by MJ Post
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
“Tell me.”
“Toby, I’m sorry, I don’t know how to say it. Yes to all those things. I do, I do like you. I always did.”
“What did you mean, just a Korean girl?”
“Well, you white guys, I mean, I thought you always go for the blonds.”
“I’m not white guys. I’m Toby. I’m your guy. Give me your hand.”
She did. He lifted it. “This is real. Count on it. Believe in it. You can tell everyone, that’s my man. You understand? I don’t care who you say it to, or when.”
There were footsteps in the hallway. Both of them quickly got up.
It was Ozzy. “Hey, guys, curfew. We’re clearing the halls.”
“Come on,” Toby said. “We’re grownups here.”
“Insurance reasons,” Ozzy said.
“Right,” Kacie said. “Insurance.”
“You both okay?” Ozzy asked. “Strange place to hang out.”
“Not really. I want to be with my man, Ozzy.”
The security man nodded, didn’t seem surprised. “I heard that. But it’s a TV studio. Insurance, you know?”
“Sure,” said Toby. “We get it. We’ll go into the dorms in two minutes, promise.”
“All right. Hey, chefs, I’m pulling for you, you know that. Just doing my job.”
They listened to his footsteps retreating. Toby guided Kacie up to the door, kissed her lightly. “Tell me this was real.”
“It was real.”
“Tell me it means something after tonight.”
“Of course, yeah.”
“You won’t change and be different tomorrow?”
“No, but we can’t fool around like this when the show is going on. It will distract us too much, and we don’t need to get caught on camera. We’re boyfriend girlfriend officially, but let’s not go too far till the taping is over.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Upon receiving the message from his father, Toby was seized with icy rage. He had clearly told his parents in his goodbye letter that he was done, moving on. Still, still, they would not accept that he was his own man, making his own decisions, and right decisions, too. He was on TV; he had great earning potential. New York would be better than Oxford. He was in love with a magnificent woman, and he had overcome her suspicions and he had a chance with her.
Maybe getting two strikes in one day had not been the right decision, but, really, that had been Nina’s bullshit, because she was mad at Boris.
What had Boris meant by saying he was looking at real estate? He couldn’t afford anything in New York, could he? Especially not after the divorce.
Kacie had not flipped on Toby the day after the loss, was still with him through the shitty day with Hammer Chef Russian, when, in a fog of thinking about everything his parents had ever done to insult or demean him, he had phoned in his dish, and been lucky not to get a worse result. Making borscht after Medvedev had strongly suggested not to? Idiot.
Kacie kept after him, but he wasn’t able to talk yet. How could he explain Roy to her? How could he explain Miranda? Would he say, Kacie, I want you to like me, but my parents think I’m a failure and they don’t like anything I do? Could he say, they’ll probably treat you like another dumbass decision of mine?
Would his parents react badly to his bringing home a Korean-American girl? He didn’t think that would be an issue. His first girlfriend, Amanda, had been black, but when objecting to her they hadn’t mentioned race, only that she was older and had a child by a married man -- things that Toby himself was not thrilled about. No, Roy and Miranda weren’t racists; they were just controlling and condescending.
Kacie was there for Toby during the day off, ready to be with him, wanting to be with him, and what should have been heaven was ashes. Roy’s message implied that his parents were making a sacrifice for Toby and that he thus owed it to his mother to obey because she had stuck her neck out for him.
Toby did not want to hurt his parents. He had left, certainly left the way he had, to avoid doing that. I love you, but I have to go my own way. Why couldn’t they accept that? Would they never be at peace with the son they had instead of the son they had imagined? He thought he HAD said that in his parting letter. Why couldn’t they accept that he was now on his own? Would they never stop feeling they had to fix him, to change him into the man they had imagined?
He was ashamed to have such closed-minded, arrogant parents, ashamed to tell Kacie how mean and manipulative they were. He didn’t want to lose her. He wanted that vision of Kacie and himself laughing together to become real and stay real.
