Where There's a Whisk

by Sarah J. Schmitt

  Even though I was the first to get my jacket, I’m the last to present my food. Thankfully, the prop crew has a way to keep the dishes warm. Not hot, but hopefully edible. Unfortunately, I’m following Lola, who has not only created this culinary masterpiece, but also charms the judges with her dream of elevating buffet food from the casino floor to high society by adding glamour, glitz, and style. Apparently, it also tastes as amazing as it looks, because I’m pretty sure I saw Billy’s eyes roll to the back of his head.

  I watch as the production crew carries in my beveled blue metal plates piled high with conch fritters and places a serving in front of each judge, next to a clear glass condiment container of citrus mustard. I can hear Angelica still raving about Lola’s presentation as I approach the judges’ table. When I picked these plates from the stacks, the blue beveled texture looked like the shimmery blue of the ocean, but under the lights of the judging area, they just look like old, banged up, blue plates. Compared with Lola’s glitz, they look like junk. Taking a deep breath, I start my presentation.

  “There’s a saying in Florida that the farther north you go, the more Southern you feel.” This gets a smile from Billy and A. J. Nothing from Angelica. She just stares between the plate and me, her lips turning down like she smells something rancid. And just like that, everything I plan to say dribbles out of my brain like early morning drool. “Um, this is what I like to call Florida Gulf cuisine.”

  What am I saying? I’ve never uttered those words in my life. I panic and look at Jessica, who gives me a smile and nods encouragingly. Angelica looks unimpressed as she picks up her fork and begins to poke at the fried ball. I feel like I’m drowning up here.

  Clearing my throat, I try to salvage my presentation. “For the appetizer, you have a deep-fried conch fritter with a citrus dipping sauce.” And that’s how I describe the dish that’s supposed to have happy memories for me. Deep fried and a sauce. I swallow and try to think of any clever comments. After a beat of uncomfortable silence, the judges realize that I am not going to say anything else, so they pick up the fritter and dip it into the sauce.

  It’s funny how, when you’re panicking, you notice the most random things. Like how Angelica picks up her fritter and daintily dips it in the sauce. A. J., on the other hand, picks up the largest chunk and dunks it. Then, as Angelica nibbles on her bite, Billy pops it into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. Both A. J. and Billy pick up a second fritter. Angelica doesn’t even finish her first, which gives her a chance to speak before anyone else.

  “My biggest issue was the grease. It overshadowed the sauce, which I found to be bland.”

  I nod, but in my head I’m yelling that she barely tasted the food. How would she know?

  A. J. looks sideways at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Mine were perfect. And this sauce. What did you put in it?”

  My mind goes totally blank before it starts screaming ORANGE, which is the only reason I say anything. “The base is orange marmalade and some creole seasoning and lemon. Oh, and mayo.”

  “I’m getting a hint of horseradish,” Billy says before taking another bite.

  “You’re right,” I answer, smiling at him like I didn’t mention it on purpose, like it was a test. “Just a pinch.” I can’t believe I forgot to mention the horseradish.

  A. J. wipes his mouth with a napkin. “It’s not the prettiest thing I’ve seen, but what fritter is? The taste, however, is the epitome of down-home Southern comfort.”

  “I agree,” Billy says. “It definitely captures life on the Gulf.” His comment triggers some distant trivia I know about him being born in Mississippi. “I’m looking forward to what you have in store for us next,” he says, wiping his face with his napkin.

  For the moment, I feel pretty good. Angelica pushes her plate away as if the mere viewing of the dish makes her sick, but I try to ignore her.

  “Next course,” she says. I expect her to snap her fingers so someone will come rushing over to clear the plates from her sight.

  “Right,” I say, before the production crew clears the remnants of my appetizer and replaces it with the entrée. “Keeping with the orange theme, this is asada fajitas with a citrus marinade, pico de gallo and homemade guacamole, and a side of Spanish rice.”

