The Last Super Chef

by Chris Negron

  “Paprika,” Bo says after a few seconds of licking his lips.

  Pepper spins around and thrusts her wooden spoon straight in his direction. Behind her, the jambalaya starts to hiss. “Come on, you can do better than that.” She smacks her forehead, then issues her own imitation of Wormwood. “Good Lord!”

  Joey laughs so hard he pig-snorts.

  “No paprika?” Bo sounds traumatized.

  Pepper straightens. “Actually, no, there’s totally paprika. I’m just messin’ with ya. Next!” She turns back to the stove and stirs some more.

  Bo pushes the plastic bag toward me. I inspect the label first. At the very top it reads “Pepper Spices Up the World” and underneath, the name of this particular mix, “Spice Jam . . . balaya.” A cartoon basketball player that looks a little bit like Michael Jordan flies through the air, as if he’s about to slam-dunk. It’s clearly a play on that ancient basketball movie costarring Bugs Bunny, Space Jam.

  I turn the package over. There’s no ingredients list. Then I wonder why I did that. Am I so intimidated I feel the need to cheat?

  “How many of these do you have?” I ask as I dip my finger in the same way Bo did.

  Pepper stays focused on her work, answering me without looking back. “As of now? Seventeen. But I’m working on number eighteen, ‘Lemon and Pepper and Everything Better.’ That’s the first one that’ll have my face on the label. ’Cause, you know”—she dips her knees in a little curtsy move—“pepper. It’s mostly for chicken dishes. First few tries have been too lemony.” She glances back, meeting my eyes, waiting, I guess, for my reaction.

  “How are you in business already?” Joey asks. “I can’t even stay on top of my homework half the time.”

  “It’s not that hard,” Pepper answers almost immediately, puffing her chest out slightly. But something about the way her eyes dart toward her feet makes me think her words aren’t completely true.

  I don’t say anything, though. I might be reading her wrong, and besides I’m too focused on not messing up in her spice contest. Bo already got his guess right. I can’t miss on mine.

  I flick my tongue against the roof of my mouth, making sure the flavor of the spices hits all my taste bud zones. Bitter on the back, sour and salty on the sides, sweet on the tip. “Thyme?” I ask.

  “Very nice, Pith,” Pepper says. “You got some game after all, don’t you?” She raises her spoon high over her head. “Next!”

  I start to slide the spice bag toward Kiko, but Joey shouts, “Gimme that!” and rushes between us, snagging it from my grip. A little pile of spice shakes out onto the countertop with his sudden movement. He marches away, back toward the fridge, taking a pinch out of the bag and tossing it into the back of his mouth.

  Kiko narrows her eyes at Joey. She sighs. “I really cannot believe the chef would say anything is more important than Harry Potter.”

  Pepper rounds on her. “But it is more important. This is The Last Super Chef. There’ll never be another one. Whoever comes out on top will be the most famous winner ever. That’s why you’re here, right? Win the money? Have everyone recognize you?”

  Kiko shrugs. “I like the science of cooking. You experiment with the laws and rules people have figured out before you. Sometimes your own experiments make new laws and better rules for the next cooks. The work you do is part of a line that started here.” She dips her finger into the pile of spices Joey left behind. “And goes all the way into the future.” She runs the same finger along the counter as far as her arm will reach, pulling the spices along. They make a meandering trail, like a timeline.

  “Also two hundred and fifty K is a fat stack of cash,” Joey says.

  Pepper frowns, almost like the money isn’t what’s important to her. She gazes hard at Kiko. “Okay, seriously, though. Answer the question.”

  A silence descends over the kitchen as Pepper and Kiko stare each other down. It lasts for only a few seconds before Mel speaks up again. “Pepper. I said eyes on the food. Or else I take over and you guys have to eat my dinner.”

  Pepper jumps again. She glowers at chameleon-Mel. “What are you, some kind of ninja?”

  Mel only stares back, unmoving. I think about his threat and wonder if he’s a good cook. I mean, he’s a culinary student, right? So I guess he must be.

