by Andrew Grey
We talked quietly and then slipped off our chairs and wandered in. Fourteen chefs were hard at work, chopping and sautéing. I peered into pans and smelled the beginnings of sauces.
“I read your blog all the time,” one chef said before tossing some onions in a pan with butter and garlic.
“What are you making?”
“A pan-seared chicken thigh with a medley of vegetables,” she answered.
I inhaled again. “It smells wonderful, but is that something you think is going to impress me and the others or just be something that I’ll eat?” I met her gaze and could tell she was immediately rethinking her dish. Meyer wandered over, and I received a little smile. “This is a competition, for all of you,” I said out loud. “I know I’m famous for being überpicky, but you’re going to have to thread a needle with what you think I’m going to love and what Chef Meyer is going to enjoy as well.” I really was beginning to see just how difficult this was going to be for them.
“I’m not sure that will work in the amount of time you have,” Meyer was saying to a contestant, and I wandered over to him.
“Bacon,” I said, inhaling. “Everything is better with bacon, but if you burn it, then nothing is worse.” I smiled and moved away, Meyer coming along with me to stand back and watch them all work.
“I’m starting to see that the producers were brilliant,” Meyer whispered, and instantly I saw a camera nearby. “I didn’t get why they asked you on the show, but between the things you don’t like and the standards I’m going to demand, along with intense flavors and subtle techniques, they are going to have to strike a real balance and get supercreative.” And for the first time since I’d arrived in town, he actually smiled at me. Not a forced one or a TV smile, but a genuine one, and I remembered all those months when we were together and how that smile and a light touch could make things seem so much better than they were.
“Thirty minutes,” Rachel called, and I pulled my attention back to the chefs. “Remember, your dishes need to be plated, and there must be three identical plates.” I could see that she was a master at building tension, and I understood that while some drama was manufactured in editing, the clock itself created interest because it never slowed.
Our job at this point was to stand out of the way. I found my mind wandering, and I kept glancing at Meyer and then returning my attention to the chefs. Even though we were taping and there was a ton of activity around me, Meyer still pulled at me. I had to get my head in the game and pay attention. This was new and completely different for me, and I didn’t want to screw it up.
“Five minutes,” Rachel said.
The urgency ramped up. A dish dropped, pans clattered, a few chefs ran for plates, and I closed my eyes, expecting a collision that thankfully didn’t come. I always wondered if stuff like this was built up by the show, the chaos growing as time ticked down and dishes were placed on the tables.
Rachel called time, and I stayed back a second, taking a breath, and then joined the others.
“What did you make for us?” I asked the first chef.
“Po’ boy shrimp with a little sweet curry ginger sauce,” she said.
Shrimp and I had a rocky relationship. I got sick on them once and found them difficult to eat, but I took a bite and forgot that experience with a touch of crispness, the heat of curry, and then the sweet finish.
“Very nice, good texture, sweet, heat, and a little crunch,” I said with a smile, and we moved on to the next dish, which was a delight of salt, sweet, and citrus. I couldn’t help closing my eyes as the chicken became a vehicle for a ton of flavor.
The next dish was a kind of soup, and I glanced at Meyer as he tasted it. Frankly, I was afraid of it. The color was off. I tasted it and made a face. “That tastes like day-old sweat socks.”
The contestant winced as I put the spoon down.
We moved on to the next dishes until we had tasted them all. Then the three of us clustered to talk.
“Don’t you think your comment was harsh?” Meyer asked.
“No. The soup tasted like feet and smelled worse.” I glared at him. “How could you not taste it?”
“That was the radicchio,” Meyer explained, rolling his eyes.
“So, a lettuce that smells like feet. What’s next? Maybe mushrooms that smell like ass.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Meyer, I am going to give my opinion, and feet soup is pretty awful.” I knew everyone was watching, but I wasn’t going to back down.
“Let’s discuss the best dish,” Rachel prompted.
