by Chris Negron
Kari walks into the kitchen. “Curtis, great job tonight. Just in time for you to find out about your big day, too.”
I’m still thinking about Wormwood actually complimenting my dish, about Paris and first place and new houses and . . . everything, so her words don’t completely register in my brain until she’s standing right next to me. I’m breathing normally right up until I see the same kind of white card Pepper got the other day waiting in Kari’s hand. She sets it on the kitchen island. Slides it slowly in my direction, until it’s close enough for me to read.
EVENING WITH THE SUPER CHEF #4
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 21
CURTIS PITH
7:00 P.M.
She has another card for Kiko. Tuesday. Meeting #3. And Bo. Sunday, meeting #5.
“We’ve got the full one-on-one schedule ironed out, at least,” Kari says with a smile. “Let me tell you, no easy task. Anyway, I think I promised to let you guys know as soon as we did. So here you go. And now you know.”
Her attempt at a clever rhyme barely registers with me. I’m not next. At least there’s that. Matter of fact, I have three whole days to prepare. But knowing the date and time of my meeting with Taylor makes it that much more real. So real, I suck in a rattling breath.
But wait. Why am I nervous about this? It’s what I’m here for, right? Get as many points as I can, however I can.
I won the first two challenges. I’m in first place. I’m actually beating these other kids. The Super Chef can’t possibly ignore all that.
29
Mom leans into the camera, as if she needs to be an inch from it for me to see her. “Are they feeding you? Is your bed comfortable? Are you sleeping okay?”
“Mommm,” Paige complains, elbowing her way into the shot. “One question at a time. You’re not letting him answer.”
Off camera, on the other end of the table I’m sitting at for this call, Mel chuckles softly, immediately covering his mouth. It’s Tuesday, a full week since we’ve been here. Time for our first supervised calls—twenty minutes with our families over Skype.
“We’re feeding ourselves, Mom,” I say. “And sleep is fine.” I mean, sleep hasn’t been that fine, but I’m not going to tell her about it. No reason to spark a full-blown Mom panic. “How are you guys?”
“We’re feeding ourselves, too,” Paige jokes. “It’s been awful.”
“Are you being careful in the kitchen?” Mom asks, gently pushing my sister away. “Mel! Where’s Mel?”
“Right here, Ms. Pith,” Mel says, leaning back in so the camera picks him up. “We’re always on hand to help and keep things safe.”
Paige interrupts again, and relief shows on Mel’s face as he fades into the background once more. “Who’s the best?” my sister asks. “Is it you? It is! You’re so far ahead. It’s so cool.”
“No, they’re all super talented. Some of the things they’ve cooked . . . Bo did this dessert, and Pepper made jambalaya. Oh, and Joey’s frittatas.”
“But you’re the only one winning!” Paige sings.
Mom moves to block Paige away again. “Okay, honey, relax. Let Mommy talk to Curtis.” Her expression brightens. “So! Huge opportunity for you coming up, huh? Your one-on-one meeting’s Thursday, right?”
My meeting. The one I tossed and turned over for hours last night. I was supposed to keep it focused on cooking and food. But after winning those first two challenges, thoughts of Lucas Taylor actually recognizing my talent keep hopping up and down, waving for me to notice them.
The Super Chef wants to show the world the future of cooking? I wonder how he feels now that he can see it coming at him from straight out of his own past.
But I can’t forget that Distracted Curtis is Last Place Curtis, and focusing on Lucas Taylor my father instead of the Super Chef the . . . well, the chef, is totally a one-way street to Distractionville. Every time I try to shove thoughts of impressing him, of finally showing him what he’s been missing out on, back down, though, they pop right up again, like a mental game of Whac-A-Mole gone horribly wrong.
And now Mom’s bringing it up? What, is she going to warn me about Taylor? Finally give me some advice, some way to approach my father? Does Paige know about him now? And I haven’t even asked them about Pettynose yet . . .
