by Nell Hampton
“But wouldn’t it make for great telly?” He grinned at me.
I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. Then the director shouted for us to take our places. It was time to shoot the end of the round and see who was going home.
*
“Welcome to the dessert round,” Nash said. “We started with six chefs and now four remain. This round will be a play-off round where two chefs will go head to head. The winning chefs of each bracket will face off for the final round and a chance to be named the winner of the title, Best British Pie Maker.
“For this round, we will pair Chef Cole with Chef Elsie and Chef Butterbottom, you will be directly competing with Chef Wright. Each of you will make the same pie—bilberry pie—and you will be judged on plating, taste, wow factor, and crust.
Your ingredients are in the box provided. Chefs, on your marks, get set, bake!”
I opened the box to find flour, butter, salt, vinegar, bilberries, sugar, tapioca, and an egg. I grabbed some apples from my own ingredients and started making my crust.
I instructed Agnes to continue with our picnic theme and create a beautiful basket presentation that included a dessert wine, sharp cheddar cheese, and a small bowl of cream.
I was the only one adding apples to my bilberry pie. I made the crust and carefully fluted little custard cups as my pie pans. The thought was that I would pop out the pies so that they could be eaten with your hands or on a plate with a picnic fork.
Quartering the apples, I placed them in a saucepan with sugar, then I added butter and let them cook down a bit. Next, I added the bilberries and cooked the mixture for two more minutes before letting it cool.
The cooled filling was spooned into the small pie pans and I added decorative lattice work on the tops, brushed them with egg white, and sprinkled on sugar for shine.
Then, fingers crossed, I checked the temperature of my oven and stuck the pies in to cook. The camera crew and two judges showed up at my space for an individual shoot. I added more apples to the pot, along with sugar and butter, and stirred them while the judges asked me questions.
“Are Americans familiar with bilberries?” Judge Storm asked.
“We are more likely to make blueberry pie,” I said. “Occasionally we’ll get a shipment of bilberries to make pie if there is a special request.”
“What is the favorite pie of the duke and duchess?” Judge Young asked.
“The duke loves cottage pie and I think the duchess is partial to lemon.”
“Like the lemon pie Wentworth Uleman was found face down in?”
“I hardly think anyone likes killer pie,” I said.
“So it wasn’t your pie?”
“I didn’t make that pie,” I said. “But I am making this one, and I’ve personally tasted all the ingredients.” I pointed to my little camera. “I have the video to prove it.”
“Well, judges, since she has become her own walking taster, I’d say you can enjoy tasting her pie without fear of death,” Nash said with a chuckle.
“The only thing she has to fear is losing,” Judge Storm said.
I smiled. “I’m not afraid to lose. It’s been a pleasure just participating.”
“That’s the spirit,” Albert Nash said with a nervous laugh. “Okay, let’s move on to Chef Butterbottom.”
I pulled my pie out with ten minutes to spare and allowed it to cool. I have to say that it was the best-looking pie I’d ever made. None of the ingredients ended up on the floor and my equipment worked just fine. It looked like this might be a non-sabotaged segment. Good. It would be nice to have my bilberry pie go up against Chef Elsie’s.
“And we are counting down the final seconds of the semifinal bake-off. Five, four, three, two, one, hands up!” I raised my hands from my plated pie. I looked at Chef Elsie and she looked at me.
“May the best pie win,” I said and shook her hand.
“As long as it’s my pie,” she said with a grin. We brought the plated pies forward for the judges to talk about and taste. It was difficult to stand and listen to the judges talk about the pies. Memories of cooking school came rushing back. I had busted my bum to please the chefs and they had made me look bad with practiced ease. This time was different, but the emotions brought up by the memory were disheartening.
In the end, it seemed they loved my filling, but my flakey crust might have been too thin. I bit my bottom lip and waited as they critiqued Chef Elsie’s pie.
“Nice depth of the crust,” Judge Young said. “But it appears a little doughy.”
