Bliss

by Hilary Fields

  The statuesque host struck a pose, beaming down at Sera. “So, Chef Wilde, we noticed you chose not to go with most of the signature ingredients on our mystery trolleys. Bold choice there. Care to tell us what were you thinking?”

  I was thinking somebody stole all the good stuff, Sera wanted to say. But she knew she’d only make herself look bad if she went crying about unfair advantage. Her time with Blake had taught her that he’d have an answer for everything, and she didn’t think today’s spectators, already flushed with their first cups of strong spiced wine and hot buttered rum, were in a mood to hear her excuses.

  “Well,” she said, pasting on a smile and straightening to her full five feet two, “I really wanted to make something that spoke to all the great traditions I’ve been learning about since I moved here. The inspiration for this recipe comes from generations of New Mexican women who have passed the secret of its preparation down from daughter to granddaughter over many years. Using a few simple ingredients and flavors like anise seed, brandy, and cinnamon,” she explained, “you end up with a cookie that’s deceptively delicious. In fact,” she said, warming to her subject despite herself, “I have my friend Hortencia to thank for these cookies.” Sera searched the crowd until she spotted her aunt’s life partner, waving at the older woman, who blew her a kiss in return. At her side, Pauline beamed and gave Sera a thumbs-up gesture. “Hortencia said we’d never really earn our Santa Fe stripes unless we offered these on our menu over at Bliss. She’s graciously trusted me with her abuelita’s treasured recipe, and I’ve made a few alterations of my own that I hope will honor the original.” She held up a rather plain, star-shaped cookie sprinkled in cinnamon and sugar.

  “What do you call them?” Vanessa asked dutifully. For a moment Sera could see the doubt in her eyes, and a message. Seriously? This was the best you could come up with?

  “Well, they’re traditionally known as biscochitos, but I’m calling mine Bliss-cochitos for obvious reasons,” Sera said.

  The audience chuckled and clapped genially.

  “The secret’s in the lard,” she rattled on, encouraged. She shot Blake a triumphant glance. Teach him to mess with my mise en place, she thought. What he’d probably thought was a useless, throwaway lump of fat was actually the key to making kickass biscochitos. Then she noticed the audience had gone silent, and she gulped. TMI, Sera. No one likes to know their cookie batter’s based in pig fat, even if it is the single greatest shortening known to mankind.

  “Really, they’re pretty good,” she finished lamely.

  Even Malcolm winced.

  “All right, here’s the moment you’ve been waiting for!” Vanessa announced, glossing over the awkward moment. “Round one! Take a bite of both, everyone, and then we’ll vote!”

  The PAs handed around plates containing both chefs’ offerings, and people started to nibble. Muted “yums” and “wows” went round the room. It was impossible to tell which dessert elicited what response.

  Vanessa held up an applause-o-meter. Must have dug that one up from deep in the vaults of TV Land, Sera thought. “Okay, who’s for Chef Austin’s Green Chile Apple Crumble?”

  The dial swung wildly as the crowd stomped and cheered. Sera, who’d managed to snag a plate, sneaked a taste herself.

  Oh, fuck. It is good. Kudos to Sam Everett, because there was no way Blake had come up with that spicy-sweet blend of flavor and texture that melted in her mouth and left it tingling with pleasure. I honestly did not believe there was a place for green chile in the pastry spectrum, but I may have just changed my mind. Her heart sank.

  “Now let’s hear it for Chef Wilde’s Bisco… ah, Bliss-cochitos.”

  For a moment Sera couldn’t believe it.

  Her humble little spice cookies had the crowd shouting fit to shake the rafters. The dial on the device winged into the red.

  Up front, Pauline and Hortencia were howling and stamping their feet, and the rest of the BRBs were grinning through crumbs as they clapped their hands as hard as they could. Asher was practically doing a Flamenco number, eyes shining with pride as he gazed at her over the heads of the BRBs. But it was the strangers—good citizens of Santa Fe and tourists alike, whose approval made Sera tear up. She glanced quickly at Malcolm, who’d gone a bit rosy in the cheeks. He patted her shoulder gently. “They really are that good, lass. Enjoy this moment.”

