The Last Super Chef

by Chris Negron

The apple crumble we’re featuring in the dessert course is meant to be served warm. It comes with a scoop of vanilla ice cream that should be just beginning to melt when I bring it to Taylor.

  Kiko and Joey announce they’re walking three lava cakes just as I drop my scoop back into some warm water. I pick up my plate and follow them.

  “Good, good,” the Super Chef is muttering as he checks over their cakes first. “Where’s my crumble?”

  “Here, Chef.” I squeeze past Joey to bring my plate up to the pass. The ice cream wants to slide, but I tilt my wrist, holding it in place.

  The Super Chef swings his arm back, his face still turned forward. He crouches and checks the bottom of a cake by lifting it with a knife. “Excellent,” he says, and both Joey and Kiko beam at his recognition of the perfection of their handiwork.

  The finger on the end of the Super Chef’s extended arm beckons me forward. I approach him, wedging my dish into his palm. The rest of his fingers close around the plate. I start to let go. But the dish teeters and, too late, I realize he doesn’t have it all the way. It slips away and tumbles to the ground, ceramic splintering into a thousand pieces as it strikes the floor. Wet slices of apple spread out in all directions.

  Everything is quiet for a few seconds. I almost expect an eruption of shouts, screams, anger, but instead Taylor starts to laugh. It’s not any laugh I’ve heard come from him before, though, not in six seasons. Almost a cackle—maniacal, filled with frustration.

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Chef,” I say softly.

  “It’s all right, it’s okay,” Wormwood is whispering as she rushes up, quickly starting to pick up the splintered ceramic pieces. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

  His cackling dying down to an echo in the suddenly still arena, Lucas Taylor bends at the waist. He puts both hands on his knees like an exhausted member of the North Sloan Eagles, wondering when their coach will notice how tired he is. Like he needs to be taken out. Like he doesn’t have the stamina to last another minute out on the court, in the spotlight.

  When he finally lifts his face, it’s to look straight into mine. He shakes his head slightly, clearly disappointed. But it was an accident, it could’ve happened to anyone. I was so sure he had it. The plate wasn’t hot, it wasn’t wet, it should’ve been . . .

  “Stop. Just . . . stop it,” Chef Taylor whispers, seemingly just now aware Wormwood’s on her hands and knees cleaning up my mess. A few of the celebrity chefs onstage actually stand up to get a better look. One or two step forward, as if they’re thinking of coming down to help. The audience in the balcony murmurs.

  The Super Chef joins his sous chef on the floor. “It’s not fine, Claire. Nothing’s fine. Why can’t you see . . . ?” He starts cleaning up the pieces Wormwood hasn’t gotten to yet. A sharp edge slices into his hand. He grabs it with the other and stands quickly, wincing.

  Wormwood wipes her forehead with her sleeve. She straightens, looking up at Taylor. “Just let me help,” she says. “All I want to do is—”

  The Super Chef’s heavy panting picks up speed. He spins around, as if he’s suddenly lost in his own arena. Takes the pressure off his cut. Fresh blood trickles toward his sleeve.

  “I need a minute,” he says, still breathless, gripping his hand tight again, blood squirming between his fingers. He backs away from the mess on the floor with a horrified expression, like there’s a dead body there instead of just a bunch of ruined sugar and fruit and pastry.

  Wormwood maneuvers away too, giving the black-shirts, emerging from the sidelines this time with brooms and mops, the room they need to take over the cleanup. She watches Taylor leave, and for a second it almost seems like she’s going to follow him.

  Then her face changes. Her features harden as she turns toward us. The Super Five are standing in a cluster, all of us staring down at the mess in shock. Neglected food sizzles at our stations. “Who told you to stop cooking? Our guests are waiting for their desserts.” She claps her hands. “Let’s go, Chefs, let’s go! Finish strong.”

  The Super Chef still hasn’t returned when the meal ends, but after they finish eating, the VIPs onstage give us a standing ovation. They remain at the tables drinking wine while the blue theme-guessing desks are brought out and set up in front of us. Little white card, new black Sharpie.