  “Is this a special dish for your family?” Angelica asks.

  “Not really,” I say with a shake of my head. “I was trying to bring a Florida flare to the dish by carrying the orange from the sauce into this course.”

  I watch helplessly as they eat each element of the meal, their eyes focused on the plate as they push the food around, inspecting it like a crime scene investigator, looking for any clue that something is wrong with it. Or maybe I watch too many reruns of crime shows.

  “The rice is a little undercooked,” Billy says as he spreads the food out on the plate with his fork. “And the steak is slightly overcooked. Have you ever used a sous vide?”

  I’m struggling to understand the words coming out of his mouth. Sous what?

  “Uh, no.”

  “Look into it. Your steak will cook perfectly next time, and it won’t flatten out like these strips have.”

  “I agree,” A. J. says. “The flavor is really tasty, though, and the orange really comes through.”

  “I felt the rice lacked flavor,” Angelica says, looking pleased that her fellow judges agree with her this time. “Did you make the tortillas from scratch?”

  I shake my head. “I ran out of time,” I admit.

  She smiles, but there is a hint of pity in it. When I was planning, I should have thought about what my audience would want to eat. But I was so worried I would run out of time, and then there was the pie.

  As if reading my mind, Angelica sits up a little straighter and says, “Because of the pie?” She smiles innocently.

  There’s no way the producers aren’t going to show the burned pie, because it’s now become a conversation point of the judging. Which means my sliced finger is going to be shown, too. Why did I have to label myself as the baker when we were introducing each other? What does it say about my skills when I cut my finger and burn my pie during the first challenge?

  I force a laugh and smile brightly, hoping anyone watching will think she and I are sharing a private joke. “That certainly didn’t help.”

  “Next time, make your tortillas from scratch—these taste commercial. And you really need to work on your time management if you ever hope to run a kitchen.” She doesn’t even look at me as she delivers her last critique. Instead she makes a note on the pad of paper by her plate and underlines it. Three times. “If everyone is done, please bring out the dessert.”

  Even though the first pie had been disastrous, I know the second one is perfect. I glance over my shoulder at Paulie, who gives me the thumbs-up. Of course he can be supportive. His meatballs with a Mediterranean flare were a hit, but I’ll take any encouragement I can get.

  I nod, respectfully, as production places the crisp, white plates down before beginning my final presentation. “The key lime pie is Florida. The zing from the limes and the cool, creamy texture is like the ocean breeze at night. This was the first pie my Grams taught me to make when I was a little girl.” I struggle to contain the tears that want to slip down my face. I could use a Grams pep talk right now.

  “This was the pie that made me fall in love with baking,” I add, folding my hands in front of me to let them know I am done. I suck in a quick breath and wait. My presentation started out rough, but I think I redeemed myself. At least I hope I did. Sure, no one is going home tonight, but in this group, you still don’t want to be the one to come in last.

  All three take a bite. And then a second. And a third, and so on, until each entire piece is devoured. Unlike A. J. and Billy, Angelica doesn’t lower herself to use her fork to smooch the crumbs down to get every last bite. But she does finish it. Satisfaction rises from the pit of desperation I’m in. She liked it. I mean, I’m not expecting great raves about the p
ie, but she can’t chow down like that and then say she didn’t like it.

  “This,” Billy says, “is sheer perfection.”

  A. J. goes even further. “The crust has the perfect level of crunch, but the filling is unbelievable. It tastes like you picked the limes off the tree today. But even more than that, when you talked about this pie, for the first time since you’ve stepped up to present, I felt like I actually got to know a little bit about you. And it shows in your cooking.”

  “Thank you, Chef,” I say, resisting the urge to use the edge of my sleeve to wipe away a tear that is threatening to slide down my face. I will not be that person who cries all the time.

  “It’s good,” Angelica says. Billy turns his head, giving her a look of confusion. Her lips are pursed together, and she doesn’t offer any other critique.

