“Most of the time, legal issues; but sometimes it was their health.”
“And if they went to the hospital?”
“Fortunately, those who were sent there,” he said, pointing at the hospital, “had a good chance of survival. This hospital was actually ahead of its time, and the staff took great care to keep things clean and sterile. The tuberculosis patients had access to fresh air and sunlight, which, at the time, was thought to help them recover.”
“Interesting,” I say with a thoughtful nod. “Thank you so much.”
“I can answer any other questions you might have, too,” he says.
I laugh, waving my hands in front of me. “I’m good. I mean, it’s interesting, but I really need to start thinking about my next challenge.”
“That makes sense,” he says, stepping back. “Good luck.”
“Thank you. And thanks again for the history lesson.”
“Hope it helps,” he says, before turning to walk away.
When I get back to Production City, the only other contestant around is Lola, who is sitting at one of the tables, writing something. I grab a boxed lunch and head over to her.
“Hey,” I say. “You’re done exploring, too?”
Lola quickly rips the paper off the pad she’s writing on and shoves it into her pocket. “Brainstorming.”
“Same,” I say, taking my lunch and moving to the other end of the table. “Is the food good?”
“As far as boxed lunches go, it’s not bad.” She leans back in her chair and watches me start to unpack mine. “How did you like the island? I saw you talking to a ranger over there. He was cute.”
“Who? Ranger Jacob?” I focus on the sandwich in front of me. “I guess. He really knew his stuff.”
Lola gives me a playful look. “I bet.”
“One thing I forgot to ask him was: If Ellis Island was the main port for European immigrants, where were the other main hubs for immigration at the time?”
“Well, I don’t know about ‘main hubs,’ but my family came from Cuba through Miami in the early 1960s,” Lola says quietly. She runs her finger over a scratch in the table as she continues, not looking up at me. “But there wasn’t a grand statue to greet them. And instead of fancy ships, they came on rafts. My best friend back home, her family came from Mexico through El Paso. They took trains until the tracks were blown up by the revolutionaries; then they walked.”
“No big statues?”
“Not a one.”
Around us we could hear the bustle of the crews getting everything set up for the challenge and the cry of seagulls overhead. I bite into my sandwich and think about what Lola said.
“Everyone makes such a big deal about the Statue of Liberty,” I finally say.
“Yeah,” Lola says before turning her attention back to her pad of paper. “It’s a gigantic symbol, but it’s only part of the story.”
Her comment hangs in the air between us as the energy in the tent starts to rev up. Back from their exploration, everyone comes in talking and buzzing with anticipation for the upcoming challenge. I finish lunch just before the PAs arrive to hustle us to where we’ll officially find out about our challenge so the crew can film Jessica’s reveal and our reactions. As a few assistants touch up my makeup and there are calls for everyone to find their marks, I chastise myself because I still don’t have any idea what I’m going to make. This is starting to become a habit.Angelica is right, I really need to manage my time better if I want to have any chance of staying on the show.
Jessica waits for us to give her our attention before she begins her introduction. “The Statue of Liberty was a gift from the people of France, celebrating the one hundredth anniversary of the American Revolution,” Jessica says. “Without France’s help, it’s hard to say what the US would look like today. It’s also important to remember the contributions of the countless immigrants who came to these shores looking for a better life. Take what you have learned during your sightseeing and let it be the inspiration for your dish today.”
She pauses for the camera to pan over us. When it’s clear they still aren’t going to do more than a quick pan in our direction, she continues. “You’ll have thirty minutes to plan and three hours to prepare a French fusion dish that will wow the judges.”
“She should be giving out a lifetime achievement award instead of hosting our show,” I whisper to Hakulani, and I watch as he bites down on his lip as he chokes back a laugh.
I turn my attention back to Jessica as she lays out the details for the challenge. During the last Landmark Challenge, I was just winging it because of my penalty. With only thirty minutes to see what’s available and then plan out a meal when everyone else is trying to do the same, the hardest part about this challenge isn’t going to be cooking, it’s going to be staying organized and making sure that I don’t forget anything.
“Once your thirty minutes are up, you’ll turn in your list of ingredients and your order will be filled and delivered to your station. Keep an eye on your time because as soon as those thirty minutes are done, your cooking time will automatically start. Make sure you ask for exactly what you want and no more, because not only will the judges be looking at whether or not your dish fits the French fusion theme, they will also decide how efficiently you used your ingredients. So wasted food is a big no-no.”
I start to bounce on the balls of my feet but stop myself. I wish Jessica would hurry up and tell us who the judges are so we can get started.
I’d be lying if I said we didn’t waste a lot of food during our challenges, so this is going to really test our planning ability on top of our creativity. If I’m going to have a shot at the advantage, I need to nail this challenge.
Jessica finally breaks the pause, motioning for people to stand next to her. Before our eyes, ten members of the National Park Service take their places next to Jessica. Including Ranger Jacob. “Great,” I say under my breath. I hope Dani didn’t see me talking to him. I can only imagine the conspiracy theories she could come up with if she knew. I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I barely register Jessica telling us to begin, so I shake my head, reminding myself why I’m here. Taking a deep breath, I focus on the task at hand.
