by MJ Post
In the pantry, Kacie was unable to find eels, pike, or perch, and settled for monkfish. She got back to Kitchen One early and started tying together sprigs of thyme and parsley.
During the cooking period, shooting was ridiculously slow, with constant still shots and short smart-phone clips of the Hammer Chef leaning over their pots and pans tasting with various spoons.
“Clear out,” she told the crew. “I need to stay on top of my food. You’re in the way.”
Dampierre made a deep rumbling noise.
“Sorry, Chef, but I know you understand that.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“I’m twenty-four.”
A bit of matelote gravy from the tasting spoon had gotten on his fingers. He licked it and smiled. “Imagine when you are forty-four, how good you will be then!”
They moved on.
“Nice play, suck-up,” Buster called.
Kacie fired back, “I don’t suck up, but you suck.”
About ten minutes later, she shouted to Shelley, “I’m about to flambé, you want to shoot it?”
“Oh, so now you want us?” Shelley answered. “All right, your majesty.”
Madame Queen, who was nearby supervising Alia, appeared on Kacie’s left as the camera came up on the right.
Kacie lifted the measuring cup of brandy she had poured.
“Not enough,” said Madame Queen. “Another quarter cup, at least.”
“Looks right to me.”
“Listen to your queen, young lady. I am your advisor, not only your judge! And the threat of a loss, or even a strike, hangs over your head.”
“Madame, strike or no strike, win or lose, this is how I make it.”
“Well said.”
The judge moved on.
Kacie poured the brandy, then lit the end of a stick of spaghetti with a lighter and dipped it into the bubbling liquid. A bright blue flame rose up. When the flame had burned low, Kacie covered the dish. The butter had had all the time to soften that she could spare, so she began to knead it with flour to make the beur manie that would thicken the soup.
Buster appeared behind her. “Hey, are your hands clean enough for that?” he joked.
“Why don’t I smack you in the eye and you can see for yourself?”
Eloise came over from her station. “Buster, leave her alone. What’s the matter with you? Nobody bothers you when you cook, right?”
“Aw, she’s cool with it,” he answered.
“Well, I’m not cool with it,” said Eloise.
Maryann’s station was across from Kacie’s. She cursed in Chinese, then added in English, “All you assholes quit fucking around over there. I’m tired of listening to your bickering and your bullshit!”
Buster threw up his hands. “You don’t have to tell me twice.” He returned to his station.
“I was just trying to help,” Eloise said to Maryann.
“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England. Just go cook.”
Eloise shrugged and withdrew in her turn.
Kacie tracked them in turn with her eyes. That whole thing had been a setup, she thought, to get Eloise back in her good graces. The manipulator was still at work. Maryann’s bad temper had saved her from having to deal with it herself.
“That worked,” Kacie told Maryann.
“You kids are a bunch of idiots.”
At the conclusion of the cooking period, Kacie had set out two full dishes and a dozen smaller samples of her matelote. She took one to Toby and received a small plate of ratatouille in return. It had a heavy Cajun spice, unlike traditional ratatouille, and he had added finely ground duck bacon. The eggplant had a perfect texture. “Gutsy,” she told him.
“You like it?”
“Sure, but my dish is better.”
“Could be,” he said. “The texture’s so silky, it’s like Boris used to say: I feel like I’m kissing the chef.”
“Yeah, well…” She squeezed his hand. “Maybe not here.”
∞∞∞
Lunch, prepared by Alia, was smothered chicken over white rice and black-eyed peas. Franck Dampierre sat in the common room with two bottles of wine and poured a glass for everyone who would accept one. Shaun Kerr made an appearance and took a heaping plate of the chicken. “I don’t want my cameramen drunk, Chef,” he said.
“Ah,” said Dampierre, “but you do want them happy, don’t you?”
Kerr rolled his eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”
Toby helped Alia in the kitchen. As he sat eating with Kacie, he noted, “She makes this better than me. Maybe better than Boris or Nina. Holy shit.”
