Lord of the Pies

by Nell Hampton

  “Yes,” I said. “I just read that I was to notify security about my attendance. I’m sorry I didn’t notify you sooner.”

  “It’s not a problem,” he said. “Mrs. Worth informed me the moment they paid your registration.”

  “Oh, um, okay. Good.” I stood there rooted to my spot.

  “Is that all Chef?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Have a good night.” I took two steps back into the hall. “Nice to meet you.” I turned to walk carefully down the short hall and out of the security department offices.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I muttered to myself. When the elevator didn’t open immediately, I took the stairs. How could I have thought that Ian saw me as anything other than a coworker? That woman looked like a magazine model.

  How could I have thought for a second that what Jasper said about Ian last night might be true? I could feel the heat of a blush rush up my cheeks.

  I got back to my kitchen and moved mechanically through the steps to finish supper and get it up to the duke and duchess. After that, I did the dishes and closed the kitchen. Tomorrow I had to get up early to be ready for the competition. Right now all I wanted to do was to retreat to my room and try not to think about Ian kissing that gorgeous blonde.

  *

  Saturday morning Agnes and I packed ingredients for making the five pies for the competition. We vowed to keep the ingredients in our own custody for the entire day. It turned out to be harder than I thought.

  We arrived at the pavilion set up in the park. I carried a cooler, and Agnes carried two baskets worth of ingredients.

  I went to the registration table to introduce myself and ask where we were to set up.

  “I’m Chef Cole,” I said to the two women at the table. They looked up my name and pulled a name tag out.

  “Okay, here is your name tag.” The woman at the table plopped various registration items on top of the cooler I carried. “Wear it on the right side of your chef coat at all times. This is your passport in and around the event. Also included in your packet is the schedule of events and the timetable for interviews and producer meetings.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The producers will be interviewing each chef at various points in the competition. The schedule is set. You’re in position four in the tent. Here’s a map. Alex here is the producer’s assistant assigned to you today. Follow him.” She waved me off to the right.

  “Chef Cole,” A young guy who looked all of eighteen held out his hand. He was thin and about five feet seven inches tall.

  “I’m sorry, my hands are full.” I lifted the cooler, careful not to lose the paperwork she had placed on top.

  “Right,” he said. “Let me take that for you.”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “We’ll do it.”

  “But I’m here to help get you settled in and set up.”

  “Fine, you can take the paperwork, but the ingredients aren’t leaving my hands or Agnes’s.”

  “Who is Agnes?”

  “She’s my assistant for today,” I nodded over my shoulder to where Agnes walked carefully balancing the two baskets.

  “Right,” Alex said. “We have guys who will take care of all that. Right now, I need you to go to makeup and get ready for your first on-camera interview.”

  “No,” I said. “Nothing is leaving our sight. So if you want me some place faster, then you need to take me to my baking area first.”

  He frowned at me, but Agnes and I simply stared him down. “Fine,” he said with a huff. “Follow me.”

  I thought I heard him mutter something about a diva, but I didn’t care. If anyone died because of pies that I cooked on national television, I would never work again. Yes, I’d rather go on television with no makeup than chance the loss of my career.

  He led us to a tent that was set up with six baking areas. “You are in position four, near the front.”

  “The front?”

  “The cameras draw the eye to the back where the more popular and well-known chefs will be working.” He pointed to the last two spaces and I saw four of Butterbottom’s sous-chefs setting up his space. One was busy cleaning an already spotless area.

  “Himself is there, huh,” Agnes blustered. Her face had grown red from the walk and carrying the heavy baskets. I put the cooler down on my space.

  “Where are the other chefs?” I asked.

  “All in makeup where you should have been five minutes ago.”

  The other spots were all filled with assistant chefs and production people prepping the ingredients for the first pie—an appetizer pie.

  “I’ve got this, Chef,” Agnes said. “I won’t let it out of my sight.”

  I frowned. I would have to trust that no one would mess with my stuff when I wasn’t here. I pulled out my pocket camera and small video stand.

  “What’s that?” Alex asked.

  “It’s a video camera,” I said. I’m going to record my space.”

  “What, why?”

  “We need to ensure no one tampers with her things,” Agnes said. “Trust me, Chef, I’ll keep an eye on it.”

  I set the camera on the tripod and checked that it recorded the countertop. “I trust you, Agnes,” I said. “It’s everyone else that I don’t trust.” Once it was up and running I looked at Alex. “All right, show me the way to makeup.”

  We hurried out of the tent to a smaller tent nearby where I was tucked into a chair and my hair was pulled back into a low ponytail and poofed on top. There was so much hairspray in it I was pretty sure it wouldn’t have budge in a stiff wind for at least two weeks.

  Next was a makeup artist named Hannah. “Good thing you have great skin,” she said as she tapped my face with foundation.

  “Why?” I asked trying to keep my expression neutral so that she could apply everything correctly.

  “You have to be on set in ten minutes,” she explained. “Skin like yours doesn’t take as much work.”

  “Good?”

  “Yes,” she laughed. “Very good.”

  I could hear Chef Butterbottom yelling at his makeup team in the far corner. Lucky for me I was a last-minute replacement and therefore far away from the more popular chefs.