Judge Storm took a forkful. “The taste is quiet exquisite, but the fruit filling is a touch runny.”
I glanced at Chef Elsie who looked a bit steamed at the judges.
“The winner of this pie challenge is…”
“Chef Cole! You will be moving on to the finals in this bake-off. Congratulations!”
I held my hands over my mouth in surprise and then turned and gave Agnes a big hug. I was in the finals. When it came down to it, my bilberry pie was judged better than Chef Elsie’s.
This was so awesome. I went over and shook Chef Elsie’s hand and thanked her for a good competition. “I’ll get you next time,” she said, a grumble in her voice.
Then we stepped off the stage to watch the judging between Chef Wright and Chef Butterbottom. I held my breath. Both men were stiff competition. But if I had my choice, I would have Chef Wright win. It would be easier competing with him than competing with snobbish Butterbottom.
“Well, gentlemen, you both made superb pies,” Judge Storm said. “But we must pick a winner.”
“And that winner is…” the Judge Young waited until the director gave him the signal to announce. “Chef Butterbottom. Congratulations, Chef, you have made the finals in today’s bake-off.”
Darn.
Butterbottom shook Chef Wright’s hand and turned to me. “All right, Chef Cole, I’m coming for you.”
I swallowed hard. Butterbottom had made it his mission since I arrived to show everyone that he was a better chef than I was. He liked to say that I was the worst chef in London, but I now had proof that I was, at least in this competition, better than three other chefs.
“And cut—” the director said. Alex came over as the makeup artists worked furiously to touch up our makeup. All the heat and steam from baking put a real shine on our skin.
“I’m so glad I have you,” Hannah said. “Butterbottom won’t stop sweating. What a nightmare.”
“All right,” Alex said. “Congratulations, Chef. The director wants you to move your set up to the front right. Chef Butterbottom will be moved to the front left. That way we can get the lights on you and keep you in the camera shot the entire time.
Agnes and I carefully moved all the remaining ingredients, our dishes, and our other things to the vacated front kitchen. Butterbottom’s assistants went straight to work, cleaning, shining, and placing all his things right where he wanted them.
I could hear the audience outside. People were betting on the winner, and I was not the favorite. I didn’t mind. I was simply happy to be in second place. I noticed the director talking to Butterbottom. I thought I heard him say that Butterbottom had the win in his hands.
That wasn’t upsetting at all. It was kind a relief to know what the outcome would be. I was still surprised that they didn’t have Chef Wright or Chef Elsie as one of the finalists.
“Congratulations,” Chef Wright said from behind me. I turned and he stuck out his hand.
“Thank you,” I said as he shook my hand and then he leaned in to give me an unwelcome hug and a peck on the cheek.
“Best of luck.”
“Right.” I took a step back to put space between us. “How is Evie?” I asked him. “Or is it Rachel now?”
He smiled at me, his eyes crinkling. “What’s wrong with both?” He winked. “Best of luck.”
“All right, people, let’s get the final shoot in before we lose daylight,” the director called. Chef Wright lef
t the tent/staging area to watch from the chairs with the other losing chefs.
I stepped over to Chef Butterbottom and stuck out my hand. “May the best pie win.”
He sneered at my hand. “Everyone already knows who makes the best pie.”
I pulled my hand back. “That would be me.” I winked at him.
The cameras were rolling and I wanted to give them a good show. It was all for a good cause—children’s charity. I rolled my shoulders and tilted my neck like a fighter getting ready for a fight. Nash loved it. The cameras moved off me to the judges.
“Chefs, for your final bake you must make a Yorkshire curd tart. We are looking for a classic crème base and a warm, homey taste. Don’t forget your crust must hold up to being lifted from the pie pan yet be flaky and delicious. The ingredients are in the box in front of you. On your marks, get set, bake!”
Chapter 15
I started out with a sweet shortbread pastry. I was sure to taste every ingredient. These ingredients were supplied and I wasn’t taking any chances. I formed the ingredients into a ball and put it in the refrigerator to chill for thirty minutes while Agnes stood guard.
