by Chris Negron
I wasted time cleaning up my station, looking around at the others, when I could’ve been . . . but there’s nothing I could’ve been doing. Because a soufflé is a waiting game. Still, I can’t shake this feeling that I’ve repeated the same mistake.
Rush to the oven. Open the door—too fast, probably—reach in to drag my soufflés out before they overcook again. Just before my fingers close around the first ramekin, though, I hear Chef Wormwood tittering behind me. “Pith! No! Tut, ut, ut, ut—”
She slides on her knees, crashing into me. Grabs my arm, yanks it back. What’s she fussing about? In answer, she pulls my wrist up, showing me my own hand. My naked hand.
“Potholder, Chef,” she says, out of breath, fire in her eyes. Then Wormwood does something that doesn’t seem very Wormwood-y at all. She wraps her arm around my shoulders and pulls me into a hug. Leans us away from the closest camera and microphone, whispers into my ear. “You’ve got to be careful, Curtis!”
The first time I burned myself, I was making soup. More like helping Mom make soup. She turned her back for a second. One second. Long enough for me to grab the lid with my bare fingers. I could hear the metal singeing my skin. Mom hugged me close as she hurried me to the sink for some cold water. The whole way, she kept telling me the same thing, over and over.
“If you’re going to cook, Curtis, you’ve got to be careful. Careful!”
I feel fresh tears threatening my eyes, but I grind my teeth together to stop them. I won’t cry here, not in Super Chef Arena. There’s no crying in kitchens, unless maybe you’re chopping onions. Even then, blink a few times if you have to.
But how can I keep making these huge mistakes in front of all my heroes?
I shut my eyes hard, open them again. More blinking. Over and over, fast, until I’m sure the tears won’t come. When Wormwood releases me, it takes a second to remember what I was doing and why. I stand. Reach for my potholder. Use it to pull the soufflés out as fast as I can. Set them up on my station.
Chef Graca yells, “One minute!” but I don’t look up. I don’t want to see what new disappointment Taylor might be beaming my way.
I’m just so glad I got my soufflés out. After giving them a little time to cool, I grab a spoon, dip it into my practice ramekin.
“Thirty seconds!” Graca again.
I see my error as soon as I pull back the spoon. There’s no need to taste it: the soufflé is close but it’s soupy. Undercooked this time. Under, and there’s no time left to fix it. If I’d only trusted myself, if only I hadn’t let the Super Chef’s whisper change my plan, been so worried about his opinion of me. And am I even sure he said what I thought? I chew my lip, suddenly filled with doubt.
I was going to wait until the last ten seconds, then take them out. That extra minute or two would’ve made all the difference. If only I’d given that time to myself, to my soufflé.
If only.
It seems like those two words sum up my whole life lately.
“It was overcooked yesterday, wasn’t it?” Chef Taylor asks.
I nod. I feel about an inch tall standing alone in front of the judging table. The Super Chef eyes my soupy soufflé with one arched brow.
It’s not even blowing my chance at the prize money that has me upset anymore. It’s that he’s finally paying attention to me, finally seeing me here, and all I’ve given him to look at is the worst soufflé in the history of soufflés.
“Well, this one’s under. That means you overcompensated, then, trying to fix yesterday’s error. You can see that, right?”
I nod again, then gulp. “Yes, Chef.”
But he straightens up. Smile replacing his frown. “Well, overcorrection is, at least, correction. It means you listened. Listening’s a big deal, Curtis.”
I trudge back to my station, as confused as ever.
Meanwhile, the rest of the Super Five, except for Pepper, do great. Despite last night’s arguing, everyone seems to have made adjustments based on what they heard. Even Joey fixes the seasoning on his filling and cooks his squid better.
Bo, though, does the very best. He didn’t argue with anyone last night. He just slipped off and started making notes. I realize now he was figuring out how to make the most of his time and the feedback he got, too. He took a whole new approach to the challenge, managing to elevate Graca’s starter mole to better match his family’s recipe while cooking his chicken perfectly this time. All because he focused on learning rather than being defensive.