“The shrimp and the chicken were amazing, both complex in flavor and texture. I could eat either one all day.” I spoke to Rachel because Meyer was really getting under my skin and I hated that that was happening. The worst part was that he was being a pain in the ass, and yet heat raced through me like a fire tornado. How in the hell could this kind of disagreement get me hot? I was turning into a freak. The man might be a pain in the ass, but he was as stunning and confident as he acted, and that was attractive.
“I agree. The mushrooms were also outstanding,” Meyer said, and Rachel nodded.
“What did you think of them?”
I thought a minute. “I hate mushrooms, and yet those weren’t completely awful. There was some good flavor if I separated the dirt taste out of it. But I still think the shrimp was probably the best.”
Meyer nodded, and Rachel did the same. We stepped out of the huddle and turned toward the chefs so Rachel could announce the top dishes.
“Meyer, will you announce the winner?”
He stood taller, and I could almost picture him as the dashing pirate in an old film, swinging from the rigging down to the deck, his hair fluttering in the wind, and his eyes bright, dashing and dangerous. “We all agree that the winner is Kelly and her shrimp.” Meyer stepped forward, extending his hand. “Congratulations. You can choose another contestant to come to dinner with you.”
She looked around and then picked the guy who had made the mushrooms, which was a good choice. If I was being honest, his dish probably deserved second place.
“Thank you all. I hope this was helpful to all of you in learning the kitchen and becoming familiar with how things will run. Don’t expect them to become predictable, because there are plenty of surprises in store.” Rachel smiled.
“Definitely. We have a lot to keep you on your toes,” I added. “And as you saw, what you know about me, or think you know about me, isn’t going to get you to the winner’s circle.” I was going to regret what I was about to say, but it needed to be said. “I’m not the only judge, and my likes and dislikes… well, they will be a part of this competition, but if you can surprise me and blow me away, that could take you far.”
“Everyone, have a nice weekend,” Ethan said. “We will begin contestant interviews today and continue them into early next week. Then the following week, we will be in here to film the season debut episode. This process is going to be grueling on us all, so get some rest while you can, practice, and hone your skills and ideas.” Ethan stepped back.
“And remember that this is a competition. Alliances are one thing, but they aren’t going to make you a better chef and won’t make your dishes tastier. That only comes with hard work, attention to detail, and real skill.”
I thanked them all, as did Meyer, and then they filed out surprisingly quietly.
“Do we get to see any of the stuff they talk about in the interview?” I asked Ethan.
“No. That part of the show is kept private until we air each episode,” he explained, then rushed off to handle an issue as I caught up to Meyer.
“Dinner will be at seven on Sunday evening,” Justin said as he hurried up to the three of us. “Cars will pick up Rachel and Luke. Meyer, you will be at the restaurant for part of the day, I’m sure.”
“Yes. I’ll get myself there.” He was all business. “I’m working on a special menu for the dinner, and it’s something I hope everyone will enjoy.”
I wondered just wha
t kind of menu he was thinking of. Knowing Meyer, it would be amazingly well done. But also knowing him, he could choose my favorite foods or decide to put together a menu featuring everything I hate in every course. Lord only knew.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Rachel said. Her assistant approached and led her away, the two of them deep in conversation.
“Do you need anything?” Justin asked.
“Are we done for the day?” I wasn’t sure if I was needed.
“Yes. We’re done. The teams are working with the contestants, so both of you are free to go.” Justin hurried after Ethan, and I sighed, deciding what I was going to do with the rest of the day.
“You did great,” Meyer said. “Well, except for the feet thing. You described the food really well and seemed to enjoy most of it. You even equalized for the mushrooms in the dish to isolate what you hate.”
“Are you trying to be condescending?” I told him. “First thing—I know food. I write about it nearly every day, and I’m going to speak my mind. That soup was disgusting and smelled like it had been reduced from someone’s gym socks. I don’t care that it was the radicchio that they used or anything else. If it tastes like feet, I’m going to say so.” I shook my head as his lips got smaller. “Come on, even you have to admit there was something off with that soup.”
