The Last Super Chef

by Chris Negron

  Chef Taylor’s image fades, and the black screen with white lettering returns, this time providing the URL to the rules and some fine print too small to read. As my straining eyes try anyway, I start to get one of those big ideas I’m not supposed to have anymore.

  The moment Feats of Feet comes on, I power the TV down and turn all the way around to look at Paige. She’s staring up at me like she’s waiting for me to tell her what happens next.

  Peering into her eyes, I realize everything I’ve ever wanted to be able to do for her, for Mom, is suddenly right in front of me. Forget working so hard to win first place in the church bake sale, never mind trying to help with the rent only a few dollars at a time. My days of sneaking into high school basketball games can be over—

  “Paige,” I say, my thoughts jumping around so fast I’m interrupting them myself. “How many cupcakes—”

  “Is $250,000?” she asks. “At $2.25 apiece?”

  I nod, and she sticks her tongue out of the side of her mouth. Her eyes roll up, as if they’re trying to sneak their way into her brain to help it work the problem out on her mental whiteboard. Have I actually stumped her?

  “I don’t know, Curtis,” she finally says. “Over a hundred thousand, for sure.”

  I nod, trying to stay outwardly serious and focused, when inside I’m so excited and nervous and confused I can’t speak for a second.

  But finally I find my voice. “We need to make that video.”

  Paige nods back at me. “I know.”

  6

  “That’s the sixth place you’ve looked,” Tre hisses at me as I set the potted plant outside Pettynose’s back door down carefully. Nothing underneath but a few scrambling ants.

  “So we try number seven.” My words ride a cloud of smoke back to him. It’s freezing out here, and that makes me want to get this done even faster. I spot a rock that might be fake near the gutter spout and drop to my knees to stretch around a bush for it.

  According to the website of North Sloan’s most popular home security company (it was easy to find, every expensive house in town has the same sign out front), the most common places to hide a spare key are:

  Under the welcome mat.

  Beneath a flowerpot.

  Inside a false rock.

  I memorized them before we snuck over here, storing the list in my brain right between “The Five Essential Ingredients for Baking” and “The Four Best Vinegars for Pickling.”

  “Come on, Curtis,” Tre says. “What are the chances you’re going to find a hidden key anywhere back here?”

  “If he finds it on his seventh try?” Paige asks. “That’d be one-seventh, which is .14285 or 14.3 percent.”

  A commotion breaks out behind me just as my fingers have almost wriggled the rock free. I look over my shoulder in time to see Tre pawing at Paige’s backpack while she squirms away from his reach.

  “Cut it out!” she whines.

  “Tre! What are you doing?”

  “I’m looking for her off switch. She’s a robot, right? There must be a way to shut her down.” He reaches out for Paige again.

  “Quit the noise!” I say through clenched teeth. I stretch again for the rock and grab it with my whole hand this time, working it free from the surrounding mud.

  “I’m not a robot,” Paige says in a wounded tone. “Tell him, Curtis.”

  But I don’t answer, because in the dim light I’m noticing the “rock” in my hand is an unnatural gray color and very . . . plastic-looking. When I turn it over, there’s a black rubber flap I can pull out of the bottom. Once I do, a sparkling gold key drops out, falling onto the cement with a ching.

  “Dude,” Tre says, clearly impressed. “That’s a fake rock.”

  I grin back at both of them. “Approximately 27.5 percent of homes use one.”

  “It was 27.52 percent,” says Paige, who was looking over my shoulder when I did the security search. She takes a quick step away from Tre’s reach, but he keeps his hands to himself this time.

  I reach down and grasp the key between my finger and thumb, raising it up off the sidewalk slowly, as if I’ve unearthed a valuable truffle in the woods and I’m afraid I might lose it before I’m able to sell it for a hundred bucks an ounce.

  “I don’t know, man. You sure we can’t make this video at your house?” I guess Tre never believed we’d actually find a way into Pettynose’s kitchen. Now that it looks like we might, he sounds like he’s having some big-time second thoughts.