  Doesn’t matter, because his warning gives Kiko a chance to respond to Pepper. “I am here because I want to see if I could win, for sure. But I also have other things I wish to do, too, like be the first astronaut on Mars. Or maybe invent a new programming language.”

  For a second I imagine the conversation Kiko and Paige would have, and I almost shiver because I picture someone’s head exploding. And it’s definitely mine.

  “But you can’t,” Pepper says. She sounds a little angry all of a sudden. I can tell she wants to turn around to face Kiko again, but she peeks at the glaring Mel first and decides against it. She yells her protest at the backsplash in front of her instead. “You can’t be an astronaut or computer nerd or whatever, not if you win. If you win, you have to take advantage of it. Think about the opportunities! Chef Taylor’s not going to give the big prize to someone who’s not in all the way.”

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand big prizes,” Joey mutters, echoing my thoughts as he continues swishing spice around his palate. Suddenly his eyes light up, and he shouts, “Oregano! There’s oregano in here!”

  “Correct!” Pepper confirms. “Next!”

  Kiko spins off her stool and charges Joey. She snatches the bag from him and does the same tip-of-finger test. She stops, stands still, and stares at the ceiling while she licks her lips.

  Bo leans toward me. “I did not taste the thyme,” he confesses in a whisper.

  I shrug at him. “Got lucky, I guess.”

  “You were not so lucky in the mise en place. Neither of us were.”

  “I was a little distracted.” I can’t tell him how much that video threw me for a loop, those shots of Pettynose’s kitchen flashing away on that huge screen. I can’t tell him how much I’ve been thinking about Paige and Mom since then, what kind of trouble I’ve gotten them into. I can’t even call them to find out if I should worry or not. None of us have phones. We have no idea when the first supervised calls will come. Plus, Joey ran around checking the entire dorm as soon as Wormwood left, looking for some way onto the internet, but there was nothing. Not that the eviction of the Pith family would make CNN or anything.

  Which means I better find a way to stop worrying about my family, at least until I can find out if there’s actually something to worry about. I definitely can’t let myself get distracted during a challenge again, because I can already see that Distracted Curtis equals Last Place Curtis. And deep down, I know it’s not just Mom and Paige drawing my attention away, either, so I also quickly remind myself again: that’s not my father up there on the stage, at least not during this contest. It’s just Lucas Taylor, the Super Chef. Just another judge I have to make sure sees how good a cook I am.

  “Garlic powder,” Kiko says sternly, like all of a sudden she’s more focused on winning than before, which kind of scares me, because she’s way ahead already.

  Pepper doesn’t reward Kiko’s correct guess with any praise. All she says is “Next!”

  So everyone guessed at least one ingredient correctly. I don’t know a single person back home who could’ve done that, not even Paige. She helps me, sure, but she’s not a cook in her heart, and her taste buds aren’t that impressive. One time she complained I put too many jalapeños in the guacamole when I’d clearly used serranos.

  These kids, though, they know all the same things I do. More, even.

  Kiko walks the bag back to Bo for the second round. “How many ingredients total?” he asks Pepper as he accepts it.

  Pepper turns off the burner, pulls on a potholder, and swings the pan of jambalaya toward the island. She starts to plate her meal on five clean white dishes. “You tell me.” Then she yells, “Service!” as Bo
dips his finger into the bag again.

  While Bo stares down into the bag like he’ll find the answers in there, Joey, Kiko, and I come around and grab Pepper’s dinner. Together we walk the plates to the big table.

  Behind us, silverware clinks as Pepper pulls a drawer open. “Bo,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder with her chin. “Napkins? And the water?”

  Bo stands up. He’s still lost in thought as he reaches toward the napkin holder, adding a pile to the tray where the water glasses Pepper already poured out are waiting. “Sage?” he asks her.

  Pepper reaches the table and makes a big buzzing noise. “Not bad, but I’m afraid I’m not a huge sage fan. You, sir, have the honor of making dessert.”

  “Flan! Flan! Flan!” Joey cries.

  “I am not making flan,” Bo says.

  “Don’t you know how?” Joey asks. “Aren’t you from Mexico?”

