Where There's a Whisk

by Sarah J. Schmitt

  But A. J. takes the question in stride. “It kinda is the gimmick. Much like how it was during Prohibition, this place is going to be the place so secret everyone knows it’s here. In this time of low-fat, no-carb diets, this is the new excess.”

  “You really think a place that specializes in desserts can be all that?” Inaaya asks, skeptical.

  A. J. pauses for a moment before answering. “That’s exactly what my investors asked me. I’ll tell you what I told them. Anyone with a halfway decent menu can open a restaurant. What keeps people coming back for more is the experience. I’m not just selling extravagant ice cream delights and pastries, but creating a memory that they’ll never forget. How many times have you heard someone say they really want dessert, but then they decide not to get one because they shouldn’t. Here, it’s expected that you’re going to have dessert. So much, in fact, that we start with it.”

  “And I’m sure a bunch of teen foodie celebrities tagging you in their social media feeds when you open wouldn’t hurt,” a voice says behind us. I spin around to see Caitlin leaning against a half-wall, watching us.

  A. J. laughs. “Only if they love the concept and the food.” His gaze drifts to the stairs and then back to her. “I thought the others were coming.”

  Caitlin’s smile falters. “Angelica had a headache.”

  A. J. raises an eyebrow, but he recovers quickly. “Another time, then.”

  An awkward silence falls over the group, so I blurt out, “What inspired you to build a menu all around desserts?”

  “Because I like sweets,” A. J. says with a grin. “So when I started looking for a building, I knew I wanted a location around the corner from a gym. This place just fell into my hands at the perfect time.”

  Everyone laughs.

  “Now, take a seat so I can wow you.”

  We all move toward the table and, somehow, Dani ends up sitting between Caitlin and A. J., allowing her plenty of time to suck up to a judge and the producer. I, on the other hand, am sitting between Hakulani and Paulie, with Malik and Inaaya across from us. Three waitresses arrive to answer any questions as we pore over the menu. I can’t believe how amazing everything sounds. I finally settle on a cheesecake milkshake topped with five different cookies, whipped cream, and a cronut.

  “I thought cronuts were out?” Inaaya asks, teasing.

  “Everything is new again when paired with cheesecake ice cream,” I say with a laugh.

  We don’t have to wait long for the waitresses to return, and they aren’t empty-handed.

  “Compliments of the owner,” a waitress says, putting a large platter on the table and giving A. J. a wink. “Baked Alaska with layers of chocolate cake and chocolate ice cream.”

  There are smatterings of excited exclamations as she passes plates family style around the table. Once everyone has a slice, we each get lost in the taste and texture of the delicate dessert. Several people dressed in black chef outfits take their place at the bar and begin putting together one sweet masterpiece after another until the air is so full of sugar you can taste it with each breath.

  Unable to stop myself, I place my cloth napkin on the table and lean forward to catch A. J.’s attention. “Can I watch them?” I ask.

  He nods enthusiastically. “That’s the whole point. We want everyone who comes here to have their own experience. Go ahead and check it out.”

  I’m surprised that I’m the only person to stand, while everyone else is caught up in their own conversations and the bliss of our first dessert, but that’s fine with me—more time for me to study what they’re doing. Slipping away, I make my way to the dessert bar and peer over the edge as the man behind the counter pours a creamy mixture on a cold slab.

  “Making ice cream?” I ask.

  The chef looks up. “Something like that.” As the mixture begins to crystalize, he takes two utensils and begins breaking up the sheet and smoothing it out again. He repeats the process over and over until he’s satisfied. Once the cream has hardened, he picks up a spatula and begins to roll the ice cream, dropping each log into a dish. When the cup is full, he looks up at me. “What toppings do you think I should use?” he asks, sliding a laminated sheet toward me. “Go wild.”

  There are so many choices, it’s hard to decide. “Okay, let’s start with coated candy bits.”

  “Pretty common first choice, but all right,” he says, a hint of a challenge in his voice.

  I look closer at the name tag on his shirt. “Okay, Rex,” I say, skipping over the more common add-ins. “How about donut sticks, cotton candy, a slice of red velvet cake, and, of course, if it’s not too plain for you, sprinkles.”