  I have trouble concentrating. It’s hard not to wonder where Chef Taylor is, to try to figure out what upset him so much. Maybe that cut was worse than it seemed. Maybe they had to rush him off to the hospital. I tap the black Sharpie onto the card, making a bigger and bigger dot, and force myself to come up with something.

  We worked so well together, all the partnering up and helping each other on the line, but what seemed to be most important to the Super Chef was our time at the pass. And as much as I rack my brain for it, I don’t see the connection between that and learning to make complicated pastries and cakes.

  Time is running short. I take a stab at a guess, and I’m just putting the cap back on the Sharpie when Chef Wormwood calls time. It’s a commercial, and Wormwood and Graca take advantage of the break to disappear backstage. Just when I think they won’t come back at all, that they’ve left for the hospital too, that the camera lights will turn red and we won’t have any hosts, all three chefs reappear. The Super Chef is wearing that forced smile again. His hand is wrapped in white gauze.

  Almost as if nothing happened, he announces it’s time for the theme guesses. We raise our hands, turn over our cards. Somehow both Pepper and Kiko get ATTENTION TO DETAIL exactly right.

  The Super Chef does his magical wave at the totals board, and it flashes new numbers the same way it has after every other challenge.

  Pepper Carmichael

  94

  Kiko Tanaka

  93

  Joey Modestino

  89

  Curtis Pith

  81

  Bonifacio Agosto

  80

  Again Pepper’s invited forward to receive her prize, passed to her by Chef Madeline Dalibard herself. A black-shirt brings out a sample tray of the chef’s most famous desserts, and she spends some time explaining how precise cooks have to be with their recipes, how much attention you have to pay to all the details—sometimes temperature, sometimes speed, often the viscosity of the dough, always the specific order of the steps involved.

  Attention to detail. Right. Knowing her specialties, what the apprenticeship would almost certainly cover should’ve been obvious. If I could punch myself in the arm right now, I would.

  The scoreboard, or whoever’s been controlling it behind the scenes, wastes no time. The numbers flash again. Updated totals.

  Pepper Carmichael

  368

  Kiko Tanaka

  362

  Curtis Pith

  361

  Bonifacio Agosto

  350

  Joey Modestino

  347

  And there it is: I’ve officially lost the lead.

  It’s not like it’s a huge surprise. I’m lucky I didn’t finish dead last. Dropping the crumble was bad, but now that I’m having a chance to review my performance, I messed up a bunch of other stuff, too. None of my scallops were quite as perfect as that first batch. I burned a pan of asparagus, and instead of doing my own quality control, I brought up the charred mess anyway.

  I’m slipping, big-time, and I can’t seem to fix it, not with meditation or promises to focus on only cooking. Nothing is working. Feels like I’m trying to scale a mountain covered in olive oil, my feet constantly sliding out from under me.

  First came the epic fail during the one-on-one the other night. Now both Kiko and Pepper haven’t just closed the gap on me, they’ve shot right past me, leaving me in their dust. One challenge left before the finale and my cushion is officially gone. I’m back to playing catch-up.

  It might be less than ten actual points, but we’re moving in opposite directions, and that makes it feel more like I’m hundreds of miles behind both of them.<
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  35

  Another weekend blows into New York, our second one here. We spend Saturday working the food trucks again. From an entirely different city park, but I see a lot of the same faces waiting in line, pushing their shopping carts, wearing bulky backpacks, shrouded in blankets.

  Graca, not Wormwood, supervises this time. He shows us how to pass a special cardboard tray down the line, filling one compartment with stuffing, another with sliced turkey, a third with mashed potatoes. Bo covers everything with a little gravy, careful pours to make it last, then dishes out a spot of cranberry jelly. Joey works the window, handing out our quick, five-day-early Thanksgiving lunches one at a time. He doesn’t issue a single complaint, and it feels like we serve twice as many guests as last time.

  On Sunday, we’re expecting more homework catch-up, but it’s a holiday week back home, and I guess our schools don’t mind giving us a break. Instead we enjoy an almost-lazy breakfast. It’s actually peaceful in the dorms until Chef Graca bursts in wearing the biggest grin I’ve seen on his jolly face, which is really saying something.