  One of the PAs announced there’d be a short break while the kitchen was put to rights, and warned the crowd the lines for the bathroom were about to get pretty long. The audience began milling around, nibbling hors d’oeuvres, chatting, and generally getting in the way of the Food Channel’s crew. The camera guys took a smoke break, and Sera sagged against the counter.

  I won. Round one, anyway.

  She sneaked a peek at Blake. He was livid. And he was taking it out on Sam Everett, who was stoically absorbing the abuse. What else could the poor guy do? Blake was the boss, and Sam’s job hinged on keeping the man happy. Sera could have told him that was an impossible task. “What do you want me to say?” she heard him ask Blake when the senior chef wouldn’t stop berating him. “I did the best I could with that green chile crumble. It’s usually a big hit at the restaurant. But Chef Wilde’s biscochitos? I honestly don’t know how she did it, but that texture—it’s like angels came down and blessed it. She took one of the simplest, most old-fashioned recipes around and somehow… I don’t know… made it magical. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

  Sera’s ears turned pink with pleasure. Then her cheeks did the same as Asher shouldered his way to the front. He had a half-eaten cookie in his hand. “Beautiful, Bliss,” he said simply. He kissed her gently. Just a hint of cinnamon sugar still lingered on his lips, and Sera had to fight to stop herself from licking them clean in front of God and everyone.

  Vanessa looked at the tall Israeli, then looked some more, with obvious appreciation. She sized up how tenderly he was gazing at Sera, gave the shorter woman a “good on you, girl” look, and helped herself to one of the cookies still on the counter. She took a delicate bite and closed her eyes as the sugar, shortening, and spices melted on her tongue. “Heavenly,” she murmured. “Normally I wouldn’t allow myself a whole one, but…” With a wink, she popped the rest in her mouth and then looked around for her makeup crew to make sure her lipstick was still fresh.

  “You’re going to win this, Bliss,” Asher said, stroking Sera’s cheek. She blushed again.

  Muttering about how mush ought to be banned from kitchens, Malcolm busied himself clearing the mixing bowls and bossing around the Food Channel staff until he had the prep area arranged to his satisfaction.

  “I hope so,” Sera said, kissing Asher once more before shooing him back into the crowd so she could concentrate. But privately she wondered what Blake had up his sleeve for round two.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  She would find out in forty-five minutes.

  The second round went by in a blur. The gong sounded, Vanessa gave her spiel, and suddenly they were off to the races. This time there were no trolleys, just the run of the kitchen for both chefs, and less than an hour in which to create over a hundred individual samples of their paean to the Big Apple. Sera nearly got in a boxing match with Blake over a block of butter, and the bugger wasn’t above throwing elbows with Malcolm either when it came to the sugar and eggs. Sam Everett tucked his head down and went about his business; it was his kitchen after all, and he knew where everything was. Conscious of the cameras, Sera resisted the urge to stick her tongue out when she managed to duck under Blake’s arm and snatch a bag of confectioner’s sugar he was going for (sometimes being short was an advantage). Instead, she smiled sweetly and hustled for her station.

  Sera knew just what she was going to make. She only wondered what Blake was going to do to sabotage it. Short of swapping sugar for salt (she’d checked), or rigging her ovens somehow, she didn’t have a clue what he might do. But she couldn’t worry about that right now. She had pastry sh
ells to shape, filling to whip. Still, she couldn’t help glancing over at Blake’s end of the counter periodically.

  He was doing something with a series of small molds, while Everett stood ready with a nitrogen bath to flash-freeze the end result. Sera herself had considered the idea—it would have been nice to have a way to instantly chill her creations, as forty-five minutes was barely enough time to let most desserts set—but she’d rejected it as too dangerous under stressful circumstances like these. Might freeze my fingers off, and then where would I be? But Everett seemed willing to risk frostbite, or at least he valued his job enough to do so under Blake’s orders.

  This time, the younger chef seemed to be taking more of a backseat, letting his employer take the reins. Guess ol’ Blake’s actually got a few recipes of his own up his sleeve. Who’d a thunk? The cameras were loving it, Sera saw; the operators clustering around her opponents like bees to flowers as Chef Everett carefully dipped Blake’s molds into the super-chilled bath. Considering the relatively mundane work her team was doing, Sera guessed the audience was probably more enthralled with her opponent’s, too.