  He calls over his shoulder, “Skye, fire up the cotton candy machine.”

  A young woman, about the same age as me, comes through the door that leads to the kitchen and flips a switch. A whirring sound comes from a large bowl set into the bar.

  “Whipped cream and cherries?” Rex asks, beginning to pull my requested toppings from the cabinets below the bar.

  “Of course.”

  It doesn’t take him long to pull the entire thing together in a messy but eye-popping display of sugared bliss. I clap, shocked by how the ice cream, which was probably delicious enough to be the main attraction, has been perfectly crafted into the foundation of this decadent and calorie-laden creation. Rex hands the dish over to me with a flourish. “Enjoy.”

  I point over my shoulder at the table. “I ordered already, though.”

  He nods thoughtfully. “Then we’ll put it in the blast chiller and you can take it with you. For later.”

  “Seriously? That could be a midnight snack for all of us.”

  “Even better. Now, is there anything else I can get for you?”

  I bite my lip. “Is there any chance that I could go back there? Or maybe you could give me a few tips—show me some of your tricks?”

  He smiles, his blue eyes twinkling. “Absolutely.”

  I spend the rest of the evening mixing exotic ice cream flavors. Rex, who is the head chef for Prima il Dolce, shows me how to make the cutest mini cotton candy flowers. He even lets me try out the flash freeze disk, but after a few failed attempts, he gently takes the scraper back, and I realize just how much I still have to learn—just because I’m in this competition and he makes it all look easy doesn’t mean that it is. Skye shows me several different plating styles and designs before handing me a piping bag to practice.

  It doesn’t take long for the others to notice that I’m behind the bar, and they all wander over. When they begin to ask questions, Rex grabs a stack of plates, then has Skye prep some more bags, and the evening becomes a crash course in basic dessert plating. By the time I walk through the diner with my entire dinner—and my special creation—wrapped up for the trip back to the apartment, I have perfected several different smears and basic plating techniques, plus I can squeeze out a continuous spiral of jam with my eyes closed. (Okay, not really, but I’m working on it.) As I think about how I can use the things I’ve learned tonight in the competition, I smile because I actually had a good time, and I managed to avoid talking to Caitlin or Dani the whole time.

  Honestly, the night turned out better than I could have ever predicted.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE NEXT DAY, I SOMEHOW MANAGE TO MISS MY alarm and oversleep. Even with Inaaya’s help, I barely make it to the bus on time. The PAs give me dirty looks as I slouch in my seat and pick at the muffin I grabbed on my way out. I’m so frazzled about being late and trying to mentally prepare myself for today’s challenge that it isn’t until I’m through hair and makeup and heading over to the set that I notice the energy is different from the last elimination challenge. Unlike last time, now everyone knows what to expect, and it is like we’ve all made some kind of peace with knowing that if you don’t put your best dish forward, you could be the one packing your bags at the end of the day.

  I pause as I walk onto the set, trying to get my bearings, beca
use the set looks different today—the walk-in has exploded to three times its original size, and it now looks like a small-town grocery store. I look at Malik and Lola, who are just as in the dark as I am, when the disembodied voice says, “We’ll get started in about ten minutes. Feel free to familiarize yourself with your new stations.”

  As I take my place, I notice that it’s much more compact than it had been last time. I pull open the top drawer, and where my sleek vegetable peeler once was is some vintage piece of metal that looks like it could cut off more than the tip of my finger. I glance at the kitchen gadget shelf on the other side of the set where they keep the food processor, electric pressure cookers, and air fryers, and everything is gone. Except the ice cream maker, but it has been replaced with a hand-operated version.

  “What the actual hell,” Lola says from the front row, standing up from behind her oven. “Check out how small it is.”

  “You’re right,” Dani says. “This is ridiculous.”

  “I’ve seen smaller,” Hakulani says, and everyone laughs.

  I tug open the drawer that normally has all of my mixer attachments, but it’s empty. In fact, most of my drawers are bare. I look up at Paulie. “What is this? Some form of torture?”