  “Ah, the little chefs.” He spreads his arms out wide, wrapping us up in a faraway hug.

  “You’re all mine today.” He tries to say it in a sinister way, but I’m not sure Chef Gabriel Graca has ever achieved legit sinister in all his life. Besides, a day with Graca sounds great to me. I could use a break from the stress of being around the Super Chef.

  “You know the drill. Everybody dressed and ready in one hour. Chef’s jackets, please.”

  “What is happening?” Kiko asks.

  “The last challenge is happening.” Graca shares a grin with each of us. “Number five.”

  “But that’s a day early!” Pepper shouts, raising the ever-present schedule in her hands and shaking the paper so it flaps and flutters. “This says challenge #5 is tomorrow. Monday.” It’s like she believes Graca is just confused and she can set him straight.

  “Certainly nothing wrong with your reading comprehension, Chef Carmichael,” Graca, still grinning, agrees. “Can you also read those tiny words at the bottom there?”

  Pepper looks again. “Subject to change?”

  “Precisely. Now you know what today’s subject is. Change.” He laughs at his own joke, then turns for the door. “One hour, Chefs. Downstairs.”

  “I want you to make your signature dish, the one from your video,” Graca says from the stage an hour later. “The same one that earned you a spot in this competition.”

  There’s been no sign of Wormwood or Taylor. Kari isn’t in the arena, either, but the camera people weave around us and a few black-shirts are visible in the shadows. It feels like a real episode. Or, I think as I realize how quiet the studio is, half of one, anyway.

  “But I made two dishes,” Pepper says.

  “Then pick one, Chef Carmichael,” Graca replies with a rare note of impatience. “Oh, and Chef Agosto? Since you took several days to make your mole but you’ll have only one hour this morning, we’re giving you a starter. I hope you don’t mind using my recipe.” Bo’s eyes go wide, but Chef Graca shakes his head. “Don’t get too excited. My mole starter is nowhere near as good as your family’s. Actually, now that I think of it, maybe you can give me some tips.” He chuckles. “Okay, let’s get started. Each of you should find everything you need in the pantry—”

  “What is this for?” Joey asks, eyeing the cameras. “Is this a challenge? Are there points?”

  Graca takes a deep breath. “Think of this as more of a . . . preparatory exercise.”

  “But it’s part of the challenge?” Pepper asks.

  “And we are on TV today?” Bo asks.

  “Yes,” Graca answers Pepper. Then, shifting his attention to Bo, “And . . . no.” Bo scrunches his nose in confusion, and Graca notices. He looks up at the balcony. “No audience, right? We’ll always have one if we’re live. But we are taping, and we may use some of the footage tomorrow night, during the actual challenge. Depends on how things go.”

  “What kinds of things?” I ask.

  Grace smiles back but doesn’t answer. He tilts his head to the side, then straightens again. “Chefs, time’s about to start. You need to be getting ready to cook. You’ll just have to trust me. I’ve told you all I can. More than I was supposed to, probably.”

  All five of us glance around at each other, trading confusion. We’ve never participated in this kind of pretaping before any of the other challenges. But of course this is the last one before the Thanksgiving finale. Not so surprising they would change things up on us.

  But . . . why do they want me to make my soufflé again? What’s the point of that?

  “Please cook your dish the same way you would if this were a challenge,” Graca announces. “Assume you’re presenting it to a judge.”

  “Who is the judge?” Kiko asks.

  Chef Graca shakes his head and smirks. “You know, Chef Wormwood warned me you kids ask a lot of questions.” After that, he folds his arms across his chest and clams up.

  Twenty minutes later, Chef G, who’s been pacing on the stage watching us cook, checks his watch and says, “Chefs, I’ll be right back. Keep working. You have forty minutes left.”

  “This is so insulting,” Joey mutters as soon as Graca disappears.

  Kiko takes the bait. “What is insulting?”