∞∞∞
The Hammer Chef, spare hand in his vest pocket, moved from plate to plate, taking dainty bites and cleaning his palate between with mineral water and saltines. He made many tut-tut noises and small comments.
They took another long and boring filming break for clips with Madame Queen and Dampierre before, at last, the eight competitors were back on their marks.
“It is a great honor to do this,” said Dampierre for the camera. “To be a, well, a celebrity guest on a new show. To taste such fine food. It is not easy to pick who will lose — really every dish had something to recommend it, you know? But all right, I must pick. For tonight’s cook-off, maybe the seasoning was a bit too bold from Chef Brutus. Not bad, just not traditional, you know. A ratatouille is rustic; it should be hearty, not spicy. It does not burn the mouth. The duck bacon, that wasn’t a bad idea, though. And if we speak of it, from Chef Wayne, eh, I am not a fan of the portioning in your style. Why so little? Steak Diane does not fit in a plastic spoon, you silly man.”
“It was a perfect bite,” said Buster.
“Yes, but food should be a pleasure to be savored, not to be longed for. It is to eat also, not just to look at, and not just to talk about the perfect bite. So it is you and Chef Brutus in the cook-off. The other dishes, all good, real echoes of French culinary technique. Chef Hamilton, lovely, worthy of your father. Chef Alpharetto, this boeuf borguignon I will be talking about for weeks. It melts in my mouth. Chef Chen, an escargot fit for my table, but why only a garnish and no side? Too plain for a win all on its own. Still, yes, yes, all good. But far the best — the most authentic regional French flavors — and my cooking partner tonight — Chef Lee. This matelote, I give it ten out of ten.”
“I’m excited to learn from you,” Kacie told him.
“The same,” said Dampierre.
Applause from the crew and some of the chefs. It was probably more for the Hammer Chef than for her, she thought. She was whisked away for a private interview.
Shelley: “How do you feel about your second win?”
Kacie: “Well, Eloise — Chef Hamilton — isn’t the front-runner anymore. And to anyone who doubted I’m well-rounded or thought I’m limited, now you know better.”
Shelley: “So, do you want to go head-to-head with Chef Hamilton?”
Kacie: “Not really. I’d rather get another shot at beating Chef Wayne.”
Shelley: “Who are you scared of? Who’s your biggest competition?”
Kacie: “Chef Kamara. She’s a great friend, but she has no strikes.”
Shelley: “Chef Brutus has no strikes either. What about him?”
Kacie: “No, we’re buddies.”
Shelley: “Any truth to the rumors of something between Chef Brutus and Chef Hamilton?”
Kacie: “What the fuck, Shelley?”
Shelley: “We need sound-bytes.”
Kacie: “All right, shit. Whatever. Ricky, can you take out my cursing?”
Ricky: “That’s not me.”
Shelley: “I’ll take it out of the final cut. Any truth to the rumors, yadda yadda?”
Kacie: “So far as I know, he only looks at her as competition. Are you really putting gossipy bullshit on the show?”
Shelley: “We want the option. Next question, any truth to rumors about Chef Brutus and you?”
Kacie: “I didn’t hear those r
umors.”
Shelley: “Give me more.”
Kacie: “Okay, okay. Look, Chef Brutus is really great. We’re just friends, but yeah, he is my type. Shelley, can we talk about food, please?”
∞∞∞
A group of cameramen followed Chef Dampierre and Kacie as they breezed through the pantry gathering ingredients. The Hammer Chef tootled about the best ways to take advantage of those ingredients, dropping pearls of culinary wisdom. Kacie asked questions, even those whose answers she knew from her own schooling. It was a smart way to increase her possible time on the TV screen.
After an hour break, they reconvened in Kitchen One to film the dinner preparations. It was slow and laborious, so upstairs in the dorms, a meal was delivered from Chef Dampierre’s restaurant, La Petite Maison Blanche.
