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How Six Chefs Got It On
Copyright © 2015 by S. Ford Brown
ISBN: 978-1-61333-852-0
Cover art by Syneca Featherstone
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC
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Dedication
For everyone who believes in fairy tales and loves sweet things and happy endings.
How Six Chefs Got It On
By
S. Ford Brown
A Beyond Fairytales Adaptation of Grimms’
“How Six Men Got On in the World”
“They were always hungry, but they ate very well.”
– Ernest Hemingway, Garden of Eden
Episode One
Once upon a time….
My sister drove me to the television station, the silliest grin on her face. She thought what I planned to do was crazy, and a part of me agreed. A perpetual loner, a skater girl who never watched TV, taking part in a celebrity cooking show?
In the world of cupcakes, the foodie TV market had pretty much dried up, but a video of Nicodemus, the old man who sits outside the studio telling stories, went viral. He had been licking creamy pink frosting from a cupcake, saying, “I love happy endings.”
The producers had exploited the idea for a cooking show they’d named Happy Endings. They indulged Nicodemus, his passion for telling stories, and his sweet tooth because it helped ratings. The mysterious old man had become more than a YouTube sensation; he’d grown into a legend at the studio. People loved the old guy who sat outside the studio telling stories, greeting everyone.
He stood no taller than four feet and resembled Merlin with the wild beard he sported. Nicodemus tasted every confection produced on the show because the studio deemed him the official taste tester. The audience ate it up.
Alex Stanley had thrown in the idea to mix food porn with sexiness. The combination had worked, and the show had been a huge success—this year starting its seventh season.
I learned all of this from my sister, who giggled the entire way to the studio, carrying on about how, of all the people they could have selected to be on the show, they’d chosen me. And not only as a contestant, but as Alex Stanley’s partner.
“You don’t even cook!” she jeered.
“Don’t remind me,” I grumbled, shaking my head.
I hated television, and I hated reality TV even more, but I hated cooking most of all. I couldn’t imagine how I had been talked into doing this. I loved to do one thing and just one thing—skating. My motto—Wake and Skate.
“Tonya.” My sister smirked as we pulled up outside the Orlando studio. “Are you sure about this?” She stared at me, her foot on the brake, but the car still in drive, indicating I had time to get out of this with my dignity intact. Going on television in front of all those cameras terrified me. What if I froze like a deer in headlights? But, I’d promised Alex Stanley I would do this.
Hmmm, Alex Stanley., I creamed every time I thought of him, without a doubt the yummiest guy I’d ever met, a nerd in a jock’s body like me. When he’d asked me to do him a favor and be his partner on the show, how could I say no?
“I’ll be fine.” I cringed and tugged at the collar of the white chef’s jacket. The chef’s hat lay crumpled in my lap from wringing it the entire ride here.
“Break a leg, then.” Ana gave me a thumbs-up then hugged me for a split second. We were never into girly sisterly crap.
I got out of the car and walked inside the studio, passing Nicodemus as I entered. His long beard twisting and turning in every direction, his green woolen pants and red woolen shirt made him appear as a garden gnome.
“Good morning, young lady.” He gave a warm smile.
“Hi, Nicodemus.” I beamed, feeling as if I’d known him for a lifetime even though we’d never met before. His face was so familiar.
“It’s up to you how far you’ll go. If you don’t take a chance, you’ll never know,” he almost sang to me, a lilt in his voice and a twinkle in his eye.
I had no idea how or why, but I got the strangest feeling he could read my mind and knew how much I did not want to be there.
“Thanks.” I shrugged, not sure how to respond, and made my way into the studio.
Alex Stanley stood on the corner of the set, oozing sexiness like an overstuffed ice cream cone. His six feet of delicious manliness along with the body of a Greek god caused me to swoon every time in his presence. All this and a master chef as well. No wonder American women loved him.
He had been pretty involved with the creation of the show. Think Dancing with the Stars but with cooking instead of dancing and celebrity chefs paired with other types of celebrities who had pretty much never cooked a day in their lives. The show had been described by critics as both sexy and yummy. The audience gobbled it up.
The kitchen had been set up, and the other teams were busy doing one thing or another in preparation for the show. Alex had a huge following online, not only from this show but from his other show on HGTV.
Always late for everything, I, of course, arrived last. As a skater girl with the X-games on ESPN, and twenty-one years old, I’ve never cooked a single day in my life, unless mac and cheese in the microwave counts. My primary reason for agreeing to do this show: the exposure factor. Everyone knew the names of a lot of the other X-game skaters, but no one knew of Tonya Summers—not yet, anyway. Of course, the prize money would be a nice bonus, too.
