by MJ Post
And yet Lou Morton had told her directly: keep your cool and last up till the finale, and you can be a member of my network team. What kind of member would that be? Certainly not on a show. Maybe he wanted her to be a junior chef in the commissary? Or a prep cook for TKN’s real stars? Or a secretary who doubled as his side piece. Why had Morton only told her to last till the finale? Had he known she couldn’t win, because the show’s result was fixed?
Even if it was fixed, even if Toby Brutus was Nina Lestrade’s golden boy, being on Chef Showdown could still benefit Kacie. TV exposure was good. Testing herself was good. Any honorable way to hold Lou Morton’s (purely professional) attention was good. However, Kacie wanted to win. She was there to earn a victory, not to make friends. Not to fuck a hunky country boy, not to become a billionaire’s squeeze — to win.
To win meant to show the world, and a narrower world composed of Steve and Mingyung Lee, that she belonged in the culinary business and had not made a mistake in life, and that an unknown middle-class Korean-American girl from Jackson Heights could be the absolute best.
She thought that and then her thoughts drifted to imagining what Toby’s dick looked like.
Goddamn it!
Imagining this, and scolding herself for it, occupied her for a while before a knock at the dorm door. It was open. Alia, who was writing in a journal, looked up and called, “Come in.”
In came Herschel carrying a large cardboard box with four plastic packages. He plunked it down on Maryann’s bed, causing Maryann to scramble to a sitting position against the headboard. “Uniforms!” he announced. “You’ll wear these for most camera shoots. We’ll clean them for you overnight. I’ll step out. Try them on, and I’ll be back in ten.”
Seeing that the other women were dithering, Kacie rolled off her bed, went to the box, and studied the packages. Each was plain plastic closed by a snap and contained black slacks and a colorful half-sleeve polyester top. Kacie’s top was pink. She passed the black one to Alia, the red to Eloise, the yellow to Maryann.
Quickly the four women changed. All of the outfits were objectionable. “I look like a linoleum counter-top,” Maryann complained to the mirror. “Too tight in the armpits,” was Eloise’s concern. Alia’s trousers were too short. Kacie’s top was too baggy, and she didn’t want to look like a wad of bubble gum. Black would have suited her, but it was admittedly better for Alia, who had colorful headscarves to accent the dark blouse.
Herschel returned, and Eloise gave him an earful on behalf of all four roommates. Herschel tapped notes onto his tablet. “We can’t change the blouse colors.” He ran his hand over his spiky hair. “The designs are trademarked already. But we can get you aprons to minimize the camera impact. Sorry, guys. We tried out a new tailor, and wiz-e-wig, what you see is what you get. What apron colors?”
“Black,” Kacie said.
“Blue, with a print of the Hong Kong skyline,” said Maryann.
“Whoa,” replied Herschel. “Demanding, much?”
“Make it happen.” She stared at him.
“I’ll talk to Shaun,” he said, naming the showrunner. “I know we can do blue, at least. Okay, five thirty AM wakeup call. Does one of you want to make breakfast? Or a team of you?”
“I’ll do it,” Kacie blurted.
“It’s for the eight of you, Shelley, our director, me, and six crew members. That okay?”
“No problem. Give me someone to run the espresso maker, just to speed things up.” Eloise’s chin rose; she was about to volunteer. To hell with that, Kacie thought. She considered asking for Toby, stopped herself. “Get Louie. He’s good at that.”
Herschel nodded. “I’ll apply my powers of persuasion.”
“Why don’t you ask THEM to cook breakfast?” Maryann demanded. “Why start with us?”
“Because I don’t want my breakfast to be full of maltodextrin or agar-agar,” said Herschel, referencing ingredients in Modernist cuisine. “I gave Buster lunch hour, when my stomach is less nervous. And Madame Queen is making her famous gumbo for dinner, remember? Got it, darling? If so, then dial it down, pretty please.”
“I want to go to the pantry,” Kacie said. “I’ll shop tonight. How do I get there?”