“I’m sorry,” Mel interrupts, squeezing back into the shot. “That one’s out of bounds. No discussion about the upcoming schedule. Remember, there’s information circling out there that these guys purposely don’t know about. No discussion—”
“About what’s next,” Mom says flatly. “I got it the first time. No hints about the one-on-one evenings, either. Yes, yes.” She rolls her eyes. “Your people have been very clear.”
“Hey, Paige,” I call out, changing the subject since I can hear Mom’s tone slowly growing angrier. “How’s school?”
My sister’s face jabs into view, angled in from one side. “School? Are you kidding me right now? I’m not going to talk about school. You’re winning Super Chef!”
The rest of the twenty minutes goes by way too fast, Mom continuing to ask all sorts of logistical questions, Paige getting more and more excited about my first-place standing. Mel warns Mom time is almost up, but she tries to ignore him, keeps firing off reminders. “You take care of my boy, Mel! Be yourself, Curtis! Come back safe! We love—”
The screen goes black.
“Sorry about that,” Mel says. “They’re very strict about the time allowed for these calls.”
He leads me out of the conference room. Kiko’s waiting with Ashley right outside. Guess she’s next. She seems a little nervous, shifting on the balls of her feet. We share a quick smile.
Maybe what Kiko was really nervous about, though, was her one-on-one. It happens that night, same exact time as Pepper and Joey before her. Like them, she leaves dressed up fancy, and like them, she comes back looking happy, but doesn’t say much else. Which is pretty much how Kiko is most of the time. No reason to expect a flood of info from her now.
Besides, tomorrow’s the third challenge. We’re starting to spend a lot less time gossiping or trying to figure out what will happen next. Mostly we seek out as much rest as possible, because every day here is a little more exhausting than the one before it. I don’t care what the schedule says, we haven’t had an “open” day yet.
The next twenty-four hours pass by like a rushing train, and suddenly it’s Wednesday, the night of Challenge #3. I’m standing in the center of the pantry while the rest of the Super Five race around me, scooping up ingredients, filling their boxes. I’m the only one who’s completely lost, and my time is running out.
Three ways. Three. Ways. What can I make three different ways?
For about the tenth time I run through the cooking methods the Super Chef listed out to start this episode, hoping one of them—or three of them, actually, I need three ways—will spark some idea in my stagnant brain.
— Roast
— Grill
— Sear
— Sauté
— Fry
— Bake
— Raw prep
The idea is to pick an ingredient that can be prepared using three of those cooking methods. But . . . were there more than those? It seems like I’m missing one or two. And what does the custom-crafted Molteni stove prize tell me about tonight’s theme?
Answers? No, nothing, and nada.
Chicken would be an obvious choice. Probably too obvious. What else, then?
The rest of the chefs are elbowing each other to get a crack at the pork and beef case, and that’s when the answer leaps into my head and flops around like a freshly caught fish. Fish, of course. Because it’s seafood I need.
I race for the fishmonger section, knowing I’ll have it all to myself. The scallops couldn’t be more obvious, right up front. I can grill scallops. I can use them in a ceviche, which is a raw prep. And of course, I can do the classical preparation: a picture-perfect sear.
I scramble for other ingredien
ts, flavor profile ideas popping off in my head like fireworks. And, just as our pantry time is up, I hurry back into the arena, lugging my box.
The rest of the chefs are already setting up, and right away I notice three of them—Joey, Pepper, and Bo—pulling out pressure cookers. That’s when that last item in the list, the one I forgot, shows up in my memory again. Braising. Sorry, buddy, but you’re way late to the party.
Which is really too bad, because nothing brings out the flavors of a rich protein like a solid braise. Pepper has lamb; Bo, pork shoulder; Joey, some kind of beef, maybe a tenderloin. I steam past Kiko and notice her short ribs.
I want to kick myself but that won’t help. Sure, I’m the only one with seafood. Maybe it’ll send me back to last. On the other hand, I could stand out and take first again. Man, if I did, I’d have a big enough lead that they might cancel the rest of this competition altogether. I let myself dream about that for a second, picture myself standing alone in the arena with the Super Chef. No crowd, no sous chefs, no Super Five, just me and my father. He grabs my wrist and raises my arm into the air, like I’m some kind of MMA champ.