Fusion cuisine can be a lot of fun to play with, and I have tasted out-of-this-world combinations in the past. But mashing tastes and textures that you wouldn’t normally think pair well together can also be a complete disaster. Luckily, I’ve checked out and read Julia Child’s French cookbook from the local library multiple times. After looking over the list of available items, I settle on coq au vin enchiladas paired with chorizo fondue with crusty French bread. I really hope the judges are in a cheese mood. Thank goodness I don’t have to bake the bread from scratch, but making red wine–braised chicken normally takes all day, and I have only three hours. I scan the special request appliance list and am relieved to see an electric pressure cooker on it. The ingredients are fairly simple. Thick-cut bacon, mushrooms, onions, and, instead of the traditional sauce, I decide to make mole.
I must not be the only one who realizes that this challenge is going to be harder than it seems, because Hakulani has his game face on and Paulie looks like he is trying to concentrate. Which is a blessing because it’s much easier to think when they aren’t joking around and trying to one-up each other all the time. Once my ingredients are delivered, I get to work prepping and sautéing everything on the stove with a bit of red cooking wine before piling it all in the cooker along with a few chicken thighs. Setting the timer for forty-five minutes should give me enough time to make the mole sauce, prep my other ingredients, cook the chorizo, and set up my fondue, before I have to start focusing on building the enchiladas.
“That smells amazing,” Jessica says, peeking over my station as I put the lid on the chicken. “Is that coq au vin?” she asks in surprise. “In three hours?”
“More like one hour, actually,” I say. “But yeah.”
“I’m impressed,” she says. “But that’s
a traditional French dish. Where’s the fusion?”
“I’m pairing it with a mole sauce and making enchiladas. Then, as a side or appetizer, a little fondue with chorizo.”
“My mouth is watering already,” she says. “Good luck but watch your time.”
I nod to her, and then rush to go grab my plates before all the good ones are taken.
In the end, smelling good wasn’t enough to win. The top spot went to Lola again and her shrimp and chive tortellini with beurre blanc. But the good news is that I came in third and not last, because that, unfortunately, went to Paulie. As we all head off the set, I swipe the sweat from my forehead and remind myself that in Top Teen Chef, one day you can be on top, and the next, you’re looking up from the bottom.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
BECAUSE WE GOT STARTED SO EARLY FOR THE Landmark Challenge, we’re back at the apartment by late afternoon.
“Great news,” Jessica says as the bus pulls up to the apartment. “A. J. has invited all of you to come to his new restaurant this evening. It’s not open to the public yet, so this is a really cool opportunity for all of you.”
“That’s awesome,” Malik says. “Will he be there?”
“I think all the judges will be there,” she says. “And Caitlin mentioned she might stop by, too.”
The excitement in my gut twists and turns until it reshapes into raw anxiety. Having Caitlin on the set is to be expected. Having her just stop by? That didn’t go so well last time, so I’m really not looking forward to this.
As we stand to leave the bus, Jessica calls after us. “Make sure to be ready at six o’clock. You don’t want to be late for a sneak peek at one of New York’s soon-to-be-hot dining spots.”
“A night on the town,” Dani says. “Finally. It’s been real fun being stuck here with you guys, but I need a break.”
“We all need a break,” I say, meaning for my voice to be quieter than it is.
Dani laughs, and it’s one of those laughs someone has when they really don’t think something is funny, but they’re gearing up to say something mean.
“I would suggest you order from the dessert menu so you could learn what real pastry arts are, but then again, the camera does add ten pounds.”
“That’s it,” I say, standing up to show her just what I can do with my pounds, but Paulie steps in front of me and ushers me out of the room.
“You are going to have to calm down,” he says, leading me away.
“Me?” I say, but it’s more like a shout. “Did you hear what she said to me?”
“I heard, but if you haul off and deck her, you’re gone. It’s in the contract.”
“Oh, but she can say whatever she wants, and I just have to sit there and take it?”
He shrugs. “I mean, you could say something back, but that doesn’t seem to be your style.”
I rub my hand over my eyes and let out an aggravated breath. “I just really hope I’m around on the day she gets sent home.”
“That’s right. Keep your eye on the prize,” he says. “And don’t forget that she is just trying to drag you into the mud and make you the troublemaker. Don’t let her get to you, okay?” As he reaches to put his hand on my shoulder, I swear I feel his fingers brush my cheek. He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze and says, “I’m going to get ready for dinner, and I’ll make sure that Dani can’t sit anywhere near you. Deal?”
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “You’re right.”
I start to say thank you, but he’s already down the hall.
“What was that about?” Inaaya asks, her eyes twinkling.
I shoot her a look but don’t say anything as we walk into our room.
“Peyton, you have two guys trying to win your affection, and you don’t even see it.”
“That’s because I’m trying to win a scholarship, not a boyfriend. Everything else is a distraction.”
“Maybe,” she says, twirling her hair around her finger. “But they’re cute distractions.”
I drop my head back and laugh. “They are—but cute distractions are the worst.”
“On this we agree. Oh, I looked in the closet. Wardrobe sent over clothes for tonight.”
