Topped Chef: A Key West Food Critic Mystery

by Lucy Burdette

  —Emma Hearst, chef at Sorella

  I puttered around at my Key Zest desk until four o’clock, when Peter had told us to show up at the Westin Resort and Marina Pier on Mallory Square for the next Topped Chef challenge. The usual gaggle of tourists was snapping pictures of the oversized Seward Johnson statues dancing behind the Custom House Museum, a few silly man-boys posing beneath the statues of the naked women.

  Behind the museum, alongside the Westin, three cooking stations had been set up under an enormous white tent. Stainless steel six-burner Wolf stoves with grills and ovens had been installed at each station—the equipment had me absolutely drooling. Peter must have spent a fortune to get it here. Each station was designed so the chefs would face the onlookers, with the food supply counter behind them. Although the advertising flyers said the show would begin at five, a large crowd had already begun to mill around outside the ropes. The central island counter space was piled high with the secret food supplies that had been promised, all covered by a white sheet. Deena waved me right over so I could get set up with my microphone.

  “We’re doing things a little differently today,” she said. “You’re going to have an earpiece as well as a mic so Peter and I can give you instructions during the cook-off.”

  “What kind of instructions?” I asked, suspicious. Hoping this wasn’t the point in the contest where they told us who we had to vote for.

  “We might want you all to circle around and watch someone’s sauté technique or their knife skills. Or if something’s going terribly wrong, we’ll definitely want your reactions, live.” She grinned. I hadn’t seen her look this lighthearted since I’d met her last fall.

  “How in the world did you get involved with all this?” I asked.

  “I worked in reality TV in my previous life. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until I got hired for this gig,” she said as she clipped the microphone to my shirt and slithered the wire down the back of my shirt.

  “Did you know Peter Shapiro before this week? Is that how you got hired?”

  “No, I’d never met him. But I jumped at the chance when I saw his listing on RealityStaff.com,” she said. “And he’s not the worst I’ve worked for, by a long shot. Besides, how many reality TV shows are filmed in Key West, right?”

  “Right.” I knew the Weather Channel had provided fake snow for Christmas at a home just up the Keys. And there had been an episode of House Hunters that my real-estate friend Cory Held had appeared in. And a local key lime pie taste-off a while back, but nothing major and national. “So you’re not working for Chad anymore?” My ex-boyfriend didn’t really deserve her—she was smart, organized, gorgeous, and kind. I found myself sort of hoping she’d dumped him.

  “I took the whole week off,” she said with a grin. “When I explained to Mr. tight-fisted Chad Lutz that he could let me have paid leave or he could find a new secretary and start from scratch, he didn’t have much trouble deciding.”

  “He’s not stupid,” I admitted. “He knows no one else would put up with him.”

  I was just about to ask her whether she’d heard anything new about Rizzoli’s murder, when Peter Shapiro beckoned her over. I wandered around the impromptu set, watching the cameramen set up their equipment and the makeup people work their magic. One of the girls whisked a layer of foundation and blush onto my face, and shellacked my curls with hairspray until not one follicle could move or even breathe. Ugh. I couldn’t help making a face as she sprayed on one last layer.

  “You don’t want hair dropping into the food on television, though, right?” She winked and hurried off to nail Chef Adam, who enjoyed getting buffed up for the camera even less than I did.

  Volunteers had begun to admit the folks who’d paid big bucks for up-close insider tickets into the area marked off by the ropes, close to the action. Here a waiter passed around glasses of champagne. Cheap champagne, I suspected, given Peter’s concerns about the budget, which, between the fabulous cooking equipment and the rather extensive staff, had to be shot already. At five o’clock the theme song from Oliver! piped out over a loudspeaker and Peter announced that the festivities would be starting shortly. Then my earpiece buzzed and he instructed the three judges to report to the front of the tent.

  “Welcome to Topped Chef Key West–style,” he bellowed to the onlookers, which caused our earpieces to shriek painfully. “Please meet our panel of distinguished judges.” He went on to describe our resumes, which sounded better than the facts as I knew them. Toby was a bestselling author, I was a world-respected food critic, and Chef Adam sounded like Jacques Pépin’s bosom buddy.