  “No way. Have you seen my pans? Our stove? The ingredients in the cupboards—as in, none—and all that peeling wallpaper? I’ll never get a ticket onto The Last Super Chef working from there. And you said your house is off limits, too, right?”

  “For sure,” Tre says. “The Dynamic Duo definitely do not need us cooking something over there right now.” That’s what Tre calls his parents. The Dynamic Duo. They’re super involved in most of their kids’ lives. Too involved, probably. Tre has three older sisters and two older brothers, including Josh, the star basketball player. Not just older, way older, as in all the rest of the family’s in high school or college even. And every one of them is amazing in this sport or that music or such and such hobbies, so his parents are always driving all over creation supporting them. Must be cool to have such huge fans, even if they’re your own parents. Or maybe especially when it’s them.

  So . . . not my house, and not Tre’s either. But Pettynose’s enormous kitchen, all those incredible pans, his stocked fridge and pantry? It’s almost too perfect.

  Paige and I agreed the best night for this caper would be Friday night. Tonight. Pettynose would be making an appearance at the Eagles game again—since the surprise loss during Cupcakegate, they’d returned to their winning ways, meaning our landlord would for sure be right there in the front row of the bleachers, intent on not missing a single dribble.

  The second reason tonight worked was that Mom had scheduled another evening interview, at a restaurant in Riverview this time. Besides ensuring she wouldn’t be home for at least a couple of hours, it also tells us how desperate she’s becoming. Riverview’s way on the other side of town. Over a week with no job and waiting for unemployment to process means no money coming in, so she’s chasing every lead she can find, even if it means driving forty-five minutes each way on a Friday night.

  The entry video’s due tomorrow at midnight. This is going to be my only shot at this. I slide the key into the lock of Pettynose’s back door. Right before I’m about to turn it, though, I look back at Tre. “You did bring your phone, right?”

  He pulls it out of his back pocket and turns his flashlight on, helping me see the lock better. “Of course.”

  Tre’s my best friend, but I might not have involved him in this particular big idea if I didn’t need to make a video. Paige and I have no way of doing it. If new jackets with working zippers for Mom haven’t exactly floated to the top of the budget, smartphones or video cameras for kids haven’t even cracked the very bottom.

  I knew Tre had a phone, though. It’s the way the Dynamic Duo keeps track of him when they realize they’ve been following high schoolers and college students to so many places they’ve forgotten where their only elementary school kid is spending his time.

  The back door pops open. I cringe for a second, worried about an alarm, but Pettynose didn’t have one when we signed the lease last year. The house stays quiet. Still no security system. I breathe out relief, then look back at my best friend and my sister.

  “We’re in.”

  Paige unzips her backpack and slides out my chef’s knives. Henckels. Not a complete, professional set, only what Mom could pull the money together for two Christmases ago. Still, they’re mine, and I’m used to them.

  Though, honestly, I’m not sure I’ll need them tonight, not if I find the ingredients I’m hoping for. “What are you going to make?” Tre asks.

  “Not sure yet,” I lie. No sense announcing it till I know it’s possible.

 
The fridge is stocked full with every kind of meat and vegetable imaginable. Perfectly lined up Evian bottled water, Fever-Tree tonic, and organic, cold-pressed orange juice. It takes me a minute to figure out if Pettynose has what I’d hoped he would. I thought I’d overheard him mention it to Mom once, but sometimes I think I hear food when the conversation’s really about something else. Like that time Gabe Johnson was talking about the New York Yankees playing the Milwaukee Brewers, and I jumped into the circle to complain about Mom not letting me use beer in my Yankee pot roast.

  The cool air from Pettynose’s perfect-temperature fridge washes over me. There’s a brief second when my heart falls because I don’t see what I’m looking for. Then I push aside a carton of milk, and, magically, there it is—a beautiful hunk of gruyère cheese. I almost hear the angels singing and see the beam of light from heaven shining down on it.

  “Yes,” I say, pumping my fist and grabbing it.

  Tre looks confused, but Paige gets it. She’s seen me make this particular dish before. “Perfect! Want me to grate it for you?”

  “You saw the rules. I have to do this by myself. No parents. I’m sure they meant no sisters, either.”