“It’s almost worth putting up with Dani’s big mouth just for the clothes,” I say. “Almost.”
“What are you wearing?”
Inaaya walks over to her closet and pulls out a ruby red off-the-shoulder blouse with a pair of white pants and a jean jacket.
“It will look amazing on you, but I have to be honest. I’m going to have to resist the urge to salute you.”
“I know, right?” she says, laughing as she puts the clothes down. “What about you?”
I tug on the zipper of the garment bag and find a white silky tank top with thin straps and a pair of ripped blue jeans. Digging a little deeper I find a lightweight, sheer, floral duster. I hold everything up for Inaaya to see.
“Cute,” she says.
“It’s not bad,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, but I can’t help but grin. I’m going to a fancy restaurant in an outfit that is going to make me feel like a model. “I better get ready.”
Less than two hours later, I join everyone else at the elevator to head downstairs to the waiting bus. Twenty minutes later, the bus rolls to a stop in front of a bustling diner in the heart of the Theater District. The worn letters on the window spell out MELLY’S DINER. As we walk through the door, we’re instantly transported back to the 1950s. There’s a jukebox that plays actual vinyl records, and the polished waiters and waitresses bop between tables.
“How do they stay so clean?” I wonder aloud. All of the waitresses are wearing white sweater sets, while the men have on long-sleeved, crisp white shirts. There’s not a stain among them.
“More important, how have they not all dropped from heat exhaustion?” Inaaya asks, fanning her face with her hand.
There are so many people crammed in the restaurant, either sitting in a red leather booth or waiting for a seat, that we have to elbow our way to the host stand.
Paulie, who’s ahead of me, pulls up short as a tall, blond woman with cat-eye glasses makes her way through the throng of tables. “I thought this place wasn’t open to the public.”
“Are we at the right place?” I ask, looking around for A. J. “I feel very overdressed.”
The woman with the cat-eye glasses comes back, stopping for a second. “Are you all lost?” she asks.
“Um, maybe,” I say. “We were supposed to have dinner here tonight, but I think we have the wrong address.”
She looks over my shoulder and her eyes light with recognition. “Are you the kids from that show?” she asks.
I noticed several people around us craning their necks to look at us, and I realize the camera crew is behind us. I wonder what this pageantry must look like to everyone else. It’s not like I’m completely used to it or anything, but here we are, a bunch of kids being followed by a full camera crew.
“Yeah,” Hakulani says as he steps forward. “From Food TV.”
“This way,” she says, motioning us to follow her.
I look over my shoulder at Malik, who just shakes his head and motions for me to follow Hakulani and Paulie. The waitress leads us through the restaurant and up a narrow flight of stairs.
Though the upstairs space keeps with the fifties theme, instead of neon signs and over-the-top red, white, and black decor, we find ourselves standing in a swanky nightclub with crushed red velvet benches and round tables better for having intimate conversation than feeding a group of hungry teenagers. In the back is the most peculiar bar I have ever seen. Half of it is covered in metal, and instead of bottles of alcohol lining the mirrored shelves, there are tall jars of candy sprinkles in every color. In the center of the room, several benches have been pushed around a couple of tables covered in light-gray cloth.
“What’s up with the bar?” Lola asks, leaning over the bar top to get a better look.
“That�
�s not a bar,” a voice booms from the back of the restaurant. “That’s the world’s most intense dessert experience. It’s got a state-of-the-art dry-ice infusion tank, an anti-griddle to create delicate garnishes right before your eyes, and a temperature-controlled granite counter to temper chocolates and mix in anything you can think of into our ice cream concoctions.”
“It’s amazing,” I say. If this dessert bar were human, I would marry it right here and now.
“Thanks, Peyton,” A. J. says. “It’s my pride and joy. And tonight, this place is yours for the evening. You are the first guests at Prima il Dolce.”
“Prima il Dolce?” Inaaya repeats. “I might be wrong, as my Italian is a little rusty, but doesn’t that mean—” she pauses “—dessert first?”
A. J. smiles. “There’s nothing rusty about your Italian.”
“What did this place used to be?” Dani asks, running her hand over the gold tone railing on the bar.
“People say it used to be everything from a speakeasy to a front for the mob’s money-laundering operations.”
“And you’re hoping to bring it back to its glory days?” Lola says. “I can respect that.”
“Not the mob part, I hope,” Paulie says, and A. J. looks at us like he forgot we were there.
His face lights up as he laughs. “No, not those days. I’m talking old-school Broadway.”
“Broadway?” Lola asks, tilting her head.
“This is a Broadway institution,” A. J. insists. “More than a few Hollywood types have signed NYC’s finest thespians in this very room. And now it’s a dessert bar.”
I smile brightly. The mere fact that it exists means heaven can exist on Earth. “So, rather than appetizers, your patrons get dessert and then their entrée?”
“That’s the idea,” A. J. says brightly. “Assuming they would want an entrée.”
“Why don’t you advertise it out front?” Malik asks. “Someone walking by would never know this was here.” He pauses. “Unless that’s your gimmick.”
I cringe slightly, hoping he hasn’t offended A. J. by talking about his place like it’s some sort of pop-up novelty show.
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