  He shrugs and then the disembodied voice is back, telling us to take our marks. We move, silently, waiting for Jessica to tell us what is in store for us, because I have a feeling, in this round, anyone could end up going home.

  Jessica walks to her mark and beams at us as the crew gets ready to start filming. I can feel the anticipation building on set—especially when one of the PAs starts maneuvering a giant dartboard to the edge of the set, ready to be wheeled on at a moment’s notice.

  “Welcome to Top Teen Chef’s ‘Flashback Grocery Challenge.’”

  We all exchange looks of confusion.

  “As you learned on your tour yesterday, Ellis Island closed to immigrants in 1954. So today we are going back in time—to that same year—to create your dinner for four.” Jessica waits for the camera to catch our reactions. “Everything, from the size of your kitchen to the prices of the items on the shelf, is now retro.”

  “That explains the ovens,” I hear Lola whisper to Malik.

  He nods, his eyes never leaving Jessica.

  “In today’s elimination challenge, you will have just six dollars to plan a dinner for your family of four…”

  She pulls out a poster, displaying it for all to see. “And that meets the nutritional guidelines of the US Department of Agriculture.”

  I look closely at the vintage print before I point out, “Wait, there are seven food groups.”

  “Yeah,” Malik says with a grin. “And butter had its own wedge of the pie.”

  “I can get behind that,” I say.

  He laughs and reaches over to give me a fist bump.

  Jessica waits for us to settle down. “Each of you has a copy of the guidelines at your station, along with a cookbook from the 1950s—for inspiration.”

  She motions to the dartboard. “The twist for today’s challenge is a simple game of darts. You each will have one throw and whatever wedge your dart lands on will dictate the parameter of your purchases.”

  I look at the wedges. Some aren’t too bad, like “No Fresh Produce” or “Ten Items or Less,” but some are rough, like “No Fresh Meat” or “Lose Two Dollars.” My mind is racing as I try to figure out the best way to handle this challenge, but I can’t help but worry about how I’m supposed to make a meal for four with six dollars that also meets the guidelines. Making a family meal on a tight budget is one thing, but I have no idea how much food cost in the fifties.

  “If you miss the dartboard altogether,” Jessica continues, “you will lose thirty seconds of shopping time and two dollars from your budget. For this challenge you’ll have two hours to complete your planning and preparation.”

  Another pause.

  I wonder if she falls into this habit when she is at home. Like, she is talking to her husband, like, “Hey, dear.” (Pauses for a reaction.) “Would you like steak for dinner? Or…” (Long pause as she waits for the camera to pan.) “Chicken?”

  The thought almost makes me laugh, but then the sudden movement of everyone rushing to line up at the dartboard snaps me out of it. Once we’re lined up in front of the board, Jessica hands each of us our dart. Hakulani is the first to step up to the line and throw.

  His dart lands on “No Fresh Meat.” He tries to look a little disappointed (but I’ve seen what he can do with canned meat), but then he grins and says, “Spam is my jam.”

  I laugh with everyone else, glad to have his sense of humor to keep us from getting too serious and tense in front of the cameras.

  I step up next, trying to aim for what I think will be the least devastating wedges. However, my dart has a mind of its own and lands squarely in “Frozen Food Only,” and I groan. Not using fresh meat is one thing, but being forced to use frozen anything means I’ll have to thaw it before I can start preparing it, which is going to cost me time. And time is one thing I can’t afford to lose.

  One by one, everyone steps forward to take their turn and almost everyone hits the target. Inaaya’s dart hits the wedge labeled “Lose Two Dollars,” but it bounces off, so her penalty is to lose the two dollars and thirty seconds of grocery shopping time, and suddenly my frozen food sentence doesn’t seem too bad. I look up at Jessica, who is giving us the smile that I’ve come to recognize means there is another twist that is about to mess everything up.

  “Lola,” she says, and Lola snaps to attention. “Since you were victorious in the French fusion challenge, you’ve won a surprise advantage.”

  Lola gives a big smile as Jessica reveals another dart.

  “You may use this dart for yourself, possibly gaining some additional ingredients beyond the middle aisle, or use it as a sabotage for one of your opponents to limit their options even more.”

