Where There's a Whisk

by Sarah J. Schmitt

  “I like it.”

  “Here’s the plan,” I say, grabbing a pad of paper and pencil. Paulie watches over my shoulder.

  After watching me for a few moments, Paulie says, “Peyton, I like your style.”

  I give him a smile, take a deep breath, then divide the list of supplies in two, before we race off to get our ingredients. After we return to our station, we are a whirlwind of chopping, straining, and stirring, occasionally bumping into each other as we complete each task. And every time, I blush before ducking my head and pretending to look for a mixing bowl or focusing intently on what I’m doing until my face cools off.

  “You know the cameras are catching everything, right?” Malik whispers when we almost collide at the ice cream maker.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, okay,” he says, mocking me.

  “What are you making?” I ask, watching his purple concoction slowly fall out of the machine into the waiting bowl.

  “Ube ice cream,” he says, grabbing a spoon from a nearby cutlery caddy. “Try it.”

  “That is not only a gorgeous color, but the taste is mind-blowing,” I say, trying to snag another bite, but Malik shoos me away. “Will you please teach me how to make it someday?”

  “Maybe,” he says. “If you stick around after I win.”

  “So, when you said we could take Dani, what you really meant was you were coming for both of us.”

  He grins. “Kinda surprised I had to spell it out for you.”

  “Nice,” I say, pretending to glare at him.

  “Good luck, Peyton,” Malik says, before grabbing his bowl of ube ice cream and rushing to the blast chiller.

  “Back at ya!”

  When I get to my station, Paulie has several pots simmering. I breathe in. “I know I’m jinxing myself, but this all smells amazing.”

  “Well, the genius is in your menu.”

  “So win or lose…”

  “It’s all your fault.”

  “For the record, not the kind of support I need right now.”

  “Mental note made.”

  By the time Jessica announces there are five minutes left, Paulie and I are so in sync we don’t even speak as we prepare the plates.

  “This is great,” he says.

  “Let’s just hope it’s enough.”

  “Time,” Jessica calls on cue as all six of us stand back, our hands in the air. Then a wave of relief washes through all of us, and we all laugh and let out huge sighs, swiping sweat—and maybe a tear or two—from our faces. Then the rest of the cast comes over, and for a brief minute we are together as a group, celebrating the end. No matter what, we’ve all cooked our asses off.

  “Peyton,” Jessica says once we all settle down and the rest of the cast has returned to their seats. “Would you please step forward and present your meal?”

  I glance at Paulie and smile. Here goes nothing.

  “You got this,” he says, giving me a thumbs-up.

  Stepping forward, I begin. “Being on this show has changed me in ways I could never have imagined. I have been challenged on so many levels. And when I think about the past few weeks, I know the one thing that will shine the brightest is the friendships that have come out of this experience. So, when selecting the menu for today, I wanted to celebrate that friendship by planning a dinner party.

  “For the soup course, inspired by my friend Adam, who almost has me convinced that I could survive without meat, I present a cold melon and basil soup.” After what Caitlin did to him, I figure the more that people say his name, the less likely it is that she can edit him out of the show completely. I look to Adam, who gives me a tiny golf clap and a big grin.

  “Next we have a Tex-Mex shrimp wonton appetizer for my friend Lola, and the salad course is a chickpea salad, which is inspired by Inaaya, the best roommate ever.”

  I give the judges time to taste the first three courses and make their notes. There are no comments or bantering this time, just quiet chewing and the beating of my heart thundering in my ears. When Angelica motions for her plate to be taken, I introduce the main course.

  “For the entrée, I have prepared a grilled flatiron steak topped with a mango and herb salsa, with a side of rosemary and thyme potatoes. This dish is inspired by Hakulani and Paulie, who, while very different, complement each other so well. And, of course, you can’t eat all this food without some good old-fashioned sweet tea.”

  “That’s me,” Malik says, and the entire set erupts in laughter, myself included.

  Unlike previous rounds, none of the judges ask any questions, and so I stand there while they eat. A. J. occasionally raises his eyes and nods his head, but as for the rest, they’re playing things pretty close to the vest. I glance over my shoulder at Paulie, who is watching Angelica particularly closely. Finally, it is time for the final dish.

  “For dessert, you have a chocolate cupcake with passion fruit cream filling. This is for Dani, who is also more complex than meets the eye.”

  The judges eat every bite of the little cake, even Angelica. Then they write a few notes, glance at each other, and begin their feedback.

  “Peyton Sinclaire,” A. J. says. “I wanted to say your full name because around the kitchen, we don’t really use last names, but your name is one that people need to remember. I’ve been in the food business my entire adult life, and never before have I met such a talented pastry chef who is constantly ready to learn something new.” He turns to the other judges. “I had the cast over to my new place last week, and Peyton spent the entire time with my head pastry creator, and he couldn’t stop talking about her willingness to listen and take direction. He never talks about anyone I hire like that.” A. J. turns back to me. “When you’re ready, stop by and see me. When Rex sees someone with untapped potential, I’m smart enough to listen to him.”