  She risked a quick glance up from the deep fryer she was working (Blake’s gift of lard had come in handy yet again), and had to smile as she caught sight of her aunt doing a Rockettes number with the rest of the BRBs. With Asher gamely anchoring the middle, they were high-kicking and chanting slogans. (Friedrich tried to pretend he wasn’t with the boisterous group, though he was ogling Aruni’s legs on the sly.)

  “Bliss, Bliss, she’s our lass; she’s gonna kick Blake Austin’s ass!”

  Touched as she was by the support, the sight of all those women—and one amazing man—rooting for her almost made Sera falter.

  If I fail, it affects Pauline, too. All the money she put into the business, all the faith she put in me…

  Sera squeezed her pastry bag for all it was worth.

  Gonnnnnnnnnnnnnngggggggg!

  “Spatulas down, Chefs!” Vanessa cried gaily. She struck a pose before the crowd, hands on hips, chin up, hair tossed just so. “Now we’ll see who’s got New York’s number: Chef Austin, whose empire in the Empire State runs to seven restaurants in Manhattan alone, or Chef Wilde, a born-and-bred New Yorker who left Gotham City just a few months ago for a taste of Santa Fe’s sunshine and fresh mountain air. Do we have any New Yorkers here?”

  A rather vocal minority spoke up, pumping fists and hooting.

  At least they didn’t give us a Bronx cheer, Sera thought, smiling and waving shyly at her peeps. It was nice to know she wasn’t the only New Yorker to have fled the big city in search of someplace more spiritually fulfilling.

  “All right then! Let’s start with Chef Austin.” Vanessa turned to Blake, who was standing hipshot with his arms folded across his chest, oozing arrogance. “Chef Austin, we saw you and your partner working with what looked like some pretty cutting-edge materials. What have you whipped up for our audience today?”

  “Assistant,” he said through a smile that was all teeth. “My assistant aided me in a recipe I’ve been proud to call my own for some time now. I think you’ll all recognize the design.” He held up a plate, and cameras obligingly zoomed in. The audience let out a collective “Oooh,” enraptured by what they saw.

  Sera was just as riveted.

  It was a tiny replica of the Empire State Building, complete with top done up in three separate shades, like the tiers of lights that illuminated the legendary building each night.

  Done up, she saw, in triple chocolate mousse.

  The bottom fell out of Sera’s stomach, even before Blake continued.

  “I’ve employed three types of exquisite chocolate mousse, as you’ll see.” He waved a languid hand. “White chocolate for the tops, with just a hint of cardamom to spice it up.” A flourish. “Milk chocolate for the middle,” he pointed, “and rich, dark chocolate for the base, with a mere soupçon of orange essence to round it out and give it some of the sophistication New Yorkers are famous for.” He kissed his fingers to his lips. “I call it my New York State of Mind.”

  I call it poaching your former protégée’s recipe, you sack of sh— Sera thought, but Vanessa’s dulcet voice broke into her blind fury.

  “Points for presentation, Chef Austin,” Vanessa granted, like a fairy godmother doling out wishes. “I’m sure we’re all looking forward to seeing if the taste can match that spectacular design.

  “Now, Chef Wilde,” the hostess said, turning the full wattage of her smile to Sera’s team. Malcolm scowled suspiciously in return, and Sera was still too stunned by what Blake had done to remind him of the cameras absorbing every nuance of their expressions. “We saw you and your assistant working with some ring molds and pastry bags. What have you got in store for us?” She gave Sera a hard glance, as if aware of her distress and wondering at the source.

  Pull yourself together, Sera, she commanded her reeling brain. If you win this round, you’ve put the whole contest away. But how can I, her brain responded with a whimper, when I’m basically competing against myself on my best day? The mousse was one of her signature dishes, but she hadn’t considered it for today’s showdown because of the time it took to chill.

  Unless you had liquid nitrogen, of course.

  Could her own relatively simple dessert top it? She took a deep breath, struggling with her rage and betrayal. Just when she thought Blake had no deeper depths to sink to, no further power to wound, he proved he’d always find a way to crush her.

  For one split second, she considered throwing in the towel.