Finally his lips twitched and he loosened up. “Yeah, okay.”
“And it tasted like feet.” I cocked an eyebrow. “Look, I’m going to be colorful. It’s what I do on the blog and why they asked me here. You don’t need to compete with that or feel threatened by it. Just go with it and continue to do your job.”
“I just think it’s unprofessional,” Meyer retorted.
“And I’m not a professional,” I countered. “I’m a guy who loves to eat.” I sighed. “Do you remember all those Saturday mornings in Philly when you didn’t have to go to the restaurant until the afternoon and you’d spend the day in my kitchen, working on new dishes and things you wanted to incorporate into your own restaurants? I learned what I know about food from you. You used to cook, and I’d eat, and everything was perfect.” I pulled away because I could feel that warmth starting to build again. This was a bad idea, and I needed to keep a handle on what I was doing.
“I do.” He motioned to the door, and I went along with him. “You hated some of the things I made, though.”
“Yeah, because some were real clinkers.” I laughed at a memory. “Remember the meat loaf you worked on for some concept of fancy home cooking? That stuff was so bad, even you admitted it and then took me out to dinner. The smell lingered in my kitchen for a week, and after we got back, Rosco refused to eat any of it. Those fails were rare, but when you did, you went big.”
“Like the time the new fryer wasn’t working and I nearly burned down my apartment.” Meyer finally eased up a little.
“Yup. Or the soup that you added way too much onion to. It was good, but no one could come near us for a day and a half. Those were fun times, and we, both of us, were figuring things out. Though I will say you never made soup that smelled like feet.”
“Okay.” He put his hands up. “I know when I’m beaten.”
We stepped outside, and Felix was waiting for me there. “I’ll see you at the restaurant on Sunday evening. I can’t wait to see what you have in store.” I got inside, and the car started up. I didn’t turn to watch as we pulled away, and Meyer stood watching the car in return. I didn’t….
Okay, I lied.
ROSCO WASN’T happy that I was leaving and wouldn’t stop brushing against me. I ended up getting dressed in the bathroom, feeding him, and then while he was busy, hurrying out.
Since Friday, it had been largely like being back home, with me working and him on my lap or lying at my feet. We kept each other company, and apparently he liked that. I did too. I wasn’t needed on set until tomorrow, when I was to meet each of the contestants one-on-one for a few minutes. The team had apparently been shooting the interviews and the group out and about town. I continued the blog as usual, though naturally I wasn’t allowed to say anything about what was happening on the show or that I was even part of it. That was for the network to announce. But I wrote posts that I could shelve until I was able to post them and got a lot of client work accomplished, which was rewarding, if pretty lonely. The truth was, I was looking forward to dinner and some time out with people.
Felix was waiting for me downstairs and drove me to the restaurant.
“You should get dinner for yourself.” I passed a fifty over the seat. “I’m going to be a while, and you deserve something good.”
“I can’t take that…,” he protested, but I pressed it into his hand.
“Go have fun for a few hours, and I’ll call when I’m ready.” I thought he was going to refuse, but he took the cash with a smile. “We passed a few nice restaurants on the way. Have a good dinner.”
He nodded. “Thank you. I’ll get something to eat.”
“Good.” I opened the door and stepped out into the lighted night, heading into Ma Maison. The interior was classic Meyer: clean, with touches of warmth and just a sparkle of elegance. It really worked. The two contestants were at the bar having a drink, and I greeted them as I went through from the dining room to the kitchen.
“That smells wonderful,” I told Meyer and turned, refusing to curl my lip up at the bananas stacked near the dessert station. After those years as Meyer’s “friend,” I knew my way around a kitchen, especially one of his. “Is everything going to be ready?” It seemed to be a one-man show tonight since he apparently had closed for this event.
