Eat, Drink and Be Wary

by Devon Delaney

  “I’ll take a look,” Sherry offered.

  Lyman ignored Sherry. Her ready hand was left hanging in midair.

  Don shifted closer to Sherry. “He must not have heard you.”

  “Or I didn’t qualify,” she added.

  When Sherry returned her attention to Fitz, she saw the envelope and folded papers being held to Fitz’s chest, at arm’s length, by Lyman. Fitz snatched the papers, backed up abruptly, and bumped into a woman behind him. The papers scattered across the floor. He lowered himself to his hands and knees to collect the mess.

  When he was done, Fitz picked himself up off the floor and took off.

  “Fitz!” Kelly called after him. She was left to apologize in his absence. When she was done, she traced his footsteps into the crowd.

  Don dipped down to collect the last paper and the envelope. He waved them at Fitz who never turned back. “This one’s blank.” Don displayed a white sheet of paper.

  “Just chuck it, thanks.” Lyman fanned his fingers in the air. He walked away.

  The single speaker mounted on the wall behind the ice sculpture crackled to life. “Ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention, please? If you would, direct your attention over here by the exit sign.”

  The din inside the room faded, and bodies rotated toward the double French doors leading to the porch. Ginger stepped up onto a small podium. “I hope I’ve met most of you. If not, my name is Ginger Constable. I own and manage this historic building. Welcome.”

  Applause erupted throughout the room.

  “My brother, Addison, and I . . . now, where is he . . . would like to welcome everyone associated with the New England Fall Fest Cook-off. Hopefully you can all see the gorgeous cook-off apron I’m wearing. Contestants, you will all be receiving yours tomorrow at the event.” Ginger showcased her red apron with a giant spatula embroidered on it.

  Someone in the crowd catcalled.

  “I should wear this more often,” Ginger remarked with a shy smile. “Thank you to the sponsors for providing me with an apron. All four categories are represented tonight, and we look forward to sampling the fantastic recipes tomorrow. All four judges are present, but, in the name of fairness and honesty, we haven’t made their identities public.”

  “Is that the usual procedure—keeping the judges’ identities from the contestants?” Don asked.

  “Not really,” Sherry answered. “More often, the judges are featured. Guess the organizers thought this would be a fun twist. Hope everyone behaves, since the judges could be anyone in here.”

  Ginger waved her arms over her head. “Addison, would you raise your hand so I can locate you?”

  Sherry scanned the crowd but saw no hand raised. A low murmur swelled but was quickly drowned out by what sounded like a thunderous argument to Sherry’s left. Sherry’s eyes widened. She realized one of the participating voices was a familiar one. She could make out four words delivered with venom. “Sponsor stays, I walk.” Another voice dripping with desperation cut in, and soon silence followed. A moment later, two men entered the reception room, faces lowered, chests heaving.

  “Gentlemen. I hope everything is okay?” Ginger’s question was amplified throughout the room.

  Fitz and Pep lifted their heads, exchanged glances, and presented the room with painful smiles.

  “What in the world was that all about?” Day asked as she approached Sherry and Don.

  “If I only knew . . .” Sherry’s voice faded away as the words struggled to emerge. She took a look at her brother, who had arrived at her side.

  Ginger cleared her throat. Heads turned in her direction.

  “My brother has the perfect antidote for any contestants who may be letting the anticipation of a kitchen battle for the ages get the better of them.” Ginger held her gaze on Fitz. “If you’d all direct your attention to the doors leading to the porch, Addison is overseeing a giveaway featuring coupons from our spectacular sponsor, Maine Course Foods, and jams and jellies from Sweet Art Brands, and I’ve just been advised samples of spice packets from Spice Attitude will be included. Glorious!”

  Sherry swiveled her head toward the other side of the room but was only able to see a hand wave over the heads of the crowd migrating to the porch.

  The hubbub in the room increased until Ginger spoke. “Have a good evening, everyone, and I’ll see you bright and early in the morning over at the Oyster Bed Harbor Pavilion.”