Pepper, on the other hand, continues to use the scotch bonnet and pays the price for her stubbornness. “Yesterday your friends told you it was too spicy, didn’t they?” Taylor asks her.
“I guess,” she answers. “But that’s not the way my family makes a rundown. It wouldn’t be right not to use the recipe they taught me.”
“Here’s the thing, though,” the Super Chef says in a stern tone. “You’re not cooking for your family right now. Maybe you’re cooking for a restaurant full of patrons, or a whole audience of strangers.” He gestures at the balcony. “Either way, you have to start being able to take in what’s being said about your food. Don’t let it be personal.”
Pepper returns to her station with her head hung low. The blue desks are brought out next. LISTENING seems possible after his talk with both Pepper and me, but it doesn’t feel right that it could be so obvious. I’m so turned around by my mistake with the soufflé, by trying to come up with a clever, not-obvious guess, that by the time the game show music stops, all I’ve written down is WORK.
Joey and Bo both nail HANDLING CRITICISM, and their already higher scores for the challenge shoot even farther ahead of the rest of us.
Bonifacio Agosto
93
Joey Modestino
90
Kiko Tanaka
84
Curtis Pith
76
Pepper Carmichael
72
Bo wins his first challenge prize, one whole week of access to the Super Chef, one-on-one, in one of his amazing kitchens, and I’m surprised at how hard my gut aches with jealousy. The screen flashes for the final time in a regular challenge and the new totals sparkle for the audience to ooh! and aah! at.
Kiko Tanaka
446
Bonifacio Agosto
443
Pepper Carmichael
440
Curtis Pith
437
Joey Modestino
437
Kiko never won a single challenge—except for the mise en place Takamura knife that first night, which wasn’t technically a real challenge—but it’s incredible what consistency can do, because there she is, at the very top again. And, despite winning teamwork and creativity, there I am at the bottom again, tied with Joey.
But it’s close. We’re all bunched together. I still have a chance.
“Wonderful,” the Super Chef is saying again and again on the stage, applauding along with the audience. He stops and settles his feet, looking a little more serious.
“Chefs, I’ve really enjoyed this competition. Even more than I expected to. You kids are—” He shakes his head. “Well, you’re truly amazing. I’m so thankful you’ve given so much of yourselves to this competition. I know it’s been very difficult. Tiring. Frustrating. Even a little scary, perhaps.” He raises his voice further, gesturing around the arena. “Please join me in one more round of applause for the Super Five.”
The audience just finished clapping, but they start in all over again. All three chefs spur them on, waving their arms up and down like football players trying to encourage the home crowd to make more noise. Soon another deafening ovation overtakes the arena. I feel my whole body almost lifted into the air by the crescendo, equal parts exhilarated and exhausted.
I can still win, I know I can. If I can just refocus myself by Thursday, stop thinking about weeks at Taylor House and lip-reading criticism, I can make a comeback in the finale. Mom’s new house isn’t that far away. Neither is
that quarter of a million dollars.
“Don’t forget about our finale!” the Super Chef cries, and immediately new tension locks up my joints again. “Thanksgiving Day! Three days from now. What better day to decide who will win The Last Super Chef than the national holiday that’s always been all about food and family and gratitude? Am I right?
“Our Thanksgiving finale will be a two-hour special, once again live. The first hour will air in the morning. We’ll let you break and enjoy your holiday, but please! You must tune back that evening, after your dinner is over but before you fall into your turkey coma, for part two. I know you will! I know you’ll want to join us to find out who The Last Super Chef winner will be!
“But I suppose we should find out who will have the edge—and when I say edge, I mean edge; it’s a big one this time—heading into the finale. For that, we need to do one more thing.”
The Super Chef issues another big-armed wave at the totals board, and the lights start blinking and flashing, the numbers scrambling into random dots and dashes.