“Hey there, Tonya baby!” Alex gave me a brusque hug as I came into the made-for-television, uber-glam kitchen area. “You haven’t been to makeup yet?” A hint of panic laced his tone.
“Makeup?” I almost laughed in his face. I had only ever worn cosmetics twice in my life. Once to my prom—what a nightmare—and once at my sister’s wedding—an even bigger nightmare.
Alex nodded, smiling, the hand he’d planted mid-center of my back urging me toward a long table off the set.
“What kind of makeup?” I dragged my feet, pushing against his hand as he guided me in the direction he wanted me to go.
“Well, it’s so you don’t fa
de out on camera.”
“Is this necessary?” I didn’t care for the idea.
“Nooo.” The trace of a pout tugged his perfectly sculpted lips.
“Good, let’s skip it, then.” I hoped he wouldn’t be upset, but makeup and I don’t mix. I always think of those awful rabbit eyes they tested mascara on. Ugh. No way. I’m not a PETA member, but I’m not a glam girl either.
“Really, Tonya, you would do yourself and us a huge favor if you would agree to a little bit of powder and mascara.” He batted his thick, jet-black eyelashes at me. “See? It did wonders for me.” He grinned, making a Ta-Dah! expression.
Another favor? But I just couldn’t say no to this guy. Not from the moment I met him. Something about the way he would cock his head, glancing sideways at me with hope beaming from his eyes anytime he wanted something…. Wow! I swooned every time.
“You don’t need much. They’re great makeup artists.”
“All right,” I blurted, “I guess I don’t mind.”
Already headed in the direction of makeup, he behaved as though he knew I would say yes or something.
“Thanks, Tonya. I appreciate it.” He flashed a flawless smile.
“You’re welcome,” I mumbled, crossing my arms in front of me in a disgruntled, childlike manner.
We exchanged a quick, furtive glance, and I jumped up in the makeup artist’s director-style chair.
“Make me beautiful,” I joked. Of course, this would be a challenge. Everything about me screamed skater girl, from my flat-ironed long pink-ombre hair, fading to white on the tips, right down to my black Converse sneakers. My eyes were too blue. I’d always thought they made me look like some alien from another universe, changing with the color of my moods from dark green to bright blue. Good luck, I thought as the makeup artists applied their skills to my more-than-challenging canvas.
As I sat beneath their brushes, I reflected on how all of this had happened. It took most people four years to graduate from college. I’m working on my fifth year because of the community service hours my school required to graduate. I paid for school on my own because, ever since the economy took a downturn, both my parents had been out of work. I took most of my classes online, so I could get my skateboarding and competitions in, but 120 community service hours had proved difficult to get done.
And that’s how I ended up at the Elysian Fields Soup Kitchen the day I met Alex Stanley who volunteers there often. We became fast friends, serving meals to homeless veterans. I worked there because I had no choice. He worked there because he wanted to. Which is one of the best things about Alex Stanley—he’s a good guy. A really good guy—and very attractive, too. One of those types of people you’d like to have as a friend—okay by me because I didn’t have many friends, more often than not by choice. My schedule kept me far too busy for much else.
“Wow! You’re gorgeous!” Alex blurted out when they’d finished with me in makeup, as if it was the first time he’d ever laid eyes on me.
I hated to admit it, but, to my surprise, I loved what they’d done. All of a sudden, I no longer felt like I would be the skater-girl freak on the show. Maybe, if I appeared semi-decent, I could fake my way through the cooking crap. Never the perfectly coiffed blonde with twinkling eyes, I had fair skin with stringy pink hair and the whole alien-eyes thing going. I wouldn’t use the word slender to describe my build, more like downright skinny—almost too skinny, despite the vast amount of junk food I devoured on a day-to-day basis.
“Thanks,” I squeaked, embarrassed by his compliment and the way he stared at me.
Taking my place on the set with the other contestants, I glanced at myself in the television monitor as I stood behind our cooking section of the kitchen. What the hell am I doing here? From the narrow-eyed gazes of the other contestants, it became apparent I didn’t fit in at all.
Help!
The words scrolled on the television prompter as the emcee announced the season-seven premier of Happy Endings, the only reality TV show in search of the perfect dessert. An erotic, gastronomic extravaganza, the series focused on the sexualization of food central to the show’s success. The media blitzed it as the pornification of almost every food type out there. Bacon sexy? If Happy Endings featured them, even chicken giblets could be sexy.
Facing my competition, I couldn’t find a friendly face in the bunch. My odds of winning probably weren’t very good. I’ve never been a people person. Never fit with the in-crowd. Probably why I’d chosen to become a skater. Skateboarding is not a team sport. As I always liked to say, “There’s no I in team, and that’s why I never play on one.”