  Sherry pulled her phone from her linen pants pocket. “I think it’s time to head home. Day and Don, we’ll see you bright and early.” She looked around the room for a place to set down her empty wineglass. “Pep, you set? I’m going to run this glass over there, then grab a parting gift.” She pointed to the large table behind the ice sculpture.

  Pep was scrolling through his phone and didn’t lift his head to acknowledge her.

  “You have your own car anyway, so I’ll see you at home.” Sherry paused before leaving Pep’s side. “Are you coming home now?”

  Pep heaved an exhale. “Yep.”

  On her way out of the reception room, Sherry encountered Uri speaking with Roe and Addison. She slowed her pace in hopes of a break in their conversation. When it didn’t come, she poked her head into their huddle. “I wanted to say have a good evening, and it was nice seeing you all.”

  Uri beamed a smile, while the other two men looked as if they had bitten into a moldy lemon. “We feel the same way, right, guys?”

  Sherry didn’t wait for their responses. She tossed a wave their way and continued onto the porch. A few steps away, a woman parked by the wall reading a notebook caught Sherry’s attention. “Patti. I was hoping I’d see you here. I’m on my way out. Will I see you tomorrow?”

  Patti was holding a paper bag decorated with images of seagulls and seashells. “You couldn’t stop me from attending.” Patti winked. “Especially since I’m getting paid to cover it for the paper.” She held up her bag. “Nice goodies. The spice addition is a bit weak, unfortunately. I had high hopes for some interesting flavors. Looks like someone ran to the bulk spice bins at the grocery store and filled Ziploc bags with whatever they could find. The labels are incorrect, too.” She reached inside her gift bag and pulled out a tiny baggie. “This is labeled cinnamon but is most definitely nutmeg.”

  “I wonder if this man I met, Lyman St. Pierre I think his name was, had anything to do with that. Come to think of it, he was one of many here tonight I wonder about.”

  Chapter 5

  “So convenient. The Oyster Bed Harbor Pavilion is only a few towns east of Augustin.” On the drive to the cook-off, Sherry’s thoughts drifted to the time she’d spent surveying the venue’s sitemap online. “I checked out their website to get a feel for potential cook-off layouts.”

  Pep kept his attention out the windshield. “How does it look? How much room will we have to work?”

  “I didn’t get a good sense. The photos of the pavilion were from last year. The area had the remnants of a hurricane come through after the pictures were taken, and I know they had to rebuild the structure. I had every intention of driving over there. Never got around to it.”

  “We’re going in blind.” Pep put his hands over his eyes.

  “No matter what, there won’t be much excess room to maneuver. That’s par for the course in any outdoor, or even indoor, cooking contest. Add the sous chefs to the mix and we’ve got ourselves culinary gridlock.”

  “Now you’re making me nervous. I’m kidding. I’m not worried one bit.”

  Sherry was glad they arrived early enough to find a parking spot within reasonable walking distance to the event. “We have two hours to prepare my Savory Shrimp Lettuce Wraps with Balsamic Merlot Reduction.” Sherry turned the car off and faced her brother. “That’s a luxury. Usually, it’s sixty minutes or less.”

  “There you go. That’s the spirit.” Pep unbuckled his seat belt. “You’re a master at this.”

  “Not always,” laughed Sherry.

  She ope
ned the car’s liftback, and, together, they gathered up her supply bags. They headed out of the parking lot toward the boardwalk.

  “Once I was in a sixty-minute cook-off and had technical issues with the oven. Plus, the food processor was wonky, and I was supplied with gritty spinach instead of prewashed. Managing all those problems, the time drained away faster than I could believe. The result was undercooked chicken roll-ups and no spot on the awards podium. From that contest on, my motto became ‘less is more’ when it came to the recipes I considered for contests.”

  “I repeat, I’m not worried.”

  “You’re going to have to run back to the car and grab my sunglasses after we check in,” Sherry said. “This autumn sun is at such an extreme angle, I think it’s going to be a factor the whole morning.”

  “I’m here to serve. Be thankful it’s not pouring rain or thunderstorming. Thank you, Mother Nature.”

  Sherry scanned the beach in front of the pavilion. “Look at all the people claiming a good viewing spot.”