  “And we are so pleased to present our Topped Chef contestants, Ms. Henri Stentzel, Mr. Buddy Higgs, and Mr. Randy Thompson.” They smiled nervously and bowed, their every rustle amplified through the microphones clipped to their starched white chef jackets.

  “So far, our guest contestants seem to be in a dead heat in the opinions of our judges,” Peter continued. “As you may be aware, the assessment of their performances by our judges is cumulative. And so, tonight’s event will weigh heavily in the outcome. You will see this up close and personal.” He paused to allow the onlookers to cheer, with a couple of the staff urging them to yell louder.

  “Our chefs’ task for today is to prepare the best meal possible with the secret ingredients we have provided, in a short one-hour time span. Some of the ingredients are ordinary or local, while others will be, shall we say, challenging. They may also choose to use any of the common ingredients that we’ve provided.” Peter smiled, an impish look on his face. “You should be assured that none of these chefs has had access to our preparations so they will all be cooking by the seat of their checkered chef pants—without consulting either their own recipes or any outside parties. They will be expected to use as many ingredients as possible from the surprise baskets, and the resulting dishes will be judged on taste, originality, and appearance.”

  Behind Peter, Deena motioned for the crowd to applaud as the cameras panned over the audience and then zoomed in for close-ups of us three judges. Underneath the makeup, my face felt frozen into a false conviviality that I definitely wasn’t feeling.

  “Our three judges will be circulating through the stations, commenting on the chefs’ choices and techniques,” Peter continued. “When the hour is up, they will sample the resulting dishes, as will our gold-level ticket holders.”

  Gold level, meaning they’d paid a fortune to watch from inside the ropes. I was beginning to sweat under the pressure of the contest; I couldn’t even imagine how hard it would feel to cook with strange ingredients—and no recipes—in public.

  “Chefs, please man your positions!” said Peter.

  Henri, Buddy, and Randy walked over to take their places in front of the cooking stations.

  “Ready, set, cook!” Peter shouted.

  Two of Peter’s assistants snapped off the sheet that had covered the central island. The cameras zeroed in on the chefs’ faces as they studied the array of ingredients. I could see limes, mangoes, avocado, leeks, and carambola or star fruit, an odd-looking tropical fruit that I’d never tried to cook with. Buddy Higgs’s expression remained flat, and Henri’s grim, but Randy broke into a delighted smile.

  “I do adore star fruit,” he said, “though it doesn’t really ‘go’ with anything else on the table.” He hummed tunelessly for a moment, tapping one bicep with his fingers. “When in doubt, start with a mirepoix, as they say in France,” he said, reaching for a large yellow onion. “Or sofrito, as the Spaniards might say. In any language, that’s often chopped onion, celery, and pepper.” He slid open a drawer underneath his cooktop, pulled out a chef’s knife, and began to chop. “Wasn’t it Julia Child who said the best way to execute French cuisine is to get loaded and whack the hell out of a chicken?”

  He broke into a peal of laughter that rippled through the crowd, and they began to abandon the spaces in front of Henri and Buddy and push over to Randy’s station. “In this case I’
ll choose the yellowtail snapper as my main dish because it’s an icon of Keys cuisine.”

  “Do we have to listen to this idiot natter on for the whole hour?” Buddy muttered. He snatched four chicken breasts from the supplies, along with a variety of spices, orange juice, and the required fruits. The distinctive smell of toasting cumin soon wafted from his stovetop.

  “When unexpected guests are on the menu, I choose grilling as my go-to option. It’s fast and furious, yet always seems special—it sends the message that you were hoping they’d drop by all along.” He grimaced and began to mash garlic into the toasted cumin and then spread it onto the chicken.

  I couldn’t imagine dropping in on Buddy with or without an invitation.

  Peter gestured for more camera close-ups on Buddy and Randy. “See if you can fan the flames of their competition,” he said for our ears only. “So far this is falling flatter than a pancake. I need you to take some action, people. Get them arguing if you can.”

