39
86’d: When the kitchen runs out of a dish, it’s “86’d.”
It means, “We’re all out.”
Dishes can also be 86’d if the chef is unhappy with the preparation, and in that way takes on the other connotation of the term, “to get rid of.”
2016
It didn’t smell like a place where a whole lot of cooking got done.
Gale remembered that from the last two times.
Though the studio had no discernible odor upon entry, by the end of the day, it would be a smorgasbord of aromas, heady and extraordinary.
He steered his focus to the anticipation of that rather than the anticipation of the competition itself. It wasn’t easy; circumventing the familiar spirals in his brain took a lot of effort and probably some strange facial expressions, but Gale had thought hard on his long walk home the night prior. Regina was right about a lot of things, including the fact that it was the lead-up to anything that freaked him out, not the actual act itself.
I told you that a million times, man.
“You did not.”
Did too. Jeez.
“You’re not?”
The man beside him bounced on the balls of his feet, shaking out his hands and jerking his head back and forth like a fighter warming up.
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you’re ready for this.”
No calm energy there, not like the woman sitting off by herself, eyes closed and face unmoving.
“Ready as I’m going to be.”
Gale attempted an easy smile that felt way more like a grimace.
He offered his hand.
“Gale Carmichael.”
His competitor took it.
“Steven Adonucci.
My friends call me Nucci.”
Great.
He even sounded like the kind of chef who went celebrity.
“Which week did you win?”
“Third. You?”
“Second.”
“So she’s either first or fourth.”
Nucci jutted his chin in the serene being’s direction.
“I wonder where the last one is?”
“Traffic, maybe?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Again the bouncing, shaking, jerking.
Nucci was wound even tighter than Gale.
Maybe he had something, there.
Focusing on the end-of-day aromas took the concentration of Serene Being’s approach. Gale didn’t want to look like a copycat, in either case.
Want me to sing to you?
Gale kept the “Shut up, Sean”
in his head, focusing again on those end-of-the-day aromas—garlic, onions, charred meat—while taking deep, even breaths, and flexing his fingers into tight fists, and letting go.
Tight fists.
Letting go.
“Last contestant is fifteen minutes out.”
Some guy with a headset around his neck called to the woman with a tablet.
Then, to the three contestants present, “Might as well go ahead and have something to eat.
Get coffee.
Betty’ll show you where.”
They followed Betty and her tablet through the studio, to the break room Gale remembered waiting in—nutmeg, apples, cinnamon—between rounds.
The set and studio were already busy with sound checks and lighting.
Gale tried to get a look at who the judges would be, but no one so notable was present yet.
Just the three of them and the production crew.
Despite his nerves, Gale was hungry, and the mistake of not eating all day was still too fresh to overlook.
The food was good.
Scrambled eggs, bacon, rye toast.
Nothing fancy, but well done. He had a bowl of fruit, too, because Serene Being’s bowl of yogurt, granola, and fresh berries made him feel like he didn’t care about nutrition.
“Vegetarian.”
Nucci said around the bagel in his mouth.
“Guaranteed.
Easy pickings.”
“She made it to the grand championship, same as us.”
“Could be a fluke.”
Never underestimate a vegetarian, man.
Gale was sure Sean had a point; he was just not inclined to parse it out at the moment.
Contestant number four was hurried in.
Another man, this one much older than either Gale or Nucci.
When he spoke—to Betty—Gale detected an accent, though he couldn’t say from where.
“We go in twenty,”
Headset called—butter, citrus, alcohol burning off wine—and left the break room.
Betty followed behind.
Gale moved through conjured aromas until the newcomer, glancing only momentarily in Serene Being’s direction, approached him and Nucci, hand extended.
“I am Avraam,”
he said, “and I will be winning this championship.”
“That’s funny.”
Nucci took his hand first.
“I’m Steven, and I’ll be the one winning the fifty grand.”
“Gale.”
He didn’t bother with the posturing.
Confidence was great; overconfidence led to mistakes only someone clueless about their own shortcomings made.
At least, that’s what Gale told himself.
“I’m Rhiannon, if anyone is interested.”
No longer Serene Being. Rhiannon.
“Gale.”
He shook her hand.
She made the rounds.
Unlike Nucci and Avraam, the smile on her face matched the amused glint in her eye.
Gale moved away from the posturing men, got himself another cup of coffee.
It was exceptionally good.
Cream and sugