The Last Super Chef

by Chris Negron

  The newscaster takes a reluctant breath. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  The Super Chef inhales as the camera zooms in on him. “Each night this week, one of the Super Five will be named right here in this segment. Not only named—our remote crew will visit them in person to hand out their Last Super Chef certificate. Now, these kids have no idea they’ve been picked yet. So I’m as excited to see their reaction as you probably are.”

  The Super Chef holds one finger to his ear. “Chef Graca, are you out there?”

  The anchor desk disappears, replaced by a shaky camera following Chef Gabriel Graca through some darkened streets. “Yes, Chef! I can hear you.” He balances a black umbrella and lumbers ahead, turning to look over his shoulder into the lens. It’s raining wherever they are, a gentle patter on cobblestone streets. “We’re almost to the house. It’s early morning here, so folks are just getting ready for the day.”

  There’s an Asian man walking in front of him, pointing and nodding, leading the whole crew through streets lined with bamboo fences. The modest houses behind the fences are wooden and all kind of look the same—tan siding surrounded by darker trim. The camera crew and Graca round a bend, and a tall, narrow building shoots straight up into the sky, sudden and massive. It has five or six roofs stacked on top of each other.

  “What a beautiful pagoda,” comes Chef Taylor’s voice from the studio. “Why don’t you tell the audience where you are, Chef?”

  “Yes, Chef,” Graca, a little out of breath, says. “This is Kyoto, Japan. We’re almost to the house we’re searching for.” A low-hanging tree branch grazes his umbrella, and he pushes it out of the way. For the first time I notice cylindrical-shaped white lanterns with black Japanese lettering hanging from the buildings on one side of the street. “There aren’t many street signs here, so it’s been a bit difficult to tell. But our guide believes our first Super Five winner lives”—he points, and there’s a quick exchange with the Japanese man—“right here!”

  I can’t believe it. I expected people from all around the country to submit, not just little North Sloan. But Japan? That means those thousands of entries the Super Chef mentioned might have come from all around the world. My confidence and chances both shrink at equal rates, like when you cook up a big bag of leafy escarole and after it wilts all that’s left is a tiny bowlful.

  The Asian man nods and says something I don’t understand as he steps to the side and points up some stone stairs. Chef Graca and the camera crew hurry up them. The door opens just as they reach the top. A girl my age, focused on adjusting the buttons of her red raincoat, comes out. I can tell by her knee-high white socks that she’s probably wearing a school uniform underneath. She has a bright-yellow, square backpack fixed to her shoulders. She hears the noise of the group climbing the stairs and looks up, her eyes going wide.

  “Kiko Tanaka?” Chef Graca asks her.

  She doesn’t speak, but Graca’s voice must travel inside, because the door reopens and her parents appear. They recognize the sous chef right way. “Ah! Super Chef!” they shout and point, covering their mouths. “Super Chef!”

  “That’s right,” Graca says, smiling. “Well, not me, but he is here with us.” The Portuguese chef gestures at the camera. “Chef Taylor was so impressed with your beef Wellington, Kiko. One might expect a submission from Japan to be some manner of Japanese cuisine, but you were so outside the box I don’t think you and the box were even in the same room! So . . . congratulations! You’re our first Super Five winner.”

  Chef Graca reaches into his bag and pulls out a piece of paper. Not just any paper though, an official-looking certificate, the outer edges glimmering in gold trim. Both the traditional Super Chef logo as well as the new Last Super Chef one are prominently displayed at the top, and a #1 is bold and centered in the middle of the page. The camera zooms in, and I can see three pieces of information under the giant number.

  DATE

  TIME

  PLACE

  November 12

  8:00 p.m. (sharp)

  Super Chef Arena

  “Your ticket into the contest,” Chef Graca says as he presents it to her.

  Kiko stares down at her prize, still in the sous chef’s hands. He continues. “We’ll be arranging your travel to our studios soon. You and your family will receive all the details, rest assured. What we need to know now is this: Do you accept your place as one of the Super Five? Do you understand and agree to the rules of the contest?”

  Kiko slowly takes the certificate. She still hasn’t said a word. She scans the paper with disbelieving eyes, reading it like she doesn’t want to miss an important detail. “Y-yes, I do understand.” She turns to explain to her parents in Japanese.

  But it isn’t just Kiko’s parents behind her now. Her grandparents are there, too, both sets of them. They must all live in that same tiny house. The six adults of different ages erupt into rapid Japanese speech, only two recognizable words mixed in. “Super Chef! Super Chef!”

  Kiko turns back to Chef Graca and bows once. Then she straightens and says, “I accept your challenge.”

  Back in the studio, the frozen image of Kiko Tanaka’s determined expression appears over the Super Chef’s shoulder. “So there you have it,” he says to Brooke, “the first of our Super Five, all the way from Japan.” Now a picture of a sliced beef Wellington replaces the still image of Kiko. Chef Taylor points at it. “Just look at the color on that Wellington. Even from six thousand miles away I could tell it was perfect. Kiko’s going to be a tough one to beat.”

  I stand up off the couch, offering to take Paige’s empty nacho plate back to the sink, realizing only now how sure I was that my name was going to be called tonight. My sister knows my expressions too well. “Don’t worry, Curtis, there are still four to go,” she assures me.

  Mom was snoozing, her empty plate in her hands. As I reach for it, she jolts awake. “Just resting my eyes,” she says first. Then, “What’s that now? Four more of what?”

  I don’t answer. It doesn’t matter if there are four spots left or forty. I mean, come on. A whole Wellington? All I made was one lousy soufflé.

  I totally get it now. There’s no way our chopped-up video of me basically blowing the biggest opportunity of my life is going to work like I thought it was. I’ve got no chance at all.

  10

  Super Five winner #2 is Pepper Carmichael from Boston. This time it’s Chef Wormwood and another camera crew pacing up the crooked, hilly streets of Boston’s North End to find the Carmichael family’s condo.

  “The incredible thing about Pepper there . . .” Chef Taylor, leaning his elbows onto the news desk, is telling Brooke Morrison a minute later. Over his shoulder, a tiny picture-in-picture version of Pepper, who has a ton of curly hair, is still jumping up and down with her arms pumping through the air. One of her hands clutches the gold-tinged certificate Wormwood handed her only a few seconds before. The only difference between Pepper’s and the one Kiko Tanaka got is the big #2 in the center.

  November 12, 8:00 p.m. sharp, Super Chef Arena. For the first time I wonder about my reaction to the show when it airs. The rules said it would be filmed live, unlike any Super Chef contest before it. Will my stomach allow me to watch a bunch of other kids compete in The Last Super Chef to win some of my father’s money, without me? Or will I spend the whole hour bent over the toilet, puking my disappointed guts out?

  The Super Chef’s voice grows more animated. He’s still talking about tonight’s winner. “Pepper cooked two dishes in her video. At the same time! On one burner she was making a complex seafood gumbo—establishing a perfect roux like she did is no joke, let me tell you—and with her other hand, almost as an afterthought, she threw together a quick Jamaican Rundown. This talented girl made the whole process look so easy, I was surprised she didn’t think to throw on a blindfold or ask someone to tie one arm behind her back.”

  “Amazing,” newscaster Brooke says. “And only ten years old.”

 
“What’s a Jamaican Rundown?” Mom asks me from behind the couch.

  “I don’t know,” I admit while refusing to pull my gaze from the screen.

  Mom snorts. “Well, somebody call Guinness. Curtis Pith doesn’t know how to make a dish.” She paces toward the bathroom, shaking her head in amused disbelief.

  “And she sells her spice mixes online!” the Super Chef almost yells. “You can try your hand at using them to make one of her recipes by visiting pepperspicesuptheworld.com.”

  “Amazing,” Brooke says.

  “Truly,” Super Chef agrees.

  Later I sneak Mom’s phone out of her purse and find out a Jamaican Rundown is a fish stew cooked in coconut milk, garlic, onions, tomatoes, and about a dozen other ingredients. It’s a good thing I have no shot at getting into this contest. These other kids are all next level. I’m not even remotely ready to cook alongside them, let alone against them.