∞∞∞
She got off the elevator and entered the gigantic food warehouse. A few minutes’ walk would be necessary to discover the layout of the place and plan her menu. The variety blew her away. A few specialized ingredients were missing, but there was enough selection for her to make most dishes in the cuisines she knew. She could make an American breakfast expertly, but Eloise had staked out that territory with her frittatas. She could go French with crepes and fruit and truffled eggs. In her mind’s eye, though, Kacie saw the image of Toby Brutus’ disarmingly open face as he admitted never having tasted Korean food. “I’ll give him some Korean food that will knock his dick off,” she whispered. Kimbap it is.
Kimbap was somewhat like sushi, made of rice and seaweed and other ingredients. Unlike sushi, it didn’t include raw fish, but featured a mix of other proteins and vegetables. With the luxurious ingredients that had to be available in the Kitchen Network pantry, Kacie would be able to make an elevated variety with the lightness and sweetness of radish and spinach, the kick of garlic and herbs, and the stomach-filling umami of ham and egg. It would get the crew ready for the day, and it would show that handsome jerk Toby Brutus what a Korean chef could really do. She’d also need to make numerous kimchi variants, not for the morning but for later meals. They’d need a few days to ferment, so she might as well start the process going. With luck, the pantry would have some jarred stuff she could put her own stamp on before serving.
She would need far more than she could carry, so she approached the pantry’s service desk and grabbed the attention of one of the college kids standing behind it. “Can you get me a shopping cart, and after I fill it, get it moved up to the dorms for Chef Showdown?”
The twenty-year-old, dressed in khakis and a TKN polo, lowered his phone halfway and looked crossly at her. “I guess so.”
“Look, I may not be a Hammer Chef, but I’m cooking for the director and the crew tomorrow. Okay? So it’s important.”
The college kid slipped his phone into his back pocket. “Okay, sure. I’m bored. Let’s do it.”
What an attitude. “Get there at 6:30 AM and you can eat, too. You want to do that?”
“Sister, I’m not even UP at 6:30 AM.”
“Fine. Just get me the cart. And your name.”
“My name is Randy.”
“Randy what?”
“Randy McDevitt.”
“I’ll save you a portion in Tupperware, ok, Randy McDevitt?”
“Yeah, ‘kay.”
Bossiness wasn’t always the best way to get respect, but a weak person couldn’t be a kitchen leader either. Be fair, but insistent.
Kacie paced while Randy McDevitt was gone, looked at the college girl still standing at the service desk, whose head was bent over her phone. The girl was completely absorbed in text messaging. Kacie had been like that in high school, too, but culinary school had broken her of the habit after she allowed two successive soufflés to fall from inattention and burned a white truffle dish with ingredients that cost $1000.
She heard the sound of cart wheels and turned toward it only to see the bulky frame of Buster cross the open space by the desk and commandeer the cart she had been waiting for.
“That cart’s for me,” she said.
“I’m sure there’s more,” he answered. “Right?” he asked Randy McDevitt.
“Yeah, a bunch.”
“So you can get one of those,” Kacie insisted. “I was waiting for this one.”
“Oh, chill out,” Buster offered. He started to push the cart.
A few steps enabled Kacie to catch the front of the cart in her hand. “Get. Your. Own.”
He let go. “Yeah, fine. Like it matters to me which cart I push. But just for that, I’m slipping some asafetida in your
Fruit Loops.”
“Never give a bully an inch,” Kacie repeated to herself as she moved into the pantry.
Buster was soon in the pantry also, and they both moved in and out of the aisles, crossing paths from time to time in aisles that were wide enough for both. At one spot, as she was considering a number of shelved ingredients, he paused beside her. “Kombu? Rice? Cabbage? For breakfast? That’ll be one disappointed morning crowd.”
“Not how I make it,” Kacie returned.
“It’s fine for me,” he said as he pretended to browse the opposite shelf. “But I’m a gourmet. I used to like a little kimchi before getting busy with the ladies, know what I mean? But your typical American doesn’t want spicy ethnic food in the morning. Just simple rib-sticking stuff.”
“It’s good wholesome food, and the crew will like it. You don’t get to define who Americans are, or what they like, so if you don’t mind, shut the fuck up.”