Kacie found Dampierre very much the same in person as he was on TV — ebullient, positive-minded, harmlessly pompous. She learned as much as she could from the session. It was a memory for a lifetime.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Running a Game
“Your position is quite unusual, Chef Brutus,” said Madame Queen. “No show wins, but you have had a prize, which was donated to you by Chef Hamilton whom you defeated in a cook-off, delivering her first and only strike. You have that one cook-off win, and now you face your second cook-off. You have no strikes, so you are in no danger yet, but there is nothing to indicate you have an edge. What” — and she leaned in to the camera — “do you say to that?”
“Well, Madame Queen.” Toby considered his words and let the camera linger on his thoughtful expression. “I must have been distracted by your beauty and majesty each time I was about to win. Really everyone here can still win Chef Showdown, and I figure my flavors still give me a good chance.”
“Chef Wayne,” said Madame Queen. “I have once saved you from a second strike, and inflicted it upon your rival, Chef Lee. Now today she is a winner, for the second time, and you again face your second strike, with no wins as yet. Are you humble yet before your queen?”
“I’m humble before you, Madame, because you’re the judge. But Chef Brutus, that’s different. Hey, Toby, you’re a cool guy, but I’m gonna kick your butt out there tonight.”
Toby had been so focused on his ratatouille that he hadn’t noticed when Buster and Eloise ganged up on Kacie during the first round of cooking. Only Maryann’s outburst had alerted him to what was happening, just as it ended. Kacie’s win — deserved — swept her away from him to a flurry of activities with the Hammer Chef, while he faced his second cook-off, this time against a real jerk.
Eloise found him sitting on his bed, elbows on knees, hands folded, thinking.
“You okay?” she asked. “Tough situation.”
“I’m fine.”
“Hangover gone?”
“Yeah, sure. Kacie fixed me up.”
“Uh huh. Wow, she had an impressive win today considering how screwed up she is. Great talent.”
“I like her, Eloise. So what’s your point?” Toby sat up, looked at her directly.
“You came here to win? Or to take care of troubled girls?”
Toby stood. “Are you trying to psych me out so that Buster beats me?”
“No, not at all. The opposite. Trying to get your head out of your ass so he doesn’t. I still want to face you in the finale.”
“Okay, fine. So let’s make this quick. Kacie’s not troubled, and I don’t need to explain that to you.”
“Well, my aunt’s a therapist, and she told me years ago about something called ‘crazymaking.’ That means that a person just creates unnecessary emotional distress because nothing is ever good enough. Like the old story. The mother gives the son a red tie and a blue tie and tells him to put on one of them for dinner. He comes out wearing the red tie, and she says, ‘What’s the matter, you don’t like the other one?’” She offered a thin smile. “It’s funny, right? But it’s not if it’s really there and it’s your relationship partner. Whatever you do is always wrong.”
“That has nothing to do with Kacie.”
“I think it fits her like a glove. Be aware, is all I’m saying. It’s called ‘crazymaking.’”
“I don’t have anything else to say about it, Eloise. I don’t want to have this conversation. I understand you want to be on camera causing conflict for the show. I understand that helps your career, and maybe it helps mine, too. So we did that, and now, please, leave me alone.”
“Not everything is about the show,” Eloise argued. “I’m your friend, too, or at least, I think you need one, and I’m trying.”
“Then I’m asking you, as a friend, to butt out, back off, or whatever they call it in California.”
Eloise stopped by the door. “I am your friend. Really. When the situation blows up with your other friend, we can still talk about that plan I mentioned yesterday. Okay, I’m leaving.”
Toby settled onto the bed again. Eloise had obviously been trying to plant doubts in his mind, but he knew there was no reason to doubt. Kacie was tenacious, sharp, funny, professional. She wasn’t troubled just because of the stress of the competition and having a man like her.
But wasn’t it true that she was inconsistent in her moods, liked him some times but not others?
No, she wasn’t crazy. That was Eloise’s mind games again.