Ozzy had taken him for a long walk. He had cleared his head using fresh air and the genial security man’s gentle banter. New York was dizzyingly loud and tall. What kind of home could it be when the sky was broken by concrete and more people populated a crosswalk than one might see in a whole day of walking around Oxford?
It didn’t seem like a home to him, but it was home to those people. It was Kacie’s home. Now it was his and Lillian’s as well.
He asked Ozzy, “How did you adjust to this after growing up in a small town?”
“Everybody in New York has two ways to do it,” Ozzy explained. “They don’t give a damn, and they fly their freak flags, like the saying goes. Or else they squeeze themselves into a kind of tight package in public, and when they get home, they untighten and spread out behind closed doors. In the street or the subway, you play defense, make yourself a small target. At home, it’s all good.”
He felt like asking Ozzy about his parents or Kacie, but he didn’t. There was no chance to break away and call his sister. She might have fallen in front of a bus and he wouldn’t know.
Getting back late, Toby met Maryann in the hallway. She looked him up and down. “You feeling better?”
“Sure am. Guess I was stir-crazy.”
“Guess you were.” She offered a very slight grin. “Aw, you’re a good kid, I know that. Not your fault you didn’t pay your dues yet.” She extended her hand. “Friends, okay?”
“We weren’t enemies.” He didn’t want to take her hand, so made it quick when he did.
“Okay, good night.” She went inside. Toby didn’t want to yet, but he didn’t want to be on-camera either, so he sat in the alcove around the corner from the dorm entrances, the spot that was camera-blind. Seated on the floor, he laid his head back against the wall, closed his eyes, and sorted things out as best he could. He realized it would be wrong to delay longer; he had to tell Kacie.
She found him there, and he told her.
∞∞∞
Now that he had unburdened himself and they had assured themselves that physical closeness intensified, not dampened, their feelings, Toby lay in bed and imagined how he and Kacie would hook up. Amanda had liked cowboy. Would Kacie like that? He would like to look up at her eyes and cup her breasts. Would she want him to be on top? What about doggie style, with all their feet on the floor and Kacie’s arms stretched out onto the bed? Should he smack her on the ass?
These were silly thoughts — there could be no sex till the competition was over. Not only were there cameras everywhere, but he had no condoms, and since she was a virgin, she probably wasn’t on the pill either. They had to get out of the dorms, out of the TV studio, before they could become lovers. But they would! They would be lovers, wouldn’t they? He was hers, she was his. She had said she always liked him. They had seen each other and known right away. He was going to have her, he was; he was getting the woman he wanted, the most fiercely beautiful woman ever.
He saw her in the hallway before breakfast, and they stopped for a cuddle. He whispered in her ear, “I will explore every inch of you with every inch of me.” As he watched, her eyes narrowed, then widened. Finally she rubbed her hip into his crotch and whispered back, “I can take all the inches you have, country boy.”
Toby felt his face nigh-splitting with his grin.
�
��I think you mean that,” he said.
“You’d better believe it. I can’t wait to…” Someone was stirring near the doorway. “We’d better chill out. First night we’re out of here, it’s going down.”
“Uh huh.”
Instead of a full breakfast, they were told, they should just have some toast and coffee and come downstairs. It was barely 7 a.m. when the eight chefs were lined up on their marks in Kitchen One. A large stew pot and a sealed cardboard box was emplaced between each pair of cooking stations. Madame Queen stood at the display table with another stew pot, this one offering a rich aroma that Toby recognized. She was ladling the contents into ramekins atop brown rice.
“Have a good taste,” she told the camera. “You know what this dish is, don’t you, chefs?”
A pause, then the cameras recorded each of them saying, “It’s your famous gumbo, Madame Queen.” She’d made it for them already, of course, but this time was special. It was as fine a batch of gumbo as she had ever made. Toby had eaten the dish dozens of times, but this pot had insane depth and complexity of flavor. Boris had taught him how to make gumbo Winfrey style, but Nina Lestrade’s recipe was limited to herself and a few of her own sous chefs to whom she had entrusted it. He had a clear idea of what the ingredients were, but not in what proportions.