“Our big board’s adding in those one-on-one scores we’ve been hinting at, which were on a scale of one hundred like every challenge!” He shoots a grin at us. “Hope you didn’t forget!”
Oh no. The night I couldn’t stop thinking about. Storming out of the car, racing back into the dorms. Running away. All those one- and two-word answers. The way I felt, like I was guarding all my secrets. Like I was guarding my life with Mom and Paige. Like, in the end, I didn’t want to talk about it so it wouldn’t have to change.
But then, what was the point of coming here? Wouldn’t all that money have changed everything anyway? Isn’t that what I wanted?
It doesn’t matter, because somehow I did stop thinking about my Evening with the Super Chef. Somehow, I did forget how badly it went, that those points hadn’t been included yet.
I close my eyes, knowing the scoreboard will give me news I don’t want to see. But I can’t keep them shut forever. And when the crowd lets out a surprised moan, I open them.
FINAL CHALLENGE SCORES
Bonifacio Agosto
538
Kiko Tanaka
537
Pepper Carmichael
528
Joey Modestino
522
Curtis Pith
509
I want to puke.
At least before, I had company at the bottom. At least before I was in the ballpark. But my low one-on-one score—I notice the Super Chef spared me the embarrassment of revealing the exact details, but I don’t need Paige for this math—now has me all alone in dead last.
Again.
Meanwhile, Bo tries to contain his excitement. He leapfrogged Kiko by a single point. Incredible. After all his bellyaching and wanting to go home, after seeming like the first chef who would break, Bo Agosto from Mexico City is in first place. He’s actually the chef to beat.
“What did you mean by edge, Chef?” Graca asks Taylor, but I can tell from the giddy tone of the question that the sous chef already knows the answer. I can tell that, whatever it is, it’s only going to make things even worse.
“Ah, yes.” The Super Chef grins back at him. “The edge. It’s so simple, but so huge. First of all, the good news for those behind in the standings.” Does he look at me when he pauses? “The slate will be wiped clean. No matter what your previous scores were, the winner of our final battle will be the winner of the whole competition!”
The applause that follows isn’t quite as thunderous as usual. It’s more hesitant, calculated, like this seems like good news but also could be some kind of trick. The audience feels the same way I do, the way the rest of the Super Five must feel. What was the point, then, of all those challenges if, even from last place, I can just win Thursday and still become the champion?
“Ah, but now for the bad news.” Taylor raises one hand, palm open, requesting quiet and patience. “For some of our competitors, anyway. Thanksgiving night, the final challenge of our last season here in Super Chef Arena, the chefs will have the normal one-hour cooking time. Well”—his hand closes into a fist, but the index finger remains extended—“one of them will, anyway. Chef Agosto.” Hearing his name, Bo takes a confused step back from his station. “Each chef after him in the final standings must wait an additional seven minutes before they can start cooking. So, second place, Chef Tanaka, will have fifty-three minutes, third place, Chef Carmichael, forty-six, and so on.”
The scoreboard flashes again. Taylor smiles and waits, clearly looking forward to the desperate details of what he just explained to hit us broadside.
THANKSGIVING FINALE—ALLOWED COOKING TIMES (minutes)
Bonifacio Agosto
60
Kiko Tanaka
53
Pepper Carmichael
46
Joey Modestino
39
Curtis Pith
32
I blink and shake my head, then look again to be sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing. But the numbers don’t change. I’m reading them right.
They don’t lie, either, and now the catch is clear. Sure, if I win on Thursday, I become the last Super Chef winner ever. But I have to do it in thirty-two minutes, which is barely more than half the time Bo will get. Half the time to make the most important dish of my life. It’s not just impossible, it’s . . . well, whatever’s more impossible than impossible.
Maybe Joey had been right that first night. When I finished last in mise en place, maybe they should’ve just kicked me off like they normally would’ve in regular Super Chef. Because two weeks later, I’m down there all over again. Way down there.