  Just as Jessica is about to speak, Angelica leans forward. “You were lucky to have the supplies ready after burning the first pie.”

  My face is aflame with embarrassment. Of course she would mention the pie again.

  “I think we were the lucky ones,” A. J. says, giving Angelica a side glance. “True, your entrée was a little shaky, but the fritter and this glorious specimen of a pie tell me there’s more than meets the eye with your cooking ability. You have a talent for bringing out each flavor and elevating simple dishes.”

  I resist the urge to drop to my knees in relief. I didn’t completely bomb out. Several other people had overcooked or undercooked food. And only Paulie’s cannoli got better comments in the dessert category, and that’s mainly because of Angelica. I might not win this round, but I think I should land somewhere in the middle of the pack.

  After presentation, we’re all corralled into a large room that is staged to look like a game room. There are two large bar top tables shoved together with eight chairs crowded around. Off to the side is a pool table with a selection of pool cues on the wall. Adam heads straight for the table as soon as we enter.

  “Anyone want to rack ’em?” he asks.

  “Sure,” Paulie says.

  After a moment, Lola joins them.

  “You’re going to play pool?” Inaaya asks.

  “Why not?” Lola asks. “It’s better than chewing on my nails around the table.”

  “Yeah,” Paulie says, rolling a cue stick back and forth across the table. “This is going to be the worst part,” he adds.

  “Worse than the elimination?” Adam asks.

  Paulie nods. “The waiting is always worse.”

  The rest of us settle in around the table. Hakulani sidles up next to me, and, as fate would have it, Dani sits directly across from me, while Inaaya and Malik sit together by the corner. Other than the sound of resin orbs smacking into each other and the occasional “Nice shot,” the room is silent.

  “I’ve been in more barbeque competitions than I can count,” Malik says, breaking the silence. “And I’ve always hated sitting around while people judge my cooking. But at least in those situations, you just find out if you won or not. No one makes you stand in front of them as they pick your stuff apart.”

  “Judging doesn’t have to be bad,” Dani pipes up. “My father is always constructive when it comes to my cooking. He just wants me to be the best.”

  I roll my eyes, too tired to hide it, which means that, unfortunately, Dani is looking right at me when I do. Her eyes narrow and she starts to say something.

  Inaaya saves me before Dani can say whatever is on her mind. “Did anyone else think Angelica was particularly brutal?”

  I send her a look of gratitude. I don’t have the energy to deal with Dani right now.

  “She said the bread of my curried asparagus and peppers bruschetta was soggy,” she continues. “Of course it was. They kept it under the warmer for thirty minutes. What did she expect?”

  “I loved how Billy told her to blink twice if her taste buds had been kidnapped by aliens when she said Adam’s stuffed habanero peppers didn’t have enough heat,” Hakulani says, laughing, and the whole table, including Dani, joins in.

  “What made it better was A. J. asking for a glass of milk and then guzzling it down,” Malik said.

  Lola slaps her knee and says, “The milk was sliding out of both corners of his mouth.”

  Before the laughter has a chance to die down, the door opens and a PA pokes in his head. “They’re ready.”

  The room is instantly quiet, and I suddenly think I’m going to be sick.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  AS WE WAIT FOR THE DISEMBODIED VOICE TO tell us to find our marks and line up, Jessica walks over to us. “Hey, guys,” she says. “I just wanted to let you know what’s going to happen next.”

  A wave of relief washes over me. “Thank you,” I say to no one in particular.

  Jessica just laughs, before continuing. “During an elimination round, I’ll announce the winner of the challenge, and then, in no particular order, I’ll let the contestants who are safe from elimination know and have them return to their stations until there are only two people remaining.”

  “Will it only be one person per elimination round?” Malik asks.

  She shakes her head. “I know there are one or two double eliminations, but I don’t know which ones. The producer makes that decision.”

  “Who is the producer?” I ask.