  Bo doesn’t reply, instead passing the water and napkins out. His shoulders slump a little as he does it. I can tell he’s disappointed to be on the bottom again.

  Pepper raises her water glass in the air. The rest of us imitate her. I’ve never done a toast with anyone but Paige and Mom before.

  “To our first family meal,” Pepper says.

  “Such an important step for any brigade,” Mel agrees earnestly from back at the kitchen island, his glass raised too. This time, at the table, we all jump.

  Pepper almost spits out her water. “Come on, man,” she complains, wiping a sleeve across her mouth. “You have got to give us permission to put a cowbell around your neck or something.”

  18

  The next morning I wake up still thinking about Pepper’s amazing jambalaya, which no lie was the best Cajun dish I’ve ever had. As good as it was, though, dessert might’ve been even better.

  Bo didn’t try to dodge his guess-the-spice penalty. He dove into the fridge after dinner, finding some berries, which he washed and spread out in a pan. Followed by heavy cream, vanilla, and sugar, beaten together to make a quick Chantilly cream. He grabbed some packaged tortillas next, cut them into smaller rounds, and shaped them into cups inside a muffin pan.

  “This is not flan,” Joey complained as Bo walked around the table serving his curvy, crispy tortilla cups, fresh out of the oven and filled with berries covered in cream.

  Then Joey tasted Bo’s dessert. We all tasted it. “Are these berries roasted? Is that what you were doing over there?”

  “And what do you call these cups?” Kiko asked, chipping at the edge of the tortilla cup with her spoon to test the consistency.

  “Yes, roasted. And those are buñuelos. Not authentic, of course, only from a package.”

  I didn’t think I was still hungry, but I devoured every crumb of what Bo put in front of me. We all did. Then, finally, came our first sleep in our new surroundings. And now, morning.

  My eyes adjust to the lingering darkness here on the boys’ side of the dorm. I roll until I’m facing the bunk bed. My roommates, Joey and Bo, are both still sleeping. I listen to their rhythmic breathing for a few seconds, thinking about what we learned yesterday.

  I flick on the bedside lamp. The schedule Wormwood handed out is next to it. I slide it toward me and hold it over my head, reading with my arms out straight.

  Looks like the “Evenings with the Super Chef” are scheduled mostly at the end of the open/training days between the challenges, though the sheet doesn’t specify which of us meets with Chef Taylor on which nights.

  And whichever night mine happens, what will the Super Chef ask me? My blood freezes thinking about the possibilities. So much so that I slap the schedule back down on the nightstand, facedown. It makes more noise than I intended, and across the room, Bo stirs, but he doesn’t wake up.

  My smallest opponent struck me as so timid at first, but then last night he made the most incredible dessert in such a short time. I can’t be judging any of these books by their covers. It’s almost like none of them have any weaknesses.

  Joey rolls now, too, facing my direction. Even though he’s across the room, I rush to flip my light off and turn away, hiding under my comforter.

  That’s when I hear Pepper scream out in the common room.

  I jump out of bed and race for the door. When I rub the sleep out of my eyes and find her, though, Pepper isn’t in pain like it sounded. She wears a huge smile as she pulls down a black-and-white chef’s jacket from a clothing rack someone’s rolled in to the center of our common room. She’s holding it up to herself, checking the fit, as I skid to a stop a few feet from her.

  “Look!” she cries. “They have our names on them!”

  Kiko, Bo, and Joey skitter across the floor in socked feet, narrowly avoiding sliding into the rack in a heap. Their shocked expressions match mine. “What’s wrong?” Kiko asks Pepper.

  “Wrong?” Pepper says as she shrugs into the jacket and starts to button it up. “Nothing’s wrong. Not with me. Not with”—she puffs her chest up and thrusts the left side out so we can clearly read the cursive, stitched name on her jacket—“Chef Pepper Carmichael.”

  “Wicked!” Joey says, tearing through the jackets, searching for his.