  “I said stop making me look so orange.” Butterbottom got out of his chair. “I demand a new makeup artist.” He tore off the white towel that was stuck under his chin to keep the makeup off of his white shirt. “Where is my tea?” Someone brought him a cup. “Not this! Where is my tea?”

  Staff members with head gear went scurrying over to his part of the tent. They fawned over him until he calmed down and sat back in the chair. A new makeup artist was produced and all was quiet for a moment.

  “Not all chefs are divas,” I said as Hannah lined my eyes with a neutral brown pencil.

  Hannah laughed. “Trust me you don’t have to be a chef to be a diva. I’ve had people off the street turn into a nightmare in the prep room.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes,” she said with a short nod. “They think we’re going to make them look bad.”

  “Nice to see you in the competition, Chef Cole,” Chef Wright said as he passed my makeup chair with his handler on the way out of the makeup tent.

  “Are you one of the competitors?” I asked.

  “Certainly,” Chef Wright said with a laugh. “Along with Chef Butterbottom and Chef Elsie.”

  “Who?”

  “Chef Elsie, she cooks for the Duke of York and his wife. I guess with you and the rest, they have the entire palace out of chefs for the day.” He winked at me. “Let’s show them what we’ve got.”

  “He likes you,” Hannah said as she watched Chef Wright walk off.

  “He’s married,” I said.

  “Everyone knows he has an eye for the ladies,” she said as she brushed mascara on my lashes. “I hear he has at least two mistresses.”

  “All the more reason to stay away from him,” I said.

  Hannah laughed. “They told me you were smart.”
>
  I sent her a small smile. “Let’s hope I’m smart enough to bake my way to the top today.”

  From the makeup tent I was whisked away to another tent where I was interviewed.

  “So Chef Cole,” the host, Sir Albert Nash said. “We understand that you are fresh off the plane from the USA.”

  “I’ve been here a few months,” I said.

  “And that you scored your enviable job as personal chef to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge from the couple’s trip to New York City.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “So what is it like to be a native New Yorker?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I’m from Chicago.”

  “Ah, yes, the Windy City, the City of Big Shoulders, Second City.”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “Where were you trained? Chef Butterbottom was trained with Britain’s greatest chefs as well as at Le Cordon Blue in Paris. Chef Wright has a similar pedigree.”

  “I went to the Le Cordon Bleu College of Culinary Arts in Chicago,” I said. “Then I studied in Paris and London as well as Madrid and Mumbai.”

  “You seem pretty young to have been studying so long,” the Nash said with a crocodile smile.

  “I’m older than I look,” I said with my best soft smile.

  “You were a last-minute replacement in this competition, weren’t you? What made you decide to try your hand at British pie-making?”

  “Actually, it was the fact that the proceeds go to the duke and duchess’s children’s charity. Chef Butterbottom told me about the opening and invited me to enter. I checked with my employer and they generously agreed to pay my entry fee.”

  “How wonderful of the duke and duchess,” the Nash said. “I understand they will be attending the finale.”

  “Then I hope I’m one of the finalists so that they will be proud.”

  “Really? You know you are not even seen as a threat to the other chefs.”

  “I know,” I said. “But everyone loves an underdog.”

  “And cut,” the director said.

  The Nash immediately turned from me and called for his assistant to bring him a cup of tea.

  “Chef Cole.” Alex touched my shoulder. “We need you to take your place in the competition kitchen for the opening shots.”

  “Okay.” I followed Alex out of the interview spot. The sun was bright and people had begun to gather in the park. The baking kitchen was raised up off the ground for a better view for those who filled the chairs in the park.

  The stage was a tented area with transparent sides so that the audience could fill the park on three sides of us.

  “Oh man, I paid twenty pounds a ticket to be put in front of a nobody,” I heard a man say as I took my spot alongside Agnes.

  “Wait, isn’t she the duke and duchess’s American Chef?” the woman next to him said. “I hear she killed someone with her pie.”

  “You don’t say,” the man said. “If she makes it past the first round, I might be able to sell the tickets to someone for a profit.”

  The woman smacked him. “We can’t be that lucky.”

  I shook my head and put on a clean chef’s coat. “How are our ingredients?”

  “I haven’t left them,” she said. Then she patted my camera. “This trusty little guy will show you.”

  “All right,” the director said. “Let’s start this shoot. Chefs, you will look at the hosts as they introduce the challenge. Then I want you to start baking. We will bring the crew by your station to set up individual shots of your recipe and plans for the pie.”

  Albert Nash then bounced into the tent fully on script. He introduced a Edwina Storm and a David Young. “Welcome, ladies and gentleman, to the second annual charity bake-off. This year we are highlighting good old English pies—both savory and sweet.”

  The director called cut. Makeup artists scurried in to do touch ups while the cameras were reset.

  We spent the next hour standing by our stations looking happy and expectant before the judges finally gave us our assignments. “Chefs, you have one hour to create and bake an appetizer pie. On your marks, get set, bake!”