  “Thank you, chef,” I say, absolutely astonished. Did A. J. just offer me a job at Prima il Dolce? I glance over at the cast members sitting along the side of the set, and they’re cheering silently for me. I try to catch my breath and stop the tears of joy as I listen to Billy’s critique.

  “When you first stepped foot in the kitchen, I wasn’t sure what to make of you. You were timid and unsure with your dishes, and you were woefully undertrained. But like A. J. says, you take the notes we give you, and every week you’ve made progress. I think you have a bright future ahead of you, and I’m looking forward to see where you land.”

  Can too much praise make you pass out? Because I think I’m going to.

  Of course, Angelica is the last to speak, and I brace myself for what, I’m sure, are going to be very brusque comments. “Peyton, I don’t know what to say. I have watched you struggle to find your place in this competition, and I could list every flaw I’ve found with your cooking from day one…”

  My heart sinks, and suddenly I feel like I’m going to pass out, but this time from shame.

  “But tonight,” she says, shaking her head, “this meal is perfection. We asked you to find your passion and infuse it into your cooking and that is exactly what you did today.”

  Did I hear that right? Is Angelica actually giving me a compliment? I can’t hold back the waterworks, and I have to look away to wipe a tear from my eye. To my surprise, Angelica rises from her seat and comes down from the judges’ table to give me a hug. It’s so out of character that I’m concerned she might have been taken over by body snatchers.

  “You have truly found who you are as a chef, and that is a gift,” she says in my ear. “Don’t squander it. Find a place where your passion is valued. It will be worth it.”

  I nod my head as she pulls away. In my wildest dreams, I never could have imagined that this moment could happen.

  Standing next to Paulie, I feel his hand on the small of my back as he leans in and whispers, “You crushed it.”

  I don’t say anything because I barely trust myself to speak.

  Malik and Dani present their dishes,
and then it’s time for the judges to debate the winner. However, this time, instead of us leaving, they are the ones to exit the set.

  The disembodied voice calls, “Cut,” and Inaaya is beside me in an instant, pulling me into a hug.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” I say, half laughing, half crying.

  “It’s been less than a week.”

  I pull back from her and stare at her meaningfully. “I have so much to tell you.”

  One eyebrow arches up. “Oh, really?”

  I smile and tell her, “Yeah, but later.”

  “You better,” she says.

  The rest of the cast comes out, offering congratulations and just generally basking in the reunion. And for the first time since we got here, everyone is getting along. The die has been cast, and we’ve all been a part of something bigger than ourselves, and it’s kind of awesome.

  We continue to mingle until the judges return. Then, in an instant, the set goes quiet and everyone returns to their marks without being told.

  “The judges have made their decision,” Jessica says. “Dani, please step forward.”

  Dani does as she’s asked, with her head held high. She could have taken the easy way out. She could have done what Caitlin asked her to do, and there would have been nothing any of us could have done to stop her. But she was better than that, and I hope, when the show is over, we can start a real friendship.

  “Dani, I’m sorry, but the judges have not selected you as the next Top Teen Chef.”

  Dani nods her head. “Thank you for the opportunity,” she says, before walking over to where the rest of the cast is waiting for her, arms open to welcome her.

  I reach down and grab Malik’s hand. Final two. Just like he predicted.

  I look up at Malik. “Who would have thought?” I say quietly.

  “Malik and Peyton,” Jessica begins. “I have watched you both take the notes you’ve been given and apply them, week after week, striving to be better. Your dishes tonight are a testament that you have not only taken advantage of your time here, but your time in the city as well, allowing it to become a part of you. The ability to pour your experiences into your food is the sign of a truly talented chef.”

  I feel a rush of pride, even though I’m pretty sure someone wrote all those nice things for her to say.

  “But,” Jessica says, “only one of you can win the title of Top Teen Chef and the scholarship that goes with it.”

  Billy steps forward. “Malik. Peyton. This is the moment you have been working toward since your first day on this stage. The winner is…”

  Just. Say. It.

  I glance at Malik, and I’m pretty sure he’s holding his breath, which reminds me that I should probably breathe before I pass out. Any day now, Billy. If you take another second, my heart is probably going to stop.

  “Malik.”

  Instinct takes over and I clap my hands and hug my very stunned friend. Yes, I am very much aware that I didn’t win. However, there will be plenty of time for me to feel upset later, because right now this moment belongs to Malik.

  “I’m sorry,” he says into my shoulder.

  I laugh and give him a nudge. “No, don’t be sorry. You won and you earned this.” I push him toward Angelica, who is holding one of those huge checks with his name written on it.

  The stage explodes with activity; the other contestants descend on him with congratulations and hugs.

  While everyone’s attention is on Malik for the moment, Paulie stands close by until I lean into him and he gives me a hug. “You okay?”

  “Do you want my honest answer?”

  I feel him nod and my throat feels like I swallowed fire.

  “It really, really sucks.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THE DISHES CLINK TOGETHER AS I PICK THEM UP and carry them to the sink.

  “Timer, Peyton,” a voice bellows from the kitchen.

  “Thank you,” I say, pushing open the swinging door and heading out.

  “It’s hard to be the pastry talk of the town, isn’t it?” A. J. says from the other side of the diner’s counter.