  “Okay,” she says slowly. “So you’re not going to use a sous chef at all?”

  “Paige, I can’t. I’m sorry. Just help Tre film.”

  Paige frowns a little, then slinks off to a corner. She’ll feel different when I win. And I’ll be different when I win. When I win The Last Super Chef, when I bank that money, I’ll be able to give her and Mom anything they want. I picture Paige punching at the keys of a brand-new laptop, Mom enjoying a bubble bath in some giant claw-foot tub . . .

  I blink. Priorities, Curtis. Work first, dreams of what to do with the folding stuff once it’s safely tucked into your pocket later.

  I finish setting out bowls and milk and flour and eggs and a bunch of other tools and ingredients next to that wonderful gruyère and some parmesan we also discovered. We shoot a few practice videos, testing angles, but we can’t waste too much time. In only minutes, we’re ready to start for real.

  I nod at Tre. He taps the button on his phone. I’m on.

  My voice sticks in my throat. I gulp to free it up. “H-hi, Ch-Chef Taylor. My name is Curtis Pith.” Pausing a second, I imagine what the Super Chef must be thinking as he watches this in his office or studio. Do I look different to him? I must. It’s been years.

  This is it—my big chance to finally make my mission a reality. Maybe my only chance.

  “I’m a huge Super Chef fan. The biggest, probably. I’ve been a cook for years now. I’m eleven years old, and I’m going to make something that might seem simple on the surface, but I’m sure you know is actually one of the hardest dishes to get right.” I wave a hand over my waiting ingredients, and Tre pans his lens across them, just like we practiced.

  “A classic cheese soufflé.”

  I wait two measured breaths, letting the drama of my choice sink in. I’m not making a BLT or whipping out a quick veggie stir-fry. This is a soufflé, a dish that requires a ton of technical precision. It’s definitely a brave choice. And that risk should be enough on its own, but it’s time to ramp up the stakes way, way higher.

  “Now,” I say, “a lot of chefs in a contest like this would make several of these.” I hold up one of the ramekin dishes we found in Pettynose’s cupboard, pointing at three others on the counter. “Just to make sure at least one comes out perfect. That’s the one they would present to you, my judges today. But me?”

  I make a show of stacking the ramekins, leaving only one on the counter, returning the rest to the cupboard. When I come back in front of the camera, I lift the single remaining ramekin. “Well, I only have one chance to earn my way onto The Last Super Chef, right? So that’s all I’m giving myself. One chance.”

  Deep breath. Cook. Eye on the prize.

  Prizes, actually. Two hundred and fifty thousand of them.

  7

  The thing about a soufflé is it’s mostly a waiting game. “A great soufflé is all about timing and patience,” I narrate for the camera as I gently push my lone ramekin onto the oven rack.

  Hands up, I send another confident smile at Tre’s camera, but inside my stomach is doing somersaults. I hope Tre recorded everything to this point—all the egg separating and butter melting and gentle whisking and careful folding. “If I have the timing right, it’ll be about seventeen min—”

  Tre’s phone starts to ring, interrupting our filming. He lowers it, checking the number. His eyes go wide, and he pauses the recording. “It’s Josh,” he says. He answers it on speaker.

  “Quick game!” Tre’s older brother shouts. “The other team only had six players, and one guy tore up his knee and the other got a concussion . . . anyway they forfeited! Everything was so chaotic I didn’t see Pettynose leaving until he was getting into his car. He’s on his way.”

  Paige stands up from her corner stool. The bag of marshmallows she found in Pettynose’s pantry falls off her lap, but she snags it with one hand. “How far is the high school?”

  “Twelve minutes at the most,” Josh answers through the speaker.

  Paige and Tre both look at me, expressions frozen with worry. I glance at the oven, my soufflé still raw. “I need the whole seventeen minutes.”

  “We have to stall him, then, don’t we?” Tre asks, pacing back and forth on the other side of the kitchen island.

  Paige tosses the bag of marshmallows onto the counter. “I think I have an idea.”