Hold up. Where’s my gigantic ceremonial check? I shake my head, and the vision changes to what it’s supposed to be. Chef Taylor disappears like smoke. All that’s beside me is a huge pile of money.
Come on, Pith, focus. Stop worrying about the Super Chef and start remembering the two hundred and fifty thousand reasons you’re really here.
It’s no good, though, because I spend the next thirty minutes trying to cook while continuing to fight that same battle in my head. Constantly pushing away the wrong vision—me standing alone with the Super Chef, huge, proud smile on his face, patting me on the back—and replacing it with the right one—me standing with the money.
Focus.
Did I use too much cumin? I taste my sauce again, my tongue detecting exactly how much this war in my head has been distracting me. Because, yeah, there’s definitely too much cumin in that sauce. I rush to fix it, but time is short.
And then it’s up. My hands not only have to stop, they have to shoot skyward again, to prove I’m not still working. We’re called forward to present our dishes. I hold my head high as I walk my three almost-perfect (that cumin!) scallops to the stage—one seared on a bed of sweat pea puree, the second in a tomato and lime ceviche with avocado and orange. My last offering is grilled and covered with a delicate ginger and way-too-much-cumin sauce.
The Super Chef and his two sous chefs taste my scallops. Without a word or hint, they send me back to my station. After another one of their quick huddles, they call for the next dish.
I end up being the only one to separate the three ways, and, waiting for the final verdict, I can’t stop myself from thinking I made a huge mistake. The rest of the Super Five all find a way to combine theirs into a single dish. The most impressive is Pepper. Somehow she manages to stew, roast, and braise her lamb shank in thirty minutes. It seems impossible, but then I remember the snippets of her video from that first night, how she cooked multiple dishes at the same time, one hand working each. This challenge was made for her.
Also, can I just say that pressure cookers are amazing? I’ve been asking for one since I was eight.
Pepper presents her lamb shank stew with okra and carrots and a cilantro condiment drizzled on top. The three chefs try to remain stoic while they taste it, but I can see the faint smiles betraying their fixed expressions.
This is our fourth time on TV. Each episode goes faster than the last. I’m used to the applause and crazy cheering, the cameras in my face. But that doesn’t mean I’m any more comfortable with these stressful challenges. In fact, it seems like the faster these hours go, the more exhausted I am at the end of them. I’m trapped in a totally different kind of pressure cooker.
I’m so ready for this night to be over, for the scores to flash and the lights to fade, but instead of the end coming, the black-shirts trot the blue plastic desks out, set them up again. They hand us another Sharpie and another blank white card.
The theme. Somewhere along the way, between the cumin disaster and my unnecessary daydreams, I forgot all about it.
Quick, what could a top-of-the-line stove that does everything mean in a challenge like this one? NBA, teamwork. Louvre, creativity. Molteni . . . ?
I can’t come up with anything, so instead I try to think about Pepper, because I know she knocked this one out of the park. My eyes cloud with sweat, and I’m not seeing straight. I write down the best word I can use to describe her.
VERSATILITY
Unlike the first few challenges, though, my throw-the-dart guess isn’t quite so lucky. Only Joey and Pepper land on the right answer, MULTITASKING. Of course. Three ways. With the right configuration on a Molteni, you can cook a bunch of things at once. In a ton of different ways. Heck, you can run a whole kitchen. That’s exactly multitasking. And so is Pepper.
When the episode finally comes to its real end, when the bells ding and the lights flash, the new scores show up blurry. I wipe at my eyes to be sure I’m seeing them right.
Pepper Carmichael
92
Joey Modestino
88
Bonifacio Agosto
77
Curtis Pith
65
Kiko Tanaka
60
A representative from Molteni presents the award certificate to Pepper. “I hope you have room for our best, young lady.”
“Oh, we’ll make room,” an overexcited Pepper agrees. “We’ll turn our whole apartment into a kitchen if we have to.”