Buster steered his cart away. “Ooh, you’re badass,” was his parting shot.
“Damn right,” Kacie said, but when he was out of sight, she shook her head to drive out the cold rage. There, at least, was a competitor she needed to outlast. She would damn well make it to the finals, if for no other reason, to make sure he was outcompeted and did not.
She encountered a youngish man and woman, one pushing a cart and another wielding a tablet. They were wearing jeans and crinkly chef’s uniform shirts. They also loaded up ingredients, and she heard them mention the name “Chef Dampierre.” Kacie knew who that was — Hammer Chef Franck Dampierre, the restaurateur who had gained two Michelin stars for his bistro Dampierrot in Stamford before selling it to take his gig on TV. So the Hammer Chef program was recording soon also.
Lost in thought, she stood by a selection of fine hams, and didn’t hear the wheels or the footsteps until something clattered in her cart. Buster snickered as he retreated. She looked down at her ingredients. He’d added a salt shaker of MSG, a flavor enhancer Americans associated with cheap Chinese food. Kacie took it out and set it on a shelf. MSG was commonly used in South Korea, because it added umami to anything cooked with it, but in the United States it was considered unhealthy enough that Chinese restaurants put “no MSG” in their windows to avoid losing customers. She could add umami with a range of other ingredients. He was playing a mind game by implying she was a low-quality chef. Clearly, he was intimidated. Why? Because she could pair wines better than he could? Or did he have trouble with strong women?
No point in retaliating verbally. When she out-cooked him, that would shut him up far better than words would.
Chapter Thirteen
Kimbap
Back in the kitchen, Kacie laid out a selection of radishes, cabbage, and other vegetables next to a cutting board and got busy chopping them up. Starting with baechu kimchi, using Napa cabbage, she moved on to two radish-based concoctions, kkadugi and chongak varieties. Carrots and onion for red water kimchi, and for variety, cucumbers and onions and more for oi sobagi. She made four jars of each, then two jars each of several other types. Using a stepstool, she slid the jars to the back of the highest cabinet she could reach. They’d be out of the way there until they were ready to serve. She had neglected to ask if condiments she made in advance could be brought into the competition area and served; the jarred stuff in the pantry was only just okay compared to her own spice blend.
Climbing down from the stepstool for the final time, Kacie was aware that someone had turned on the big-screen TV in the common area. She stepped into the dining room and discovered Maryann channel-surfing. Kacie returned to the kitchen and began to prep for the morning kimbap, using the cutting board and knife set resident to the kitchen rather than her own set from Koryo Burger, which had already been taken to her workstation in the Kitchen One studio. She’d seen another set already: Eloise had a Shun-kaji set worth over three thousand dollars. What a showoff! Gorgeous woman, gorgeous knives. A gift from some old rich dude trying to bang her, maybe – or succeeding, who knew?
As Kacie chopped, she thought about how Eloise, a high-end woman, was playing a poor boy like Toby Brutus against her, Kacie. How low that was! If only she could rescue him, Kacie would be able to treat him better, be honest with him. And when they were alone, she would pull down those torn jeans and begin to caress his slim hips till…
Stupid! Stupid! Angry with herself for fantasizing about the worthless white boy, she set down the knife till she had calmed down.
∞∞∞
She was up at five and set to work sautéing spinach and carrots. She warmed the rice, made a bed of it on each kim leaf, and began to add ingredients. The bulgogi for the filling was at perfect tenderness by about six, when the other chefs and crew began to appear. She was surprised that this included Randy McDevitt, the kid from downstairs.
Once the kimbap was plated, Buster was her first customer. “Now that I’ve tasted this,” he trumpeted, “I can not only make it myself, but I can make a gelato with the same flavor.”
Toby elbowed past him. “Help you serve?” he offered.
He had shaved and tied his hair back in a ponytail. His lean corded neck demanded Kacie-sized love bites. The fantasy about pulling down his jeans and caressing his hips returned till she forced it away. She told herself, I hate this good-looking asshole. She said aloud, “I’m fine. You just go eat like a good boy.”
“Smells great. I can’t wait.”