It would take a Thanksgiving miracle for me to win The Last Super Chef, to bring home that money to Mom and Paige.
And miracles are more of a Christmas thing, right?
FROM CURTIS PITH’S RECIPE JOURNAL (Back pages)
Super Chef Lucas Taylor’s
Five Keys to Becoming and Staying a Great Chef
1. Teamwork
2. Creativity
3. Multitasking
4. Attention to Detail
5. Handling Criticism
39
On Tuesday no one comes into the common room to blow whistles or shout for us to line up. There are no doughnuts or bagels. Not a single croissant or slice of bacon. No surprise challenges.
And the Super Five—some of us not feeling very super at all anymore—sleep half the morning away.
When we finally emerge from our rooms yawning and stretching, the common room is empty. No clothes rack with cleaned chef’s jackets, no assistants, no handlers, no chefs. Just a dorm-shaped ghost town.
“There is a note,” Bo says, standing on his toes and sliding a folded piece of paper across the kitchen island. He starts to open it, but Joey snatches it out of his hand, only to have Pepper grab it from his fingers and give it back to Bo.
“You should read it,” she tells our smallest competitor. Turning to Joey, she adds, “He’s the leader now.”
Joey frowns at her while Bo unfolds the note and starts to read it out loud.
Good morning, Chefs!
Today is your official day of rest. No need to worry, we promise there will be no challenges or tests or surprises. Later on, we’ll give you another chance to chat with your families. Otherwise, please just relax! You’ve earned it.
I’m so proud of all of you,
LUCAS TAYLOR
Proud. Even after everything that’s happened, ending up in last place, feeling like a complete failure, waffling between being ready to go home and still battling a desperation to win, seeing that word in my father’s handwriting makes my heart skip a beat. Seriously? Proud? Of me?
Bo sets the note back on the island. “Perhaps we should cook the breakfast?” he says.
“Whose turn is it?” Joey asks.
“Let’s all do it,” I suggest. “We should make pancakes and waffles—”
“And eggs and bacon and—” Pepper sa
ys.
“Grits!” Kiko yells. “Does anyone know how to make good grits? I have always wanted to try them.”
We’re still cooking when Mel and Brett carry the giant television in. As they’re setting it up, Joey wanders over and hugs the box, then asks what channels we’ll have.
“No channels, I’m afraid,” Mel says. “Live TV might still influence the finale.” Just then Ashley and Renata walk in with armfuls of DVDs and books. “No internet access, either. But you’ll have all these. Take your pick.”
They drop the stacks near the television. There are all sorts of great movies—all the Harry Potters and the Pixars, Star Wars, Hunger Games . . . and books, too. Classics like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Alice in Wonderland. Tons more.
“You kids have some fun,” Renata says in her Italian accent.
Joey starts to paw through the piles. The Incredibles in his hand, he gestures toward the assistants, catching them before they leave. “Hey, you guys have been really cool this whole time.” He points at all the action in the kitchen, the rest of us jumping behind and around each other, pans clanging. “We basically cooked the whole fridge. Want brunch?”
All five of our assistants enjoy brunch with us. We’re forced to round up extra chairs from all around the dorm, even the assistants’ off-limits back room. It’s my first time in here. The walls are painted a soft blue, a completely different color from the greens and beiges that decorate the rest of the place. The huge window faces the totally opposite side of the building from the balcony.
Joey and I are snagging the desk chairs from in there when we notice a phone on the bedside table. It’s bright red.
“Oh man!” Joey cries. “There was a phone in here this whole time? Bo could’ve called home? He’s gonna freak.”
The discovery makes me think of something else. I scan the ceiling. No cameras. Maybe the rules are different for the college-aged kids. Maybe they didn’t sign a contract that said they agreed to be watched the entire time. Probably not. They’re older. Seems like older people always have more rights.