“Yes. I’m serving everything family style. I wanted to showcase the food rather than the detailed presentation.”
He could say what he wanted, but I knew the presentation would be as appealing as the food. It was part of what got Meyer to where he was.
“I think that will be nice. You are going to join us?” Steam went up from the stove, instantly sucked away by the hood.
“I’m going to need to prepare each course and….”
“Then tell me what you need.” I was already moving to the sink to wash my hands. “Where is your help?”
“Sick with the flu. His kid had it and now he has it, and I gave the rest of the staff the day off. It isn’t fair to pull them in when they have to work a full week coming up.” Meyer continued working without stop, and I came around to him. “Keep an eye on that sauce and don’t let it burn,” Meyer said, “and sauté those mushrooms.” He added ingredients to the pan, and I moved the mushrooms around the way he had shown me many times. “Perfect.” He checked the oven, where a beef loin was roasting, the scent wafting upward to wrap around my senses and stoke my hunger. This was going to be one hell of a meal, I could tell.
The back door of the restaurant opened and banged closed. “You should have called, boss,” a dark-haired bear of a man said in the deep voice of God. “Juan said he was sick, so I called Marie. She’ll be right in.” He peered over my shoulder.
“This is Luke. He’s a friend from back home. Luke, this is the executive chef here at Ma Maison, Randall Usher.”
“Is he on Cooking Masters too?”
“I’m an old friend of Meyer’s.” I would have shaken his hand, but Randall was already getting to work.
A woman, heavily tattooed and in her twenties, rushed in, heading to the dessert station. “We have this. Go be with your guests.” She was already checking over her area.
I turned my duties over to Randall and left the kitchen, with Meyer a minute behind me.
“Thanks for diving in. I was getting a little in the weeds,” Meyer told me as we exited the kitchen.
Rachel and Ethan were talking with the contest winners, and we joined them. “I can’t wait to see what you have for us,” she said as we approached.
The bartender had opened a bottle of sparkling wine, and he handed us each a glass. We toasted to a spectacularly successful season to come.
“And to an
amazing dinner,” I added, lifting my glass to Meyer. This—food and everything that went with it—was Meyer’s passion. I swear, if he didn’t have restaurants to work in and dishes to develop and make, he’d roll over and die. Being a chef was in his blood. It was who he was and how he identified himself.
“Hear, hear,” the others echoed.
Meyer motioned to the chairs. I held out Rachel’s seat, and she sat down. Then I took the chair next to hers. The bartender also acted as one of the servers, as did Randall and Marie. Meyer praised both of them in front of the group as plates were set on the table.
“A vegetable terrine, potatoes dauphinoise, and beef with chanterelles in a burgundy reduction, seasoned with garlic. Chicken in a light butter sauce with herbs and fennel. Great food doesn’t need to be fussy, and it doesn’t need to be so styled that you plate dishes with tweezers. Please enjoy.” Meyer sat back the food was placed.
I was about to take a slice of beef when Marie took my plate and set down a new one with a gorgeous piece of beef, an amazing sauce, and not a mushroom in sight. “Thank you.” I smiled up at her.
“Part of making good food and being a successful chef is knowing the people you’re cooking for.” Meyer gave me a wink, and I smiled right back, glad I had a napkin on my lap.
I took portions of the other dishes and slowly ate, relishing each bite. “This is heavenly, Meyer,” I told him, and we shared a look that set my heart beating faster. Sometimes I wish I could control the damned thing, because it seemed to get excited at the things it shouldn’t.
There was one thing I knew that the others in the room didn’t. Meyer showed love with food, and his thoughtfulness at making me a version of the dish central to the meal without the mushrooms was, in a way, him saying that I was important. I took a deep breath to relax myself. I could easily be making more out of the gesture than Meyer intended. In fact, that was probably likely. I told myself that Meyer was just being a good host and returned my attention to the dinner.