  I’ve never felt so far from being a chef. This whole time I’ve been imagining all the things I could give Mom and Paige with that prize money, but I think, deep down, I also believed that at least some of it would help me advance my cooking career. Now, though? I’m not going to make it onto The Last Super Chef. I’ll never see that money.

  I feel alone, lost on an island in whatever ocean’s the farthest away from New York.

  The next night, Wednesday, I almost mutter a curse when Bonifacio Agosto of Mexico City is located by Chef Jackie Gilmore, not one of the show’s regulars but a frequent guest chef. I’m angry because the “perfect mole” Chef Taylor describes had to have been made with a fantastic Mexican chocolate, nothing like the cheap stuff I’ve been forced to work with lately. What I wouldn’t do for some of that chocolate right now.

  “Let me tell you about this Mole Poblano recipe,” Chef Taylor says, leaning back in his chair with a smile so wide you can’t help but feel his amazement coming through the television. Bonifacio’s entire body—not that there’s much of it, he’s super short—has gone limp. He nearly fainted when he saw Chef Jackie coming, and now the boy’s mother is the only thing keeping him upright. Señora Agosto works hard to fan cool air onto her prone son’s face.

  The whole time, the third Super Five winner clutches his #3 certificate and keeps sleepily mumbling, “Está bien, de acuerdo. Está bien, de acuerdo.”

  “What’s he saying there, Chef?” Brooke asks from the studio desk.

  “He’s agreeing to the challenge. The skill in this kid’s fingers . . . it’s stupendous. The recipe Bo used was handed down from his grandmother, and it dates back to generations before her. A mole done right is the kind of meal legends are made of, and this one was no exception.”

  “I’d love to see that video,” Brooke says.

  “Sorry, no time now,” Chef Taylor says, smiling. “But here’s a shot of the final result.”

  The screen changes again, showing a close-up of a deep, rich red sauce covering a simple chicken leg. When you make a perfect mole, it works on top of just about anything, and at any meal. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, doesn’t matter.

  “There were thirty-two ingredients in this one, Brooke. Thirty-two! And it took him three days to execute all the steps. He videoed them right along the way. Must’ve started working almost the moment we announced the contest.”

  “It seems like all three of your contestants so far are really amazing cooks,” Brooke says.

  “You’re gonna have to be amazing to have a chance to win The Last Super Chef,” Chef Taylor agrees.

  Mom hasn’t made it home from work yet, so tonight it’s just Paige and I watching. “You’re amazing, too, Curtis,” my sister assures me.

  I push up off the couch and stomp toward our bedroom. “Yeah. Obviously not amazing enough.”

  11

  By Thursday I almost don’t want to watch the Super Five announcements anymore. There are only two left, and I know for sure I’m not one of them. What was I thinking, making one little soufflé with less than ten ingredients? These other kids mastered dishes with thirty ingredients or more, or created two at the same time.

  I start a list in the back of my recipe book.

  The Super Five

  Kiko Tanaka—Japan—A near-perfect beef Wellington.

  Pepper Carmichael—Boston—A complex, rich gumbo while making a dish I never heard of with her other hand. And she’s already got a website.

  Bonifacio Agosto—Mexico—the most incredible mole, handed down from his ancestors.

  Ancestors?!? Mom’s parents both died years ago; I never met them. And if I’ve ever spoken two words with my father, I don’t remember them. He doesn’t talk about his family much on the show, either.

  Who was I supposed to learn all my recipes from? Who taught me? No one, that’s who. I spent the past five years studying on my own.

  Even though I’m not sure I want to be, that night I’m in front of the television again as Brooke Morrison wraps up talking about the aftermath of a bad earthquake in Asia. Mom isn’t home yet, again, so I made easy turkey pesto paninis with mozzarella. Paige and I are finishing them on the couch, ready for the Super Chef segment pretty much only because Paige ordered me to watch it.

  “Okay, you think it’s not you,” she said earlier. “But don’t you want to know who else they picked? What they cooked? Where’s that chef’s curiosity?”

  “Down the drain with the expired milk I just poured out.”