A Yorkshire curd tart was made with cheese curds, flour, sugar, butter, raisins, egg, lemon zest, and nutmeg.
The piecrust rolled out to perfection and I placed it in tart pans. Then I added beans to hold down the crust as I prebaked it for fifteen minutes, ensuring that my oven didn’t go out or my crust get too brown.
Once I pulled the piecrust out, I filled the it with lemon curd and then the cheese curd mixture. Then I put it in the oven to bake. A quick glance at Chef Butterbottom showed me that he was about five minutes ahead of me in making his tarts. I had used smaller tart pans so that they would cook more quickly. Cheese tarts were best served cool, and that would take at least twenty minutes. A glance at the clock told me I had thirty minutes left. I was cutting it close.
Butterbottom had already begun to create his presentation. I stuck to my picnic theme. I prepared white ceramic plates that mimicked popular paper plate shapes, then created a warm ginger sauce to decorate the plate.
A quick check on the tarts showed that they were done. I pulled them out and put them in the chilling box to cool. Agnes stayed beside the box.
I worked quickly and efficiently. I wasn’t worried. I knew it wasn’t in the script for me to win. That said, I wanted to do my best possible work to show everyone that the duchess was not wrong to hire me.
The judges came over to interview me one last time.
“How did you learn to cook Yorkshire curd tart?” Judge Storm asked. “I highly doubt cheese curds are sold in American groceries.”
“You would be surprised,” I said. “People in Wisconsin love their cheese curds. Living in Chicago, I had access to all kinds of cultures and flavors. It was a pleasure to learn all about British pie-making.”
“So they do have cheese curds in America?” Judge Young asked.
“Yes,” I said. “We are much more than fast food.”
“And who is your assistant today?” Judge Storm asked.
“This is Agnes.” I tugged the older woman forward. “She is my assistant at the palace.”
“Hello, Agnes,” Albert Nash said. “How does it feel working with a chef whose first assistant was murdered?”
“Well, we certainly don’t dwell on murder.” Agnes puffed up. “It’s a pleasure working with talent like Chef Cole. I enjoy feeding the duke and duchess and their lovely children.”
“We’ve noticed that you and Chef Cole are tasting everything and keeping tight security on your bake today. Can you tell us why?” Albert Nash asked.
“There was some speculation that Chef’s pies might not be safe,” Agnes said. “We know Chef doesn’t deserve that reputation. In fact, I believe Chef is being framed. We want to ensure everyone’s safety.”
“Are you sure you’re not trying to prove Chef Cole’s innocence?”
“There’s nothing to prove,” I said. “We’re simply acting with an abundance of caution.”
“Sounds like you have nothing but the best intentions,” Judge Storm said.
“Exactly,” I said.
The crew then moved over to interview Chef Butterbottom, who was supremely confident that his pie would win. And why not? They told him he won before we even started the round.
I wiped sweat off my brow and started plating my tarts.
The camera crew, host, and judges took their places at the front of the tent.
“We are on the countdown to naming a champion in the British Best Pie competition,” Nash said. “Chef’s you have ten seconds … five, four, three, two, one. Time’s up.”
I put my hands in the air and turned and hugged Agnes. We had made it through the competition with some of the best pies of my life and no one sabotaged me. I turned and went over to Chef Butterbottom to shake hands. “Good competition.”
He gave me a back handed compliment: “Not bad … for an American.” I took it. At least in all this Butterbottom was beginning to understand that I was good at my job, and that I was here to stay.
They filmed the judging segment next, and Agnes and I cleaned up our area, carefully packing all the remaining ingredients in the cooler. We washed and dried the dishes and placed them in the baskets.
Hannah came over to touch up my makeup for the last time. “Best of luck,” she said as she finished dabbing at my face. “You deserve to win.”
“You are too nice,” I said. “I know Butterbottom is slated to win. But it was fun to film this and to compete with so many great chefs.”