  “Be easier if your boss didn’t keep booking weddings and other special events in his wildly successful den of decadence,” I counter.

  “You came to me, remember?” A. J. says with a laugh.

  “It’s fuzzy.”

  “Then let me remind you. It was about a week or two after the finale of Top Teen Chef. You walked up and gave me some sad story about trying to make it in the big city, but man, life is so hard, and you could really use a job. You said that you’d do anything—wash dishes, sweep the floor, anything. Ring any bells?”

  “Well, I am getting a headache, so bells might be involved.”

  “Whatever,” he says, swiping at the air in front of him with a laugh. “Anyway, you’re still good for this weekend, right?”

  “Oh course,” I say, picking up a sack of flour to refill my supplies.

  “There are a lot of people coming to see you. Food TV is doing a whole spread on the one-year anniversary of Prima il Dolce’s opening.”

  I pull open the oven door and begin slinging pies onto the metal table behind me. “Yes, A. J., I will be there. Have I ever let you down?”

  “No,” he says with a laugh. “Even when I call you in on a big day because we’ve run out of pies—again.”

  “Hey, Peyton,” one of the waitresses out on the floor calls out. “You got a fan out here.”

  I walk through the kitchen and into the diner. “Where?” I ask, wiping my hands on a towel and then folding it neatly into my apron.

  “Table twelve,” she says, pointing.

  “I know where table twelve is,” I say, teasing, before giving the little girl a big smile.

  “Are you Peyton?” she asks shyly.

  I kneel next to her. “I am.”

  She hides her face behind her hands and giggles.

  “Go ahead,” her dad says, giving her a slight nudge.

  Then she takes her hands from her face, sits up straight, and holds out a napkin and pen in her hands. “Can I have your autograph?” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she buries her head behind her dad, one eye peeking out.

  “I dare you to leave here without it,” I tease, taking the pen and napkin from her and scrawling the signature like I’ve done this a million times—which I guess I have by now.

  Well, I’ve practiced my signature a million times. In the privacy of my Brooklyn apartment. That I share with Paulie and Malik. Who also make fun of me endlessly for leaving my signature lying around the apartment on scraps of paper and the corners of take-out menus.

  “Here you go,” I say, sliding the napkin back to her.

  “Thank you,” she says sweetly. “I was hoping you were going to win.”

  I look her in the eye and give her a gentle smile. “Me too.”

  “She recognized you right away,” her mom says as I stand up.

  “It’s the hair,” I laugh. “Enjoy your meal, and I hope I’ll see you again sometime.”

  I weave through the busy diner and make my way back to my locker to change. Grabbing my backpack and garment bag, I head for the exit, stopping by A. J.’s office and popping my head around the door. “Hey, I’m heading to class now,” I remind him. “And I’ve got a big test to study for, so I won’t be in tomorrow, okay? I left more than enough pies on the cooler.”

  “Have fun in class,” he says without looking up from his orders and paperwork.

  “Thanks,” I say, turning and heading out the back door near the bathrooms and making my way to the busy sidewalk.

  After the show, I obviously didn’t get the culinary scholarship to the American Culinary Institute, but that didn’t stop me from applying to other schools. It takes thirty minutes to get from the diner to school, assuming the trains are running on time, so I should make it there in time today. I take a second to give my little fan a wave through the window and then head into the c
rowded streets of New York. As I wait for my train, I study the poster in one of the countless promotional frames scattered along the subway walls. Eight teens, all dressed in white chef’s jackets, are standing in a line, looking directly at the camera.

  The next season of Top Teen Chef is about to start, but I don’t know whether I should be happy for them or I should send them a sympathy card. Maybe with Caitlin no longer working on the show, it won’t be so bad for them.

  Hearing the announcement for my train, I wade into the waiting crowd. I snag an open seat and pull out my tablet to watch the latest trends in confectionery. It’s something to pass the time, and one of these days I’m going to find a new technique that Rex hasn’t seen before. It’s becoming my life’s mission to keep learning and improving.

  I walk the four blocks to campus and jog up three flights of stairs to the locker room.

  Spinning the dial on my locker, I open the door and drop my backpack in before pulling out my white chef’s jacket. I place the garment bag on the hook. As I slip my arm into the sleeve, someone’s chin sets down on my shoulder, and then I hear:

  “You’re late.”

  “And yet I beat you here,” I say, spinning around.

  Paulie opens his locker and grabs his jacket. “You were baking pies at the diner this morning, weren’t you?”

  “How could you tell?” I ask.

  “You smell like sugar and cinnamon, so it was either apple or peach today.”

  I laugh and close my locker, giving the lock a spin. “You’re wrong.”

  Paulie gives me a look.

  “It was both,” I say, making a face.

  He waits for me to pull my hair back before falling in step with me on our way to class. “You ready for this afternoon? Did you remember to grab your dress?”

  “Yep.” I groan.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go home and sleep?”

  “I didn’t know that was an option,” I say. “But no, it’ll be fun to walk down memory lane.”

  “We can remember how it all began,” Paulie says, taking my hand and kissing it gently before we head to our different classes. “Have fun in chocolatier class,” he says, trying to get under my skin.