  The middle aisle is basically all your packaged and canned goods. There’s a lot of stuff there, but it lacks anything fresh. When I was younger, we shopped a lot from the middle aisles. If I were her, I’d take the chance to throw another dart since she doesn’t have much to lose and she might even add to her ingredients. Then I catch Dani nudging Lola and giving her a pointed look before glancing in my direction. This cannot be happening to me.

  For a second, Lola holds on to her dart, and I think I’m going to be safe, but then I can tell by the way her expression changes that I’m completely screwed. With a slight sigh, Lola looks at Jessica and says, “I’d like to give this to Peyton.”

  I clench my teeth and force myself to smile as the cameras pan to catch my reaction. I really hate Dani; but if I’m being honest, Lola is on my list right now, too. I take the dart with as much grace as I can muster and step up to the line. I aim for “Dairy Only,” thinking that I could maybe make something work. However, my throw goes wildly off the mark and ends up on the “Bottom Two Shelves” wedge. The bottom shelves have a lot of generic foods and bigger, bulkier items that are going to take up some of my money, but it gets me out of the dilemma of only using frozen food. I look back at Jessica and I feel all my confidence drain from my body. Damn, there’s that smile again.

  “Combined with your earlier throw, Peyton,” Jessica says, “you will only be able to use the bottom two shelves.”

  Pause.

  Pause.

  This is going to be so bad.

  Pause.

  “Of the freezer section.”

  I hear someone gasp behind me. I don’t even know what’s on the bottom of the frozen section, because in order to see that, I would have to crawl on the floor. This is a disaster, and Dani knows it. She smiles at me, her smug face begging for me to rearrange it. Paulie must know what I’m thinking because he puts his arm on my shoulder as if he is trying to cheer me up, but then leans in close, his mouth barely moving.

  “Don’t give the cameras anything to use against you,” he warns me. “They can edit you l
ike crazy, and the next thing you know, Dani’s their new girl next door and you’re the mean girl out to get her.”

  “He’s right,” Hakulani whispers. “Don’t let her get to you like that.”

  It’s easy for them to say, I think, as we all walk back to our stations. I pick up the orange cookbook that’s sitting on my station. A young mother with a crisp white apron smiles up at me, a cherubic baby reaching up for her from its highchair. Through the window, two more children play catch under a bright sun. I’d like to throw the book in Lola and Dani’s general direction. If it should happen to smack one or both of them in the face, well, maybe they should have been paying better attention. Instead, I flip the cover open and start looking for ideas. I raise my hand to get Jessica’s attention.

  “Can we use some of our prep time to look at the items that are available?” I ask when she comes over.

  Jessica turns around to look at the spot where I assume the disembodied voice comes from.

  “That’s fine,” the voice says.

  A few of us take advantage of this option immediately, while the others continue to flip through the cookbook. In the pantry, I bend down to examine the bottom of the freezer section and am happy to see that I can use chicken. It’s on the bone, but I can make it work. Farther down, I find fatty bacon and lots of vegetables. When I see the ice cream and frozen fruit, dessert becomes a no-brainer. I stand up and start ironing out my dessert recipe. I’m going to take store-bought ice cream and dress it up with rhubarb compote. I remember Grams used to say how much Grandpa loved rhubarb-strawberry pie, but I never quite got on board with that combination.

  Back at my station, I begin to flip through the cookbook. I only have about five minutes left to figure out my main course when I see the recipe for duck à l’orange. I read through the ingredients and I realize that there are some spices I will need that apparently weren’t in the frozen section back in the 1950s, but they are common ones and I might be able to work out some way to find substitutions. I know there is no duck in my section of the freezer, but I can use the chicken and some frozen orange concentrate, salt and pepper, and a packet of soy sauce from a frozen Chinese vegetable package and I think I can pull off chicken à l’orange. I flip to the sides section of the cookbook, the pages falling open to something called succotash. Lima beans? Seriously? Oh, but there’s bacon and the rest of the ingredients are also available to me—in one form or another. I just hope I can stay within my six-dollar budget.