or risk it, and place your spin in the hands of God.”

  Cowboy had watched enough reality TV to see an opportunity to milk screen time. He stood on his toes peering at the wheel of ingredients: dill pickles, salmon roe, durian. Oh hell! He turned to his teammates as if he was unsure.

  “Spin it,” they pleaded, especially Joaquim.

  Cowboy took a deep breath. “I’ll take the turkey jerky,” he said.

  CHEF COWBOY (INT.): “Ain’t nothin’ a cowboy can’t do with jerky!”

  “Chef Dex, you’ve got that turkey jerky. Now it’s up to your opponent. Chef Salid, want to hand pick your ingredient or spin?”

  Salid looked at Sheik, who snarled at him. Salid was sick of taking his aggressive bullshit. He spat at the ground and walked up to the table.

  “Durian?!” CJ Bazemore gasped. “You must be insane!”

  The cast members rejoiced. The terrorists were enraged.

  Sheik dragged his thumb across his throat.

  TERRORIST #7 (INT.): “Choosing durian in a halva challenge is the culinary equivalent of your suicide vest failing to ignite while in police custody. *I’m not saying this. It’s crazy…” (*trimmed in post).

  “Let me survey the damage here,” said Bazemore. “Chef Dex, you’ve got turkey jerky. Chef Salid, you must incorporate blue cheese, anchovies, and durian into your halva. Tell me, Chef Salid, what are you going to do with those ingredients?”

  “I will pray,” Salid said.

  “Well, hopefully, your team can help you out too, because you have five minutes to plan your recipe, and then only twenty minutes to create your halva. Clock starts now!”

  Cowboy ran back to his team. They all gave him encouraging pats on the back. When Cowboy hugged Clora, Joaquim rolled his eyes. The team came together and explained to Cowboy how to make a simple halva.

  “Don’t get fancy,” Clora suggested.

  “Yeah, stay pedestrian. That’s your thing,” added Joaquim.

  Clora’s chuckle made Cowboy’s blood boil.

  “You calling me pedestrian, fool?” said Cowboy. “I’m The Cowboy Chef and I will string you up.”

  “Right, the cowboy wants to string up an Indian,” said Joaquim.

  “You’re Puerto Rican,” said Cowboy.

  “Like you know the difference.”

  “We’ll see who’s pedestrian,” snapped Cowboy. “You watch me rip this raghead apart.”

  “I take offense to that,” said Chrissy.

  On the terrorist side, Salid sat meditating while Sheik berated him. But Salid heard none of it. He was gone again, off in his memories. Salid’s mother was on her deathbed. Her iron levels were dangerously low, but she was refusing to take her medicine—said it made everything foggy. Salid’s sister was getting married in only a few days, and Salid’s mother said she wanted to be alert for every minute of it, even if it killed her. So Salid did what he could. He infused sugary desserts with mineral supplements—fish eggs, cheese, and even once, durian. His mother made it to the wedding, and some marveled at the color in her cheeks.

  “Cooking time starts now!” Bazemore announced.

  Cowboy and Salid ran to their cooking stations. Cowboy grabbed the honey, the tahini, and the pistachios—the basics. He got prepping, chopping up the pistachios, but was bothered by something. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Clora sitting next to Joaquim. They weren’t watching or helping him. Instead, they were giggling at some dumb joke, and she was touching his arm.

  “Fuck that noise,” Cowboy muttered to himself. “I ain’t losing my girl to no reekin’ Rican dude.”

  Cowboy dropped his work and marched back to the pantry. He made a big show of picking out additional ingredients—dark chocolate, dates, and just to prove his point, elderflower. He strutted back to his table and slammed down the ingredients, but Clora was still giggling at that assclown, not paying Cowboy a lick of attention. “Imagine, a homebred Texas girl getting dazzled by that New York slickster. Well, no siree, Bob. I ain’t puttin’ up with that horseshit.”

  Cowboy went back to the pantry again. He saw lemons, put his hand on brown sugar, and looked back—Clora still wasn’t looking his way. It was time to make a statement. So he opened the fridge and got out the pork butt.

  “Hey, Cowboy, what the hell are you doing?” Tanya called out.

  “I’m showing you jackasses how it’s done Texas style!” He fired up the grill and slapped down the meat, then muttered, “Now that ought to get her damn attention.”

  And it did. “You’ve got to admire his courage,” Clora said to Joaquim, who frowned.

  Cowboy grinned. “That’s right! Ain’t no ISIS gonna defeat a true cowboy. Yee-haw!”

  “Yee-haw!” said his teammates.

  Meanwhile, Salid was hard at work. He hacked the durian in half, letting the flatulent smell waft into his nostrils as he sliced it thin and laid it on the grill. He ground up the salmon roe and anchovies and added honey to soften their strong flavors. If he got it right, you’d still taste the fishy quality, but it would work as a savory balance against the cloying sweetness of the halva.

  In the control room tent, Jennings hovered over Sara’s shoulder. “It’s all about cutaways,” she said. “Get in that pot. If we don’t see the process, we have no story.”

  “Get those cameras inside those pots,” Sara walkied. “Need to see the process.”

  “Good. What about the teams. How are they reacting?” Jennings said.

  “Camera four’s on wide. We’ll do reactions in pick-ups and spray the whole thing down.”

  “No, I want organic, in-the-moment reactions,” said Jennings. “What’s Clora doing? Cowboy is clearly showing off for her.”

  “You think?” Sara said. “Camera four, get in on Clora. Story there.” And indeed Clora was blowing kisses to Cowboy while Joaquim sulked in the background.

  “Nice
catch,” Sara said to Jennings.

  Jennings smiled. She felt good. Everything was at it should be. The contest was coming off with nice drama, and the food might even be edible.

  “I’ve got to go ten-one,” Sara said to Jennings. “How about you step in and direct for a bit?” Jennings was taken aback. “Between us producers, the camera work on Celebrity Pre-nup was cutting edge. Would be nice to get some of that in here,” Sara added.

  Jennings noticed Al-Asari watching. She grinned. “I’ll give you five minutes,” she said.

  Jennings took the director’s chair and began yammering immediately. “Get in those pots and then back up to faces. This is basic, guys. Need to see that raw emotion—pots, faces, pots, faces. Don’t be shy! Get in there!” The cameras jerked back and forth, causing Jennings to have a conniption about lack of instinct. “What is this, amateur hour?” she said to the DP with a grin, but forgot to turn off her walkie, so everyone heard. Even the Bank Manager, who sat there with his briefcase cuffed to his wrist, winced at that faux pas.

  Sara and Al-Asari met outside of the tent, away from the action. “I thought you said you were ready,” Sara said.

  “It is late, but they will be here. I have no doubt,” said Al-Asari.

  “Hey,” Ruti cut in, “what are you two scheming about over there?” She’d been standing a few feet away. “Who will be here?”

  “Oh, just the judging panel,” Sara said. “If you can believe it, Ruchama has become a prima donna already.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Ruti said. She turned to Al-Asari. “How’s your hand?”

  “Healing up nicely. Thank you again for being so gentle with me,” said Al-Asari.

  “Well, I needed you alive… for now,” Ruti said, without a lick of sarcasm.

  “Medic!” a producer called out. “Cowboy’s cut.”

  “Gotta go,” Ruti said. “Stop scheming, you two. You look suspicious.” Then she ran off with her first-aid kit.