  Finally, I could get start baking. I planned on making a fresh spinach quiche and bake it in individual finger-size cups. I went straight to work, careful to taste each ingredient in front of my camera.

  The judges came over to film a segment asking me what I was making and how I felt about my stiff competition.

  “I’m confident in my pies,” I said. “But I’m looking forward to see how my work compares with all the other great chefs here.”

  “Good job on being humble,” Alex whispered. “People like that.”

  I shrugged. “If I’m an underdog then I need to act like one.”

  I continued with the pies, rolling out flaky crust made with butter, flour, salt, and vinegar. The key to a good piecrust was not to handle it too much and to keep the dough very cold.

  I prebaked the tiny crusts then added the egg, spinach, cream, and cheese filling.

  “Twenty minutes on the clock,” came the call from Nash. I glanced around to see that only one other chef still needed to put pies in the oven. Butterbottom glistened with sweat and grabbed a white tea towel to pat off the perspiration. Chef Wright looked confident as he bent down to check his oven.

  “Time to prepare the plates,” I said to Agnes, who pulled two small plates out of our basket and handed them to me. I garnished them with fresh tomato, basil, and mozzarella.

  When the minipies were done, I let them sit as long as possible to cool and make the filling firm, not runny.

  “Five minutes,” came the call. “Five minutes.”

  I quickly plated my pies. Two garnished plates for the judges and one big plate to serve the people outside. I had done my best, and I had tasted each ingredient to ensure nothing was tampered with.

  “Five, four, three, two, one, and hands up!” Said Nash. There was a lot of cheering from the chefs, their assistants, and the crowd.

  We waited long moments for them to set up the cameras to film the judging. Finally, our dishes were brought up before the judges and placed side by side. Apparently, there had been a mishap with one of the front chefs. Chef MacLode had tried to make cheese pies but the edges of the pie had burnt while the filling wasn’t quite jelled.

  I felt bad for him and was glad mine at least had cooked well. Maybe I wouldn’t be the first chef to go home.

  Chapter 14

  I made it through the appetizer round. Next up was the meat pie round. Agnes was nervous since it was the unveiling of her family’s recipe. I patted her hand to let her know that I was going to do my best to make her family look good.

  “Congrats on finishing your first and last round,” Chef Butterbottom said to me as he passed by. “You will be undone by the English meat pie.”

  “Good luck to you, too, Chef,” I said with a smile.

  We all went to our stations and waited while the Nash and judges were filmed. “For your next round, you have two hours to make two classic English entrée pies. On your marks, get set, bake!”

  I decided to set up my presentation as a picnic. We emptied one of Agnes’s baskets and she prepped it with checkered linen.

  Agnes’s family pie contained steak and kidney with a savory gravy. I paired it with a classic beef and Guinness pie. I started with a puff pastry crust and ensured I tasted each ingredient on my table. My little camera still ran whenever I cooked in case I had to prove later that I tasted everything both before mixing and after.

  Raw ingredients like meat I left untasted until they were braised and cooked. But it would be clear that I tasted the final product.

  “That’s a little paranoid, don’t you think?” Chef Aster said. She was the chef directly beside me and was one of the Buckingham Palace chefs.

  “What?”

  “Tasting all your food, what are you afraid you’ll poison someone?”

  “I’m not afraid of poisoning anyone,�
�� I said. “A good chef cooks by taste.”

  “Right,” she shrugged. “Maybe in America.”

  It was embarrassing that she figured out what I was doing. Maybe I was paranoid. Or maybe everyone watching was waiting for me to kill someone with my pie.

  When it was time for the meat pies to come out of the oven, Chef Aster got very upset. It seemed that her oven never got hot enough. Her pies were still raw.

  I looked at Agnes and she looked at me. How did that happen? I suspected that there was sabotage going on to up the suspense on who would win.

  “Plate your pies, Chefs,” Albert Nash said. “You have five minutes.”

  We hurried the pies into the picnic basket display and plated two judging plates for tasting.

  “Down to the final seconds and in five, four, three, two, one, and times up. Step away from your pies.”

  I put my hands in the air and waited while they shot our reaction video. My plates looked good. The pies were crescent shaped, making them easy to take to picnics. The display looked good with a garnish of potato salad and a bottle of red wine.

  “Cut,” the director said as they set up for the next shot of the judges coming in. I took the opportunity to wave over my wrangler, Alex.

  “What can I get you, Chef?”

  “What happened to Chef Aster’s oven?”

  He glanced over at the weeping chef and the half-baked pies. “It appears it didn’t keep its temperature.”

  I studied him. “Was that intentional?”

  He looked me in the eye a long moment. “Everything is intentional, Chef. The show is storyboarded weeks in advance.”

  “I see,” I said. “And what chef did I replace?”

  “Chef Nice,” he said. “He’s the head Chef at The Drake downtown.”

  “All right,” I said. “So my guess is he has never been suspected of poisoning anyone with his pie.”

  Alex laughed. “No, he never has. Why?”

  “It’s been made clear to me that I’m here because people are waiting to see if anyone dies from one of my pies.”

  “You mean like that Wentworth guy did?”

  “Wentworth did not die from my pie. He was poisoned.”