  “I was hoping we would not have to use the aprons anymore,” Bo says. “I do not like cooking in an apron.” He, Kiko, and I sort out the remaining three coats. I realize I’ve grabbed Kiko’s jacket at the same time she sees she has mine. We trade. The room is full of rustling as all five of us pull them on and button them up and scrunch our necks to admire our stitched names.

  “Well, look what I found,” comes an accented voice near the door. It’s Chef Graca, wearing the identical style coat we are. The sous chef shifts his gaze downward, in the direction of Bo, who’s still shifting his shoulders, making sure of the fit. “It’s a little chef!”

  I step around the rack. “Wait, there’s two of them!” Graca cries. “Two little chefs.”

  “Looking sharp,” Mel agrees from the doorway to his room. The duffel thrown over his shoulder tells me that he’s already packed his things up, clearing out the handler room for our next babysitter. My disappointment must show on my face, because when we lock eyes, he sends me his trademark wink.

  “It is these jackets . . . they fit so perfect,” Bo says as he fidgets some more. For the first time, I notice his isn’t long on him at all. Last night his apron practically touched the floor. My jacket is the exact right size, too. They must’ve figured out our measurements somehow; these are obviously custom-made. Maybe that’s why we didn’t get them before the first episode.

  But there were no rulers or elderly tailors with straight pins in their mouths like I’ve seen in the movies, so how did they . . . ? I glance briefly up at one of the cameras in the ceiling, wondering how closely they’re watching us. And who’s doing the watching.

  Eventually the rest of the Super Five finish buttoning our jackets. We line up for Chef Graca. “There’s more than two!” he says, losing none of his enthusiasm. “There’s one, two, three, four, five little chefs! Aren’t you all fantastic?”

  I’m guessing everyone else is as focused as I am on trying to avoid shuffling as much as we did for Wormwood.

  “What is this? Picture day?” he asks, then gives us a big belly laugh. “Take it easy. You’re the Super Five.” I breathe out, relaxing my posture, and I feel Bo do the same on one side of me, Joey on the other. “Chef has decided you need some extra work on a few things before we get to the next challenge. So make yourselves some breakfast, get dressed and ready, and meet us downstairs in the arena. You have one hour.” He taps the face of his watch.

  “Yes, Chef!” we all shout together.

  Graca heads for the door, turning to take one last look back at us when he reaches it. “I tell you what, you’re all looking super.”

  We glance around at each other. We do look super, every single one of us. Grins are shared all around, and I can tell by the way everyone keeps looking at their sleeves that I wasn’t the only one who dreamed of somed
ay wearing a Super Chef jacket just like this one.

  The door shuts. Graca is gone. And soon, so are our smiles. Because we might all look super now, but by the time this is all over, only one of us is actually going to be super, and we all know it.

  19

  “Have you seen these prizes?” Joey asks during breakfast. He’s eating while standing at the island, his schedule spread out flat in front of him. “NBA All-Star Weekend? Man!”

  I have to say he’s right, the prizes, while in one way random, are also pretty cool. In fact, some might be almost too awesome, at least for me—it’s hard to image the Pith family traipsing around France, harder still to figure out what we’d do with an expensive (meaning, huge) custom-crafted stove in our tiny apartment. But then again, maybe by the time it was shipped our way we’d already be living in the ginormous house I’m planning to buy.

  “Do you think they could make any size for the Molteni?” Bo asks. “My mother’s kitchen is one big room at the back of the house. If I could put it right in the middle, it would be—”

  “These trips are way, way better,” Pepper interrupts, running her finger down her own copy of the schedule. “Especially Paris. What if I went global?” She stares up, her gears clearly spinning. “I could bring all my flavors, place them in French stores, maybe get a local spot on TV. Pepper Spices Up the World will be everywhere.”

  “No, Paris would be special because of the Louvre,” Kiko says. “All that art and history in one place.”

  As they start up a debate on the best way to spend the grand prize money, from opening restaurants and taquerias to Super Bowl commercials featuring spice mascots, my eyes travel to the last prize, a week with the Super Chef in one of his most famous restaurants. So much time with him alone. I can’t help but think of the stuff he could teach me—new techniques, skill refinements—but also . . . all the questions I could ask him. Like, why he left us, why he—