“Today, you shall all have extra cooking time, and because my gumbo must be closely monitored, you shall cook in pairs. We again have lots for you to draw, as you did on day one, but you must work with a different partner than you did previously.”
After some adjustments by the crew, Madame Queen circulated with the coffee can full of tokens. Toby drew number one. Maryann drew number two, Kacie number three.
Toby now had little time to select his partner. He couldn’t work with Kacie. Eloise was the next-best chef in win rate, but she was super manipulative. Buster had been protected so far and might make a safe partner, but he was annoying.
Soon the judge was asking him on-camera. “Chef Brutus, you have drawn number one. You may select any but two of your seven opponents. What say you?”
“I choose Chef Kamara,” he said. “I think she understands Southern flavors really well, and she has a great attitude in and out of the kitchen.”
Still shots were taken of Toby and Alia standing together.
“Can you forgive me for the other day?” he asked in a low voice.
“I don’t believe in holding grudges,” Alia responded.
Maryann said, “I think Chef Hamilton knows her way around a stew pot.”
Kacie picked Louie. That left Buster and Vegas as a team.
“Remember that your goal is to reproduce MY gumbo,” said Madame Queen. “Do not put your own spin on it. Chef Brutus, do NOT serve me the gumbo recipe of my ex-husband. The boxes contain all the necessary ingredients as well as numerous others you will not require. Which should be left out? Only your palates can reveal that, and only your queen knows for sure. Now — get your gumbos started. Make sure one of you is continuously monitoring your dish. We will break for breakfast in one hour.”
“You know how to make gumbo, I know that,” Toby said to Alia. “She’s right, I might make Boris’ version if I’m not careful. Your palate’s good, so you should lead.”
“How dark is the roux? I usually make gumbo with a blond roux.”
“No, extra dark, New Orleans style. That’s where she learned to make the dish.”
“Does she use filé powder?”
“Think so.” He looked into the box. A jar of the powdered sassafras leaves was among the ingredients along with the basics: celery, onions, bell peppers, parsley. The ingredients for the roux, or thickener, were present, oil and flour. In fact, there were several choices for each, including butter, olive and canola oils, a jar of bacon fat, and margarine, and both standard all-purpose flour and several variants like wheat flour, semolina, and buckwheat. Okra, as typical of old-fashioned gumbos, was present, and also tomatoes, and various proteins, including crab, shrimp, oysters, mussels, chicken, rabbit, and Andouille sausage. There was also a rack of seasonings, many of which Toby was sure they would not need.
Alia looked over the lip of the box as well. “My gumbo is a little less hearty than hers, and the flavors are less nuanced. Keep me from falling into that trap. We should add the seasonings incrementally. You’ve seen her roux for the dish, right? So, do you want to go ahead and make that?”
“Yeah, I’ll do that.”
Ricky came with the camera just as Toby was asking, “Are you okay to deal with the Andouille?” It was a pork sausage, and as a Muslim she eschewed pork.
“I’ll manage,” said Alia. “I can taste it without making it a meal. That would be bad. I already ate Madame’s anyway without worrying about it, right?”
“Uh huh. That’s a point.”
When Ricky had moved on, Toby broke from the conference and strode over to Kacie. “You got this?” he asked. “Want any — um…”
“Try to beat me,” Kacie said. “You really need a win, and so does Alia.”
“Yeah, got it.” He returned to Alia’s station, where she had laid out the ingredients and was looking them over with a drop of Madame’s gumbo on her tongue. Toby emulated her. Yes, he was sure: there was no okra. He tossed the glutinous vegetable back in the box. They sorted through the various oils before settling on olive oil and butter. Neither of them had tasted bacon fat, canola oil, or margarine, so they trusted those three were not used. Toby definitely tasted filé powder. There was crab, there was shrimp, there were no mussels or oysters, no semolina, that was silly — and then they noticed Buster watching over their shoulders.
“Are you seriously spying on us?” Alia demanded.
“Oh, I already know what to leave out,” Buster announced. “I’m just checking if you do.”
“Vegas,” Toby shouted. “Come get your partner before I put a colander up his ass!”