  “This!” he cries, throwing his hands up. “You see what they’re doing, right? Forcing us to prove we can make the dishes we submitted? They must think one of us had our parents do our homework for us or something. Like this is the science fair or a soapbox race where your dad builds your car for you.”

  Is that what real dads do? Build soapbox cars, help with science fair projects? Teach their sons to cook in restaurants their brothers own? Joey says it like it’s something to be ashamed of, rather than stuff you’d give your left arm to happen just once.

  “Yes . . . sí. I suppose you may be right,” Bo says. He focuses on his work, then speaks again while staring down at his quick-moving hands. “I don’t understand it, though. Why would they wait until now to make us prove it?”

  No one has an answer. We just keep cooking. Because Graca might’ve disappeared, but all these cameras are still watching. The eyes behind them are watching.

  Another half hour evaporates quickly. We finish our efforts and bring them to the judging table. Eventually all five dishes are sitting in front of Chef Graca, waiting for . . . we have no idea what.

  It’s definitely weird city. Still no Kari, no Wormwood, no Super Chef. But once all five dishes are up front, the heavy clunk of a switch being thrown echoes in the empty arena and, to our left, the sensory deprivation booths light up again. Not sure when they added a fifth capsule, but it’s there, squeezed in between the end of the row and the edge of the stage.

  It will be Kiko’s first time in a booth, so she gets the newest one. The rest of us are put in the same booths as last time. On go the headphones and blindfolds. The door clicks shut.

  Everything descends into silent darkness once more.

  Once again I have no idea how much time passes while I’m locked up inside this thing. I only know that, during almost all of it, I think about why I came here. How it had once seemed so clear. How murky it’s become just a couple weeks later.

  I wanted to win that prize money. Because I’d cost Mom her job, yes, but for deeper reasons, too. This was the last Super Chef. Ever. Where else could I ever go, what else could I ever do, that would give me a shot at that much money at my age? Doing what I do best? Where, if I’m honest, I figured I’d have an edge because I’m the main judge’s son?

  I warned myself to stay focused. Distracted Curtis equals Last Place Curtis. I learned that on my very first night in New York.

  But I failed. During our only evening alone together, the one-on-one, I let too much old resentment bubble up to the surface and escape. Now look at the standings. I’m not all the way back in last place yet, but I feel myself spinning in that direction,
so fast I don’t think there’s anything I can do to stop my fall.

  Someone taps me on my shoulder, and I jump. Big hands lift the noise-cancelling headphones from my ears. Graca unties my blindfold and pulls it away. He smiles at me.

  “Your turn, Curtis.”

  All five of our dishes are still up on the stage. My soufflé, Kiko’s Wellington, Pepper’s Jamaican Rundown, Joey’s stuffed squid, Bo’s mole.

  “This next part is simple,” Graca tells me. I have one eye on him while the other tracks the cameraman on the other side of the table, positioning himself for the best shot, his red light already on. “Taste your competitors’ dishes. Critique them.”

  I shake my head without meaning to. Because I couldn’t possibly judge the rest of the Five. I’m hardly qualified for that. I mean, I may have been doing awful this past week or so, but one thing for sure hasn’t changed. I’m in the contest, not judging it.

  He addresses my doubts as if I voiced them out loud. “You’ll need to learn to make honest comments about your colleagues’ work,” he says. “It’s a big part of cooking, an essential ingredient to being a great chef.”

  I’m so used to racking my brain for theme possibilities, my mind auto-guesses. Honesty? But this isn’t even the real challenge yet. There’s no theme.

  Even so, I’m positive I don’t want to critique these other dishes. I’m thinking about what Kiko said. Everyone here is super talented. There’s no reason for us to pick on each other. Not after we finally started to come together in the last challenge. But when I look down, I see a pile of dirty spoons and forks, including a few to the side of my soufflé.

  Really strong Goldilocks vibes wash over me. As in, someone’s been tasting my soufflé. I think of Joey, but then I see multiple spoonfuls are missing. More than one someone’s been tasting my soufflé.

  I glance over at the booths. All but mine are filled. It’s impossible to tell which of the others were let out before me.