  All I can do is wait for my soufflé to cook. I’m trapped in Pettynose’s kitchen until it does, alone with my thoughts. They’re mostly about the Super Chef.

  It’s not the first time I’ve sat somewhere by myself in the past two days, worrying about my father, the man I feel like I’ve never met but I must have met, even if it was so long ago I don’t remember it. The man who’s taught me more about food and cooking than any other person alive. I can’t shake my confusion, can’t let go of the feeling something must be seriously wrong with him.

  I’m not the only one who’s concerned. There’s been all sorts of speculation about whether Lucas Taylor is sick or depressed or maybe in some kind of financial trouble. All the food blogs and news channels have been trying in vain to guess the reasons behind this sudden and shocking announcement of a Last Super Chef competition.

  But if anyone knows the answers, they aren’t talking. Especially not Lucas Taylor himself, who had shouted “No comment!” to the paparazzi maybe a thousand times since he told the world about The Last Super Chef.

  The media can’t figure it out, and neither can I. I shouldn’t be trying either. I should be concentrating on what I’m doing, crouching near the window next to Pettynose’s front door, watching Paige and Tre trying to start a tiny campfire in the front yard of our apartment building across the street. They’ve got the wood stacked all wrong—I learned how to do it last year when I was determined to figure out the fewest steps to creating the perfect campground s’more. But I can’t help them fix it. I can’t leave my soufflé.

  I tiptoe back to the oven. Even though I know it’s a myth, the idea that noise makes a soufflé fall is still ingrained in my mind. Paige suggested I take my shoes off. I explained it didn’t matter. Whether a soufflé collapses or not has a lot more to do with timing than noise.

  So far, mine looks great, darkening to the proper golden brown. I glance at the clock for the thousandth time, counting the seconds, praying Pettynose doesn’t come crashing in before I can present a perfect soufflé to my video audience. I sneak back to our landlord’s front door.

  The campfire’s flames are dancing high now, and Paige and Tre have speared marshmallows onto the ends of long wooden sticks. They’re just roasting the first ones when Pettynose’s car pulls into his driveway. He opens his door and immediately peers back at my sister and best friend. Then he rushes across the street and starts talking to them. Talking that quickly turns into yelling.

 
; They’ve done their job. Pettynose is completely distracted by the open fire in the yard of his apartment building. Now it’s time for me to finish my part. I race back to the kitchen.

  The clock above the fridge tells me I have four minutes left. The eye test, though, says it’s a lot closer than that, and I trust my eyes way more than clocks that might be slow. Maybe I can get away with pulling it out in closer to three. I grab Tre’s phone, hold it up like I’m taking a selfie, and start recording a new clip.

  “Welcome back. As you can see, I’m just minutes from taking my perfect soufflé out.” I angle the phone so the viewers can get a look inside the oven. “I can’t wait to taste it.”

  Video off. Rush back to the front door. Pettynose is stamping the fire out. Tre has somehow ended up with both long sticks, flaming black marshmallows on the ends. He slices them through the night air like Fourth of July sparklers.

  Now Pettynose points at our building. Paige and Tre dart in front of his vision, stalling as long as they can. Soon, though, they’ll have to retreat into our apartment. Then our landlord will march up his driveway, storm into his house. Then he’ll catch me in his kitchen. Then any chance I had of getting my ticket stamped for The Last Super Chef will be gone.

  I can’t let that happen. I scramble back to the oven, eyes darting around the counters for anything I missed when I cleaned up our mess. The place is spotless, exactly as we found it. I grab a potholder, set Tre’s phone up to record myself again, and don’t even check the clock. Time’s up. The soufflé’s either perfect or I’m dead.

  “Hey there,” I say, smiling at the camera like I’m not out of breath and going mad with worry. “Curtis again. Time to show you my masterpiece.” I tug on the potholder, slowly pull open the oven, and ease out the soufflé. It’s the perfect color, the perfect height. No collapse.

  “Looks good so far. Let’s see how it tastes,” I say to the camera before realizing I don’t have a spoon. I try to joke around it, because my other option is sheer panic, which I already feel bubbling up in my throat. “What do you think? Should I use my fingers?”