  “I hope the contest organizers know when high tide is. Half the depth of the beach will be gone by then,” Pep laughed. “Won’t bother us, but half the audience will be set adrift.”

  Pep helped Sherry carry the items she was allowed to bring from her kitchen, which included her favorite knives, preferred sauté pan, a large platter, and theme-appropriate serving plates—one for each of the four judges. They walked up the gray boardwalk that led them to the pavilion entrance.

  “We have to check in and pick up our identification,” Sherry advised.

  While waiting in line to pick up her contest credentials, Sherry observed a woman collect a badge indicating she was competing in the Just Desserts category.

  “I drove up from North Carolina in one shot, and I’m a bit sleep deprived,” the woman told the contest official.

  The man in front of Sherry chose his ID badge from the column of tags labeled Edgy Veggies. When Sherry’s turn arrived, she noticed her category, Hands-On Foods—No Utensils Required, had the most IDs yet to be claimed.

  “Hi. I’m Sherry Oliveri, and he’s Pep Oliveri.” Sherry set her load on the table decorated with a red-and-white plaid tablecloth. She scanned the four columns of laminated name tags on lanyards.

  “Nice to put faces to names,” a plump woman, not much taller than the table, chirped. She smiled. “My name is Sophie Jefferson. You’ve surely seen my name on the emails the contest has been sending out, advising you on all the ins and outs and whatnots leading up to today.”

  “Of course. So nice to meet you,” Sherry said.

  Pep’s hand jutted out and enveloped Sophie’s hand in a robust shake.

  “Oh, my goodness, you’re strong.” Sophie swayed slightly. A Southern twang was discernible as she pronounced strong as if it were a two-syllable word. Ster-wrong. “You Northerners are certainly a hardy bunch. Have to be, with the nasty winters I’ve heard you get up here. The last two contestants I met were from Minnesota and Vermont. I can’t even begin to imagine what their winters are like. A sun worshipper like myself would never survive. I only made the trek up north to attend the Fall Fest before the cold weather sets in. Figured I’d volunteer while I’m at it.” She checked out her clothing. “Didn’t realize I’d have to wear these dang overalls.”

  “You look nice,” Sherry fibbed. Truth was, the ill-fitting overalls were swallowing the woman whole.

  “White lies don’t suit you, sweetie,” Sophie cackled. “By the way, you’re in the category with the extra contestant. Last minute addition, or so I’m told.”

  “Huh,” was all Sherry could counter with. Sophie reached under the table, an act that didn’t involve much bending for her because her short stature held her so low to the ground. “Please enjoy these gifts on behalf of the New England travel bureau. Your contest aprons are in the bags, as well.” She placed two tote bags next to Sherry’s supplies and pointed to her right. “Just follow the boardwalk in that direction and you’ll find stove number nine. Good luck.”

  Sherry and Pep picked up their supplies and headed to the pavilion. Once under the sun canopy, Sherry searched for her designated prep area. She was wary of her footing as she made her way past the first eight workstations. The stoves were set up side by side, powered by a strip of wiring that ran across the pavilion floor. When she reached her station, Sherry went about laying out her utensils and cookware in order of usage. Pep was silent as he watched.

  Nearing the end of her organization exercise, Sherry checked the digital clock that rested on a table in front of the audience. “We have thirty minutes until cooking begins.” She turned to Pep. “Would you mind grabbing my sunglasses from the car? I’m going to pick up our food from the cooler. We’re allowed to organize everything but no prep work until the starting bell. There’s not much else to do for now.”

  “I’ll meet you back here in a few.” Pep tied on his red contestant apron. “Fits like a glove.” He twirled once, fashion-model style, and trotted away.

  “Hey, Sherry, over here, on the boardwalk.”

  Sherry blinked the sun glare from her vision as she peered across her stove to locate the voice beckoning her. When she recognized who it was, Sherry waved with vigor to her friend and coworker. “Amber. Thanks for coming. You’ve got a prime viewing location. Lucky you.”

  “It’s not exactly my spot.”

  The couple next to her, with the no-nonsense stances and serious expressions, implied the two feet of sand was merely on loan.

  “This nice couple said if I could get you to say hi to them, they’d let me stand here for a minute.”