  “You should have all met her during your final casting interviews,” she says. “Her name is Caitlin Merriweather, and I’m sure if you haven’t seen her around, you will before the day is over.”

  I do remember Caitlin. She came down with a film crew a few weeks ago to get some footage for my introduction package. I was never able to get a good read on her, but she seemed pretty cool. She asked a lot of questions. Not just of me, but of everyone she met while she was in town.

  The disembodied voice tells everyone we’re going to start in one minute. Jessica gives us a thumbs-up and hurries to her place to wait. When the red light flips on, she smiles brightly into the lens. “Are you ready to find out whose food blew the judges’ minds and who needs to go back to the cutting board?”

  We all clap our hands, but no one cheers. I think we’re all too nervous.

  “You all did a great job!” she says, her eyes roving down the line. “I did a similar challenge during my competition, and I know how hard it is. You should all be proud of yourselves.” She pauses for a moment before continuing. “It’s time to announce the winner of today’s competition and those who, if this were an elimination round, would be safe and moving on to the next challenge.

  “Sadly, if you are the last chef remaining, you will have a five-minute penalty during tomorrow’s competition. But on the plus side, since this is not an elimination round, you’ll still have a chance of being named the Top Teen Chef.”

  I glance down the line at all the nervous faces and take in a slow, measured breath, hoping the mic doesn’t pick up how fast my heart is beating. Five minutes is a huge penalty. I sneak a glance at the pantry, which has miraculously been cleaned up after today’s pillaging. A late start could mean the difference between creating a killer dish that wins the challenge or being stuck with everyone else’s leftovers.

  Jessica’s smile flickers, and her eyes dart in the direction of the cameras, then back to all of us. “Relax,” she says, forcing her smile even brighter. “Remember, no one’s going home. This was a practice run.”

  Her words are completely lost on us—no one relaxes.

  “Okay,” she says, drawing out the word. “If you can’t do any of that, then breathe. We don’t need anyone passing out. It will guarantee you’ll get screen time, but you do not want the internet trolls to make you a meme.”

  That breaks the tension and everyone laughs.

  As the camera focuses on the judges, Jessica smiles at us one last time, pointing to the corner of her mouth to remind us to do the same. As the cameraman pans back toward her, Jessica beams at the television audience before continuing. My hands are folded in front of
me, and I pinch the fleshy part between my thumb and pointer finger as a reminder to make some sort of expression. I give what I hope is an excited smile, but my lips feel awkward and strained. I glance at Hakulani on my right and Lola on my left. They both look so relaxed and at ease. How do they do that?

  Suddenly, Lola takes my hand and holds on to it, squeezing it like she’s trying to cut off the circulation. Okay, so maybe I’m not the only one freaking out.

  “Breathe,” I think to myself and my lungs comply. At least I think I said it in my head, but I’m not sure because at that same moment Lola lets out a low, slow breath, too. We glance at each other and exchange strained smiles.

  One by one, in what feels like a glacial pace, Jessica lists off the top seven chefs, starting with the winner of today’s challenge.

  Paulie. No surprise. The judges love him.

  Lola.

  Dani. Of course.

  Hakulani.

  Inaaya.

  Malik.

  Adam.

  That leaves me.

  Despite my amazing key lime pie, I’m in last place.

  I feel the weight of everyone’s pity as they all turn and look at me, but I know, secretly, they’re heaving a sigh of relief that it’s not them. I can’t blame them, either, because even though I’m not leaving the show, I would give anything for it to have been someone else’s name that was called last.

  I take a deep breath, holding it for a second until Jessica says, “Peyton, I’m sorry, but you will have a five-minute delay during the first Landmark Challenge.”

  I let out the breath. I knew there was a penalty, but hearing it directed at me undercuts any confidence I had left after judging. I thought I had what it took to keep up with everyone here, but now I’m not so sure.

  Jessica is looking back at me, her eyes wide. Say something, she mouths.