  No! Don’t give up. There’s one battle he can’t win, Sera. And that’s class. You can at least be the better person.

  Sera breathed in deep, let it out slowly.

  “First,” she said with an evenness she dredged from some deep reservoir in her soul, “let me congratulate Chef Austin on a truly spectacular dessert. I’m very familiar with this one, actually, from our time working together in the big city. Hopefully it hasn’t lost any of its original savor.” She sent Blake a smile that was saccharine-dipped cyanide. Then she turned her attention out over the crowd and gave them one that came from the heart. Seeing her friends out there steadied her, reminding her that Blake might be a mean-spirited bastard, but these days she spent her days surrounded by kindness and goodwill. (Well, Malcolm notwithstanding.)

  “One of the things I loved most about New York was all the amazing, old-school Italian bakeries,” she continued. “My favorites were always the cannoli, with their just-out-of-the-oven crisp shells and sweet mascarpone or ricotta filling. But I also adored a good cheesecake.” She shook her head ruefully. “There’s just no substitute for Italian-style New York cheesecake, anywhere else in the world. I had a hard time deciding which I wanted to make for you folks today. So I combined the two.” She held up a finger-length cannoli for the audience to see. “These are my cheesecake-flavored cannoli, dipped in chocolate chips and dusted with candied orange peel, powdered sugar, and just a hint of pistachio on top. I hope you’ll like them.”

  But she couldn’t exactly hope they didn’t like Blake’s dessert, could she?

  While the PAs were passing around plates, she took a taste of his “Empire,” unsurprised to find it was her recipe, down to the smallest measurement. The building-shaped molds, she had to admit, had been a brilliant touch—one she had come up with for the grand opening of one of Blake’s restaurants that had overlooked the city’s most famous skyscraper. She was surprised he’d managed to master the technique.

  “Bon appétit, Santa Fe!” cried Vanessa.

  Santa Fe dug in.

  It was close, especially with the BRBs screeching like a bunch of hopped-up harpies, but Blake’s hijacked mousse trumped Sera’s cannoli.

  “Don’t worry, kiddo,” Pauline shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth so Sera could hear (not that she was having any trouble, with her aunt standing a mere fifteen feet away). “You’ll frost his ass in the next round!”

  Sera shudder
ed, trying to squelch the mental image that conjured.

  There was another break while the crew put things in order. Vanessa had a touch-up; the crowd had a few canapés. After a flurry of consoling kisses and hugs, the Back Room Babes (dragging along Asher, whom they’d dubbed an honorary member) took their act outside for a breath of fresh air and a chance to cheer for their girl in front of a wider audience of amused Canyon Road shoppers. Malcolm wandered off toward the bar, and Sera saw him help himself to a belt from the Blue Coyote’s top shelf single malt, shooing the bartender off with a ferocious glare. Sam Everett busied himself stowing the remaining liquid nitrogen.

  Sera was left alone with her nemesis.

  She tried not to look at Blake, afraid that if she had him in her sights, she’d flay his skin off inch by inch with a dull apple peeler. But Blake had no such qualms. He strolled over to Sera’s side of the counter and helped himself to one of her cannoli. “Delicious,” he said, smacking his lips. “Not as good as my dessert, of course, but I will give credit where credit is due.”

  This was so patently untrue that for a moment, Sera just goggled. It took her a few beats to gather a breath. “If you’re thinking of stealing this recipe, too, Blake, I warn you—”

  “Oh, Sera.” Blake cut her off, painting his face with an expression of pity. “Sera, Sera, Sera. Still delusional, aren’t you? I’d had hopes the fresh air of this desert backwater might have cured you, but I see you’re still the same paranoid, desperate loser I rescued from obscurity years ago—much to my everlasting regret.” He stopped to crunch another cannoli, slurping the filling with a relish that made Sera want to vomit.

  “A year ago, you thought you could humiliate me in front of my staff, cuckolding me with some low-life Latin busboy. You thought you could make a fool of me—me!—and walk away scot-free. And today you’re still trying to prove you’re my equal.” He laughed as though the very idea was preposterous. “Well, it won’t be long now until the world sees exactly what I see: a pathetic, fearful, frozen little failure who’ll wind up dipping donuts in some all-night drive-through before long.”