  Sherry lifted an eyebrow. “Sure.” She smiled at the couple. “Hi, I’m Sherry Oliveri. Thanks for coming to watch.”

  “Herb, she remembers us from the plane ride we took home together with her after the Taste of America Cook-off.” The woman pumped her fists overhead. “Good luck, Sherry,” she bellowed.

  Herb raised two thumbs in agreement.

  “I do remember you both. Thank you, and thanks for coming.” Sherry turned her attention back to Amber. “Pep’s somewhere in the area. Have you seen him?”

  “I just passed him on the way to your car. I wished him good luck and told him I’d see you both after the cook-off. Good luck. I’ll be watching.” Amber tossed Sherry a salute and surrendered her coveted spot back to its rightful owners.

  On her way to retrieve her cooking supplies from her designated cooler, Sherry took note of some of the other contestants. Heidi Keimer, from the Pennsylvania Dutch region, was a remarkable home cook with a talent for anything potato. Sherry had tasted her gnocchi, latkes, and croquettes at the National Spud Recipe Championships and had fallen in love with each recipe. The woman was even built like a potato, oval and thick in the middle, with a beige, sun-kissed hue to her skin. As Sherry passed Heidi’s prep area, she wasn’t surprised to see an abundance of red potatoes on her cutting board.

  “Good morning, Sherry.” A man with a New York Yankees baseball cap tipped his head toward Sherry as he unloaded a basket of utensils. “Go easy on me. I’ve been absent from cook-offs for a while.”

  “Bernie,” Sherry said, “you could create a five-star meal in your sleep. You’re the one who should go easy on the rest of us.”

  “Nice of you to say, but hands-on foods aren’t really my thing. I mean, who really likes to eat with their hands after the age of five? I entered this category thinking it would have the least entries. Just my luck, it’s the category with the most finalists.” Bernie’s hat toppled off his head as he enjoyed a robust belly laugh. “Good luck.”

  Next to Bernie sat an empty workstation. No food, no utensils, no sign of a contestant having staked out a territory. “Time’s a ticking. That person better get a move on,” Sherry whispered to no one in particular.

  Sherry arrived at the contestant coolers and was surprised and pleased that there was no line. “Two bags of groceries, Ms. Oliveri. Everything you listed on your recipe should be inside.
Please eyeball the contents so I can mark you off on my list as complete.” A young man checked off a box on a clipboard as he handed Sherry her supplies. Under his watchful eye, Sherry rummaged through the bags while visualizing her recipe ingredient list.

  “Looks good.” She glanced at the clock. A rush of adrenaline surged through her core. Her hands trembled, ever so slightly, as she recognized the cook-off was moments away from start time.

  On the return trip to her station, she caught up with Pep. “Is that mustard on your lip?” She pointed to a glob of the thick yellow condiment above his mouth. “Where did you get that?”

  “I figured we wouldn’t have time to eat for the next two hours, so I grabbed a hot pretzel with some dipping mustard at the concession stand. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  “Let’s get this stuff sorted out.” Sherry sucked in a deep breath and held it for the count of seven. “Focus,” she mumbled.

  “Five minutes, cooks. The contest begins in five minutes,” a voice announced.

  “Here we go.” Sherry’s words tripped over each other. She paused midthought and caught her breath. “You ready?”

  “Not sure how many times I can tell you I am, but I’ll do it again. Yes, I’m ready.” Pep put his hand on Sherry’s and squeezed. “We’ve got this.”

  One glance out to the audience and Sherry was swamped with another adrenaline rush. The gathered audience, Sherry estimated as twenty rows deep, delivered cheers and applause. Sherry tied her contest apron around her waist and wiped her palms down the sides, leaving a perspiration streak on the red fabric. She unfolded her recipe printout and propped it up against the edge of her sauté pan.

  “Don’t you know the recipe by heart at this stage?” Pep threw his hands in the air. “Should I be nervous?” He winked at his sister.

  “Doesn’t hurt to take a peek when my mind goes blank. And that always happens about halfway through the contest for me. My mind starts to wander, so I need to reel it in. I’ve seen contestants go into panic mode even after tons of practice. I’m taking no chances.”