Later, down in Kitchen One, a ring of cameras, lights, reflectors, and boom mikes surrounded a dining table setting. There was Kacie, luminous, with Nina and Dampierre, vivacious in her element, chatting, asking questions, making wisecracks. Her hair was down, bound only loosely in the back. He watched and admired for a while. When it was over, and the camera crew had set down their tools to go on break, Kacie waved him over.
She’d saved him a serving on the side. “Want me to heat it up?”
A ripple of acid in Toby’s belly alerted him to its hollowness. He shook his head, took and wolfed the food. “Oh, this is exceptional.”
Shelley called, “Ingredient announcement in ten. Don’t be late on your marks. Some of us will see our families tonight if we get out early enough.”
Toby thought about sitting down to a nice dinner with Lillian. Talking to her the other night, if only for a moment, had helped. Was he too attached to Kacie because for the first time ever, he couldn’t talk to his best friend every day?
Kacie left to shower and change. No, Toby thought, she was genuine, a real friend. She had still remembered him when she had every reason to focus her whole attention on the pleasure of cooking with a master chef in full view of admiring cameras.
He was organizing his workstation when Buster joined him.
“Hey, did Eloise talk to you about…”
“Stop there,” said Toby. “I get you want to hook up with her, and I hope you do, but don’t try to run a game on me to impress her.”
“Okay, okay,” Buster said. “Just trying to look out for you, bro.”
“I’m not your bro, okay? Enough.”
“It’s just, we were talking about it, and…”
“You’re still trying? Buster, listen. It won’t work, man. It just won’t.”
Buster sighed.
“Marks, please!” Shelley announced.
As he waited through the inevitable delays — in this case a reflector that wouldn’t unfold and needed cleaning to remove sticky splotches of food — Toby listened to the heavy breaths of the corpulent Buster Wayne near him, and realized how goddamn tired he was, how happy he would be when the show was over and, win or lose, he would be free to move around as he wished and to pursue his vision of Kacie and himself curled up together laughing on a sofa.
After yet more delays and dithering, the cameras were pointed and Nina announced the ingredient.
“I would like you to bake this evening. Provide me with an oven-baked dessert, using… spelt flour.”
“Desserts!” Buster burst out. “I’m great at desserts!” He rubbed his hands together and cackled. “Thank you, your majesty! Woo hoo! St
rike one to the Mississippi kid! Philly all the way!”
Shelley said, “You done?”
“Yeah, I’m done. And so is he,” pointing at Toby.
“Then that’s your sound-byte. Go drain the lizard, and back here in five. Toby, got something for us?”
“Baking’s a science,” Toby said. “And Chef Wayne’s a molecular gastronomist, a food scientist. But flavor and portioning are forms of art. I think I can beat him in those categories and edge him out.”
“Great. Go pee.”
Toby went to the men’s room and sat awhile thinking about spelt flour and about recipes. Truthfully, Buster had a massive advantage over him in baking. Toby knew baking with the reddish flour required less water, but not precisely how much less. He also knew that spelt was stretchier than all-purpose flour. Buster most likely knew exactly what percentages to use, and furthermore could make something flashy and cutting-edge. Toby was expert at baking basic desserts, but his expertise was focused upon uses of all-purpose flour.
Nina might have decided he, Toby, needed a strike. Buster’s big mouth was good for TV, and his gastronomy methods were even better for the cameras. It was likely this situation was a set-up in his favor.
Toby still had to bake, though, to make a good show. So, then, what? The challenge of the spelt flour was adjusting the water and kneading the dough the proper amount; in terms of flavor it was fairly neutral, so after overcoming the technical obstacles, it was really a recipe contest. His best dessert would have to do, but Nina would be extra hard on him if he didn’t make it better than she had had in the past.
Or, what about a deconstructed dish — a dish that separated usually united components of a traditional dish, so they could be combined during the meal in proportions to suit the diner? It was more Eloise’s style, but it had been around for more than a decade, and he had made deconstructed dishes as far back as middle school, and made them when doing shifts for Nina in her restaurant Dreams By Madame Queen.