On my skateboard it’s me and my board, no one to be accountable to, have to answer to, or have to work with to accomplish something. I got it done myself, or I didn’t.
But, for some unknown reason, I’d partnered with one of the greatest chefs in the world on a reality cooking show for the entire world to see. I froze at the thought of what would come.
Bright lights made the set a great deal warmer than I’d expected, and the six ovens didn’t help. The perspiration from my armpits dampened my chef jacket. The first thing I’d learned in the X-games—never let them see you sweat. So, I was already pretty much screwed, and we hadn’t even begun to cook yet.
The set was no bigger than 1,000 square feet, small or one accommodating twelve people, six teams, all cooking, baking, at very high temperatures. The room had been divided into smaller kitchen areas with six ovens, six counter areas, and cabinets full of cooking tools—all foreign to me. Fork, knife, spoon? I could identify those utensils. Three cameras manned by three cameramen were aimed at the set, and one very large, very excited woman ran around from counter to counter, orchestrating the entire scene.
When I came on set with Alex, the large woman glanced up. “Tonya Summers?” she snapped, digging through a pile of papers in her clipboard. “Here’s the schedule for today. You’re late.”
I glanced at the schedule, and terror streaked through me. I can do this. Not believing my own thoughts, I stuffed the schedule she’d given me into my bike-messenger sack.
Taking a deep breath, I peered up at Alex and winced. “Okay, let’s cook.”
I wondered if I would be the first to be voted off. How humiliating!
I stared at the recipe Alex had placed on the counter. Chocolate Bacon Cupcakes. Yuck! Can this get any worse?
I didn’t recognize some of the contestants. The overweight one on my left came across as goofy. I recalled his face from Comedy Central. But I couldn’t place him.
As if he’d read my mind, he leaned across the counter. “You’re Tonya Summers, right?”
“Yup,” I murmured, embarrassed I didn’t recognize him.
“I love watching what you can do on a skateboard on ESPN. So sick!” He bobbed his head up and down like one of those bobblehead dolls in the back windows of souped-up roadsters.
“Um….” I should acknowledge his talents, but I have no idea who he is.
“I’m Bran Mack,” he stated with confidence. “You’ve probably seen me on television.”
Feigning recognition, I nodded, “Sure! Nice to meet you, Bran.”
“Bet this is a lot different from the X-games, huh?”
“Very.” Uncomfortable, I laughed.
He studied me then smirked. “Well, good luck.” He pivoted away, returning to his space on set to talk to his partner chef.
“Thanks.” I turned to Alex.
The rest of the day pretty much went the same way. Meeting, greeting, prepping for the show. We stood in front of our small cooking areas, introducing ourselves on camera over and over again until the director called cut. He had enough footage to whet the appetites of the viewers at home. After three hours of this nonsense, I got a pretty good idea of my competition.
There was one other girl on the show, Olive, a former track star turned porn star, though no one mentioned this on the show. She towered a good six inches over me, and her straight blonde ha
ir reached all the way down to her waist. She came across very confident, or, to be blunt, she loved herself. I didn’t even try to engage her in conversation. Girls like her don’t talk with girls like me. There were a lot of people to meet all at once, so I hoped my avoidance of her went unnoticed. But since I don’t watch much TV, I didn’t know nor have the slightest idea prior to coming on set of who any of them were, who they had been, or what they did or had done before.
Besides all the professional chefs who each had their own television show on some food network or another, the contestants comprised a diverse bunch. Eric—small and squirrel-like and couldn’t get out of his own way. Steve—very well built but appeared to be dumb as a bag of rocks from the way he avoided every question asked. Jeffrey—who was as well built as Steve but apparently suffered from some type of social-anxiety disorder, avoiding eye contact with everyone except the camera. Bran—big, fat almost. Olive—very poised, tall, beautiful, athletic, and a total bitch. Her blonde hair was coiffed to perfection, not one strand out of place. Her face—statuesque, and, all the guys swooned over her. Like schwing! Every guy except for Alex.
There were six of us in all, each trying, with the guidance of our professional chef partners, to win the grand prize. My competition was clearly desperate for fame or the limelight more so than for the money.
Every one of them had experienced their five minutes of fame a long time ago. Olive on the track as a runner, Bran on Comedy Central as an operatic singing comedian, Steve and Jeffrey, I discovered were disgraced athletes—Steve for using steroids in Major League Baseball, and Jeffrey for the same reason in Olympic archery—and Eric had been a jockey, equestrian, or something similar in Argentina. Of all the contestants, I think Eric might have been the only one as little known as me, or at least close to it.
Funny, though, I’d worried they would all gawk at me with my pink hair and skater style. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Instead, they gawked at their own reflections on the TV monitors.
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