“You never know,” she suggested. “The producers might go for a twist in the finals.”
I shook my head at her. The director called us all to our places for the finale shoot.
I stood beside Butterbottom in a fresh chef coat and listened to them critique my pie as having a smooth buttery flavor, and the crust was thankfully done to perfection.
Next, they talked about Butterbottom’s pie. It, too, was perfection.
“To prevent a dead-even tie,” Nash said. “We will now go back over all of your pies for the day and the winner will be the Chef who proved without a doubt that they are Britain’s Best Pie Maker.”
“And cut—” the director called. “Chefs, please stay on your marks. We’re going to shoot a short bit where the judges go over all of your work.”
I let my mind wander and studied the crowd that had gathered outside the tent. The ticket holders were seated on both rolled-up sides of the tent. Gawkers and those who stood surrounded the tent. There were a lot of people there.
I felt nervous for the first time. I’d been so focused on baking that I hadn’t thought about what the crowd would think or how they would react. The couple who had commented on being seated in front of a nobody were fastened to their chairs even though I had moved.
I saw the other chefs standing at the front of the tent. Chef Wright winked at me, and I sent him a smile. The man was a flirt. I scanned the crowd for familiar faces. Not that I would see that many.
Then I made eye contact with Penny. She was with Evie. They waved, and I waved back.
“We are going to taste your pies one more time,” Nash said. The assistants brought out the pies. My pies held up well for a day under filming lights. I looked over at Chef Butterbottom’s pies. They looked spectacular. In comparison, mine looked like a home cook made them.
My shoulders bowed a little. Still, I could proudly say I entered the competition and got farther than anyone thought I would. I certainly hoped it was due to my efforts as a baker and not the talking points of murder or the duke and duchess.
“Chefs, we have finished our final judging. You were both strong competitors and the good news is you are both competing for good charities. Chef Cole, you are competing for the Children’s Charity and Chef Butterbottom’s efforts go to the Women and Children’s Clinic. As a bonus, all of the pies made today will be auctioned off, and any funds raised will benefit
the winning charity.
Without further ado, it’s time to name the winner.” Nash took a card out of the inside pocket of his suitcoat. “And the winner of Britain’s Best Pie Maker is…”
I held my breath.
“Chef…”
I bit my bottom lip.
“Butterbottom.”
Chef pumped his fist in the air. “Yes!” The crowd went wild to see one of its favorite chefs acknowledged. Agnes patted me on the shoulder. “Good job, Chef.”
“Thank you.” I patted her back. “Good job to you, too.” Then I stepped over to Butterbottom’s camp and shook everyone’s hands. The cameras continued to roll, but my part in the competition was done. I stood straight. At least no one died from eating my pies.
Suddenly there was a scream and someone shouted to call an ambulance. I turned to see that Chef Butterbottom hunched over in pain. Then his assistants began to double over one by one. Each held his stomach and moaned.
Oh, boy.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
“Ugh, food poisoning.” Butterbottom raced for the trash outside the tent. Shockingly, he and his entire crew turned an odd shade of green and acted as if they were dying. Maybe they were.
The emergency techs were on the scene taking care of everyone. Agnes and I stayed out of the way. The judges looked queasy, but so far only Butterbottom’s crew was hurt.
So much for auctioning off the winning pies. The production crew would be lucky to be able to give the pies away. CID showed up nearly as fast as the EMT’s. DCI Garrote walked into the tent and glanced from me to the pies and back. “Tag those pies for evidence,” he barked at the patrolmen who followed him.
“This is going to get complicated,” I said to Agnes. “We should get out of the way.” We picked up the cooler and baskets and headed out the side entrance of the tent.
“Stop right there, Chef,” DCI Garrote said. “I need everyone to stay right where they are until we determine what has happened here.”
“Okay.” I sat down on the steps that separated the tented stage from the ground. I noticed that the crowd had been cleared back from the chairs, but people continued to watch with fascination. I suppose this was a bit of a train wreck.