  And maybe Paige will be a teacher someday, because I swear the look she gave me is the same one I get from Mrs. Kadubowski whenever she catches me daydreaming in class. Dripping with disappointment.

  “Fine. I’ll watch.”

  “Besides,” my sister continues now, “so what if you don’t get in? Would it be that bad to have to stay here with Mom and me instead of going all the way to New York to win some dumb contest?”

  “It’s not a dumb—” But I stop speaking.

  Because Paige doesn’t get it. There shouldn’t have to be a contest at all. Nobody should have to figure out which kid—which family—should get the last-ever Super Chef prize money, because everybody should already know. Lucas Taylor should be forced to tell the world about his children. About me, his son who already cooks. If he wants to go out on top—on a shiny note, whatever that’s supposed to mean—why couldn’t he do it by making a big show out of finally giving Mom the money he must owe her?

  And if he won’t, then I guess I should make sure to put myself in position to do the right thing in his place. Which makes getting into The Last Super Chef that much more—

  “Wait. So you don’t think I’m getting in either?” I ask Paige.

  She opens her mouth to respond, but the Super Chef segment starts and we both quiet down. Chef Graca and his camera crew pace through random streets again, but for the first time, they’re not in some busy city. They’ve parked their vans and cars in a cul-de-sac in a suburban neighborhood. I can see parts of about five houses, and every single one of them looks as huge as Pettynose’s mansion.

  “Seems like they’re in the same time zone this time, at least,” Paige says.

  She’s right. The sky’s the identical tone of dusk as it is outside our windows. There’s even snow on the ground, though it’s not piled quite as high as here in the streets of North Sloan.

  “For Super Five #4, we’re in Lincolntown, Illinois.” Chef Graca gestures toward a mailbox. “It’s this one right here—4975.” He and the camera crew start up the driveway, but before they make it even a few steps, the front door bursts open and a dark-haired kid sprints out, arms waving in the air, yelling, “I accept! I accept! I understand the rules! I accept!”

  The Super Chef chimes in from the studio again. “I see young Joey Modestino is our most excited winner yet.”

  “Wow, what did this firecracker make in his video?” Brooke’s voice asks.

  On the screen, Chef Graca is handing over the certificate and explaining the next steps to Joey, who doesn’t appear to be listening. He’s too busy flo
ssing, his arms swinging back and forth at about a million miles an hour in the closest imitation of backpack kid I’ve ever seen.

  The Super Chef answers Brooke. “Joey is our stuffed squid kid.”

  “Say that five times fast.” She laughs.

  “I really would rather not.” A chuckle from Brooke. “It’s not easy to clean and cook squid properly, but Joey seems to have been doing it since birth. His was stuffed beautifully, too, with swiss chard and oregano and pine nuts. Bread crumbs and fennel—he used the whole vegetable, seeds and bulbs and all—Joey definitely does not fool around. Plus anchovies and plenty of garlic, lemon, and onion. Classically Italian. My mouth is watering just describing it.”

  “Mine too,” agrees Brooke.

  “And stuffing it the way he did, I should add”—the Super Chef raises his hand—“makes it even harder to cook well. Yet one could see when he sliced into it that it was perfect.”

  There’s a commotion in the driveway, and everyone has to get out of the way so a red Porsche can pull in. A large man, Joey’s dad, I’m guessing, because they have the same wavy dark hair, climbs out of the fancy car. He’s chomping away on what has to be half a pack of gum. He takes in the cameras littering his yard. “Kid! Ya did it?”

  Joey finally stops dancing long enough to smile up at his dad. He shows him the gold-framed certificate. His father positively beams at him. “Of course you did! It’s in the family, isn’t it?”

  As the large man comes around the car and lifts his son into the air, the scene switches back to the studio, focusing on the Super Chef’s smiling face, and I realize with a certainty I’ve never felt before that my father will never lift me into the air like that. Chances are, if I don’t get into this contest, I’ll probably never even meet him.

  The door opens, and Mom comes in just as I whip the last bit of my panini at Brooke Morrison’s annoying grin. “Tune in tomorrow,” the news anchor says, “for the final member of the Super Five!”