“No toast and eggs?” one cameraman asked. A man over fifty with a paunch, he opened his gray eyes wide.
“Too much cholesterol,” Kacie answered. “This is hearty food. It’ll perk you up and give you stamina.”
“It’s spicy?”
“Maybe if you eat this, your girlfriend will get lucky tonight.”
The cameraman laughed. “Okay, I’m sold.” He bit into the roll on his plate. “Holy shit. This is awesome.”
“Come see us at Koryo Burger. Bring your whole family. Bye.” She waved him away.
“I’m Vince,” he said. “The way to my heart is through my stomach.”
“Next!”
Vince laughed out loud.
Kacie looked up to find Madame Queen holding a plate. “Looking forward to your gumbo tonight.”
“You should be.” The judge took her serving.
“I’m pickling some kimchi,” Kacie told her. “How about letting me bring mine onto the set when it’s done? Kimchi must be made in advance, so if you don’t let me do that, all I can serve is the crap from the pantry downstairs.”
“If you last long enough, I may decide to allow it.”
“Oh, I will.”
“That, dear, is up to me.” After a frosty look, Madame Queen withdrew to the dining table, where she sat knees-together in her black and white floral blouse and dark slacks.
There was Toby again, Buster behind him.
“Seconds?” Toby asked. “I’m a growing boy.”
“Not full yet,” Buster added.
“Then have some gelato.” She gave Toby the last kimbap. He might be a jerk, but at least he wasn’t a bully.
“Hey, split that,” said Buster.
Chapter Fourteen
Honorable Men
The chefs assembled in the common room after breakfast for a pre-taping meeting with the showrunner and director. Toby wanted the hearty, spicy flavors of the kimbap to linger on his tongue, wanted to remember how Kacie’s eyes crinkled when she smiled and how she tilted her head when firing off a one-liner.
Shaun Kerr, the showrunner, was a graying big-chested man with a square jaw, a huge smile, and a well-developed beach tan. Acne scars dotted his cheeks. Toby thought he seemed confident, strong-minded, and rugged. His handshake, which he gave to each contestant, was about as strong as an active-duty marine’s.
“You’re all going to do great,” was his message. “Madame Queen’s an awesome personality, and I’ve had some food from almost all of you, whether you knew it or not, and I am super, super enthused about this. So, thing
is, Madame Queen has absolute say over what happens with you guys as contestants. There are no appeals to me or Shelley or even to Lou — what Madame Queen says, goes. That’s to provide drama to the show, and frankly, I’m just a bit scared of her myself.” He winked. “So, no tattling on your judge, but if you want to talk sports or the stock market, let me know and I’ll come by after taping and let you make me dinner.” He winked again. “Okay, here’s Shelley. Kick some ass, huh?”
As the show’s producer made his exit good, Shelley Drake stepped in front of the group. She was a black woman in her forties with a substantial bosom and wire-rimmed glasses that made her face look professorial. She was dressed casually in a loose blouse, jeans, and pumps. Toby was surprised when she spoke; he hadn’t expected her to sound — what was that — Australian?
“Right,” she said. “So the first thing you must do to do well on TKN shows is to hit your marks. Downstairs in the studio, keep your eyes peeled for the tape on the floor. If you step over the outer tape boundary, our stationary cameras can’t find you, so don’t do that unless you know there’s a handheld camera following you. The letter X represents a spot where we want you to stand at key moments, so if you’re directed to a part of the studio, put one of your feet there, but don’t look down to make sure. Look as you’re heading there and just get the mark right without checking upon arrival. Got it?”
None of the chefs spoke.
Shelley continued, “Now, if you want to argue with me about something, you can, but the more we argue, the longer the shoot takes. That means every moment wasted with your mouth is a moment another person’s shoes are pinching and a third party can’t take a well-deserved tinkle. Every moment wasted with your mouth means less shut-eye for all of us and the crew. Have a problem?”
Maryann said, “Did you get me the apron I asked for?”
“We got you one with the New York City skyline, not Hong Kong. I suggest you go along to get along. That means go along with me, and we’ll get along.”