Everyone laughs—the crowd, the Molteni rep, Pepper, the chefs on the stage. Everyone, maybe, except for me. I’m too busy inspecting the scores. I never imagined Kiko landing at the bottom of any challenge, but the chefs are right. Her attempt to combine baked, roasted, and smoked short ribs into a single dish was clumsy. She chose the perfect meat to braise, but, like me, hadn’t bothered with a pressure cooker. Big mistake, and the only thing that prevents me from dropping back into last for this challenge. So much for those dreams of three wins in a row.
The lights flash again. The scores flip once more, rolling over into new grand totals.
Curtis Pith
280
Pepper Carmichael
274
Bonifacio Agosto
270
Kiko Tanaka
269
Joey Modestino
258
At least I’m still in the lead. Barely. My dream’s still in my grasp, but it feels slippery, like I’m trying to separate the whites from some egg yolks using my fingers.
The only thing I take the time out to do before I fall into bed that night is write the list of skills we’ve learned so far. The Super Chef’s keys to success. I’m growing as obsessed with them as I’ve always been with him, reviewing over and over the ones we know already, trying to guess what the final two could be.
But as much thinking as I do, I admit I have no idea which ones are left. I fall asleep hugging my journal, the page still open to the list I stared at until my eyelids felt as heavy as two bags of flour.
FROM CURTIS PITH’S RECIPE JOURNAL (Back pages)
SUPER CHEF LUCAS TAYLOR’S
FIVE KEYS TO BECOMING AND STAYING A GREAT CHEF
TEAMWORK
CREATIVTY
MULTITASKING
____________
____________
What’s next?????
30
Cameras flash and click as the Super Chef and I make our way down a red carpet runner leading straight to a limousine waiting at the curb. My breath turns to clouds of steam as I take in the crowd, recognizing some of the same press and photographers who interviewed the Super Five the other day. They shout questions at both of us, but it’s such a whirlwind of activity I can’t hear their specific words.
I’m sweating, but I think it has as much to do with the bulky sweater I’m wearing as how nervous I feel. Mom found this
pine-green, wool gem at Goodwill last year. The first time I wore it to school, Tre dubbed it the “green monster” because of the way it hung off me and made me look like Bigfoot covered in salsa verde. I have to roll up the sleeves a bunch of times to get my hands to make an appearance out the ends, but it was the only answer I had to Joey’s tuxedo thing and Pepper’s perfectly placed hair.
Before I left, I locked myself in the bathroom for a while. I needed to find a place in the dorm where I could be alone. Concentrate. Of course Joey had pounded on the door, suggesting his situation was an “emergency,” but I shouted back that I wasn’t ready yet.
And I was really getting ready, too, just not in the way he probably assumed. I guess you’d call what I was doing meditating, though I’ve never actually done that before, and I’m not sure I was even doing it right. I just needed to come up with some way to call a truce on the constant battle in my head, to remind myself that no matter what questions the Super Chef tried to ask me, I needed to keep this “heart-to-heart” focused on cooking and food. I couldn’t allow other topics to seep in—the amount of time I’d been thinking about them these past few days aside. The cumin fiasco had already cost me part of my lead. I can’t lose any more cushion. Eyes on the prize.
Chef Taylor’s dressed in an amazing dark suit with a cornflower-blue tie that makes him look like the cooking version of Tony Stark. People swoon left and right as we sweep by them. I almost think I’m watching the old Super Chef as I hurry with him toward the car, huge security guys in STAFF shirts surrounding us, hands up, keeping the press at bay. But then I notice his halting steps, how he shuffles and twists that left foot, and, no, it’s the new Lucas Taylor taking me to dinner, for sure. The awkward, stumbly one.
The driver holds the limousine door open for us. The Super Chef steps to the side so I can climb in first. He follows, the door slamming shut as soon as his butt hits the seat. Taylor unbuttons his suit jacket and shifts into a more comfortable position across from me. “I’m delighted we’re getting our time together finally, Curtis. Just overjoyed. I could hardly wait for this night. It simply wouldn’t come fast enough for me.”