Vegas pulled Buster by the arm. “Make the roux,” he said.
Alia set to picking the shells out of the crabmeat, a task for her smaller fingers, while Toby made the roux. He added a tiny amount of buckwheat flour with the all-purpose flour. He continued to whisk the roux while Alia chopped yellow and green onion, celery, bell peppers, parsley, and sausage. Eloise stopped by. “I’ll finally be making those whole-grain waffles upstairs,” she said over their shoulder. “Wow, smells good. Want me to save you plates?”
“Go eat,” Toby told Alia. “I’ll trade with you in about a half hour.”
Alia patted his elbow and went with Eloise. Along with Toby, Louie, Maryann, and Vegas were left watching the stew pots. Toby craned his neck and saw that Vegas and Buster were using slightly different ingredients. Either his team or their team was wrong. He went over to talk to Louie.
“You guys think you got it?”
“Yeah. This Andouille is great. Where do you think they ordered it from?”
“Nina can make her own, but if she has to order, then she’ll go with Savoie’s, usually.” He told Louie more about it.
“First thing after Alia wins,” Louie said, “when I get my phone, I’ll call my dad and tell him to get some on the boat.”
“The boat?”
“Oh. Yeah. Our restaurant is on a houseboat on the Cuyahoga. It’s called La Piccola Barca Rustica, The Rustic Little Boat.”
“Cuyahoga?”
“The river that runs through Cleveland. It’s pretty clean these days. There are even fish.”
“Cleveland’s a good food town?”
“Could be better, but we’re working on that every day.”
“You said, after Alia wins. Aren’t you trying to win?”
“Yeah, I’m trying. But I think she’s the best one here. I trained with Enzo Arrhighetti, I trained with Daniele Cracchiolo, and I ate through their menus a dozen times over, and learned them, and when I taste her dishes it literally blows me away. I mean, more than Enzo or Daniele.”
“Isn’t that just because you’re in love with he
r, though?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. Who do you think is better than Alia?”
“I think we’re all pretty great. I’m not picking a winner.”
“You think Kacie is going to win? Or Eloise?”
“They could. I could. You could. Any of us could. Nina is pretty unpredictable. If she comes off cray-cray, it’s actually a strategy. Truth is, she’s always a step ahead of the rest of us.”
They went on to a discussion of filé powder and its uses, and then Toby saw his chance to ask Louie about some Greek recipes, first explaining he was concerned that Al Rokos might show up. As they talked, both monitored their gumbo regularly. Alia and Kacie returned after about forty-five minutes. The cooking proceeded smoothly for a while after that.
Toby went upstairs with Louie, Maryann, and Vegas for breakfast.
∞∞∞
Two hours later, they gathered on their pair marks and waited with expectant expressions that were mostly genuine. Madame sampled each pair’s gumbo, taking bites of bland crackers and sips of mineral water in between.
“They are all excellent gumbos — but this is a test of the acuity of your palates. Were you able to detect the amounts of each relevant ingredient in my own gumbo — the best in the world, it has been said? Were you able by careful and measured preparation to match my flavors? Let us look first to the least successful. Chefs Lee and Alpharetto, too much garlic. Chefs Camacho and Wayne, too much salt. One from each team faces a cook-off. Chefs Chen and Hamilton, yours is close to mine. You need worry no more till tomorrow. Chefs Kamara and Brutus, yours is the closest match. You jointly win. As for your prizes — that we shall decide. Tonight’s cook-off— hmmm. There are four possible pairings. Chef Alpharetto, I want an Italian meal tonight, so you will be in the cook-off. Chef Camacho, I also wish to eat your food tonight, so you will be his opponent. Go.” She waved her hand at them. “Go and puff your chests at each other, or whatever you wish. Now to the prizes. Chef Kamara, for your second win — a dinner with your parents in your home, which I shall myself cook for you. Chef Brutus — dinner with Chef Boris Winfrey, at Simon & The Whale. I’m going to my office. Chef Kamara, dress for dinner and meet me in the common-room in forty-five minutes.”