  I moved around the U-shaped cooking stations so I could get a better look at the food on the island, with Toby trailing behind me. Chef Adam marched off in the other direction.

  “Looks like they have a choice of chicken, shrimp, and yellowtail snapper,” I reported, feeling self-conscious about talking to myself. And producing such trivial drivel. But Deena signaled for more.

  “Looks like Randy Thompson is reaching for the heavy cream and optional jalapeños,” I said.

  “Of course,” said Chef Adam from the other side of the central island, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Everything’s a cream sauce for Chef Thompson.” He circled around to join us from the far side of the tent, and watched as Randy finished dicing his onion and then dumped the chunks into a sizzling pan of butter. “His knife skills are barely more than basic,” he added. “Do you see how ragged and misshapen his chunks are? Chef Buddy Higgs, on the other hand, could offer a class at Le Cordon Bleu.”

  “But would anyone take it?” piped up Toby. “Boring, as our producer would say. I’d go for taste over uniformity any day of the week!”

  She looked as though she wished she could take the words back as soon as she’d said them, but Deena flashed her a quick thumbs-up. I trotted around to the other side of the tent so I could watch Henri sauté bites of snapper and shrimp.

  “I like to marinate the seafood in tequila to give it that extra splash of bold taste,” she told the audience. “But then be sure to pat dry before cooking in order to get the full benefit of flash frying.” While the seafood sizzled, she chopped up an avocado and a mango and added them to a bowl with minced jalapeño and torn mint leaves. She squeezed a lime over the top of the salsa just as the six p.m. buzzer sounded.

  “Chefs, it’s time to plate your meals,” said Peter.

  After a flurry of last-minute frying and stirring, the contestants arranged their dinners on three heavy white stoneware dinner plates. Two assistants brought out a small table covered in a crisp white cloth and Peter motioned for the judges to come forward. As we prepared to taste the first dish, Peter came around the edge of the tent and thrust his microphone to Henri’s lips.

  “Chef Henri, describe your contribution please!”

  “I’ve chosen to make a Mexican seafood sauté,” she said, hands held out to the plate like a priest offering communion. “It gives an impressive appearance to guests, but even inexperienced home cooks are capable of producing such a dish. And I’ve chosen to use the mango, avocado, and star fruit in a salsa to complement the seafood.”

  “Judges?” asked Peter, swinging around to face us again.

  I was the first to take a nibble of Henri Stentzel’s Mexican seafood sauté. “Honestly, on the plate the dish does not look that appealing,” I said without meeting her eyes. She might never speak to me again—unfortunate when we both lived on an island—but I felt I had to tell the truth or I’d be called out for it later. I understood that this event was made for television; it was not reality. But my reputation rode on a frank assessment of what was put on the table in front of me.

  “The final product’s a little runny. Though she did warn us to blot the seafood dry, it appears that she hurried that step herself. But I will say it tastes better than it looks. It’s fresh and tropical—really quite good.” I stepped away from the plate to signal that it was someone else’s turn to comment.

  “It looks like the chef panicked and threw every ingredient she was obligated to use into the pan without considering the outcome,” said Chef Adam, wrinkling his nose as he nibbled on a second bite. “It’s an unattractive mishmash, which might be fine if it was wrapped up in a burrito skin. And of course that is Ms. Stentzel’s most recent culinary background.” He swallowed the last of his sample. “One more thing—there is something bitter in the aftertaste as well.”

  “Oh, this is truly ridiculous,” Henri huffed, undoing the top button of her jacket and fanning her face with a spatula. “Sometimes you run that risk using older citrus. If I had ordered the ingredients from my own suppliers, and they delivered those miserable limes, I would have sent them back as soon as I opened the box.”

  “Thank you, Chef Stentzel!” said Peter, and pointed at Toby. “We want to hear from the judges now, not the chefs.”

  “I’m not a fan of liquor in food,” Toby said. “I have to say I prefer my tequila in shots.” The audience snickered while I looked at her with astonishment.

  We moved on to Chef Buddy’s station to sample his grilled Cuban-style chicken—a relief from the other overly fancy things he’d produced this week. This time around he didn’t have access to the chemicals that would turn a perfectly good dinner into gelatin spheres. The chicken had been marinated briefly in a cumin and garlic paste, grilled, and then sliced over an arugula, mango, and avocado salad.

  “If this had been prepared in my restaurant, we would have allowed the chicken to marinate for a longer period of time,” he said, before Peter could shut him down.

  “It’s tasty,” I said. “Certainly a home cook could manage this.”

  “Now there’s damning him with faint praise,” said Chef Adam. “It’s a gorgeous presentation of a classic summer supper salad.”

  “The garlic is somewhat overpowering,” said Toby. “Not something you’d want to consume on a first date.” I looked at her with astonishment and she winked.

  Finally, the plates were shuffled away and replaced with Chef Randy’s dish. He’d steamed white rice and topped it with a sautéed yellowtail snapper bathed in a jalapeño-scented cream sauce, which was based on the finely chopped vegetables he’d been so pleased to transform into mirepoix. My mouth watered just looking at it.

  “If I were making this dish for a dinner party,” Randy said, “I would serve okra beignets with a sour cream and cilantro dipping sauce as starters. And finish up with key lime marscapone cannoli served in a pool of mango sauce, with star fruit as garnish.”

  “None of those things were provided to us,” Buddy protested. “He’s just making things up.”

  “A chef should have a good imagination, don’t you think?” Randy replied. “It should never be a drag to entertain.” He executed a few dance steps behind his stove, ending with a twirl, one hand posed overhead.

  Buddy turned away, frowning. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, and stumped over to join Henri.

  While we three judges dissected Randy’s contribution—delicious to my mind, odoriferous and heavy to Chef Adam’s, and overly spicy to Toby’s—the Topped Chef assistants began to cut the remainder of the food into bite-sized portions and set small plates out on our table for the big-spender gold-level audience members to enjoy. The crowd pushed forward to get dibs on the samples, nearly trampling the rest of us in the rush. A cacophony of clanking silver on plates and the chatter of the diners began to rise.

  Right in front of me, a large woman with a florid face suddenly crumpled to the ground, moaning and grabbing at her stomach. She flailed on the concrete, foaming at the mouth.

  “Stand
back!” I called, my voice weak with fear, and then crouched down to speak to her. “Are you all right?” Of course she wasn’t all right—she was writhing in pain, her eyes rolling back in her head, unable to answer at all.

  “Call 911,” I yelled into my microphone, and this time the words echoed out over the crowd. I smoothed down her purple-flowered muumuu to cover her thighs, murmuring platitudes about how help was on the way.

  More people pushed forward, grabbing for plates and asking how they could help and what was wrong…. I began to feel light-headed and queasy myself and sat cross-legged on the ground, patting the woman’s sweaty forehead with a paper napkin.

  Finally, Peter Shapiro and Deena pushed through the onlookers, forcing them aside to leave space in front of the stricken guest. I heard the whine of the approaching sirens and then the clatter of a stretcher being pushed across the bricks.

  A gaggle of paramedics appeared and two of them knelt to attend to the woman. One slipped an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, while the other attached a blood pressure cuff and took her pulse. Then he started an IV while the first medic attached what looked like an EKG machine to her chest.

  “What happened here?” the lead medic asked as he worked.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “One minute she was eating and the next she just crumpled.”

  “Eating what?” he asked. “Does she have food allergies?”

  I shrugged helplessly and Peter elbowed me aside.

  “It’s a cooking reality show,” he explained at the same time that one of the cops assigned to crowd control on Mallory Square arrived. “Our top chefs have prepared meals from the ingredients we provided. They all had access to the same things, with varying degrees of success in the outcome. But it looks to me as though she may have been stricken with a heart attack.”

  Ignoring Peter’s explanation, the policeman consulted with the paramedics and then addressed the crowd. “Does anyone else feel ill?”

  No one came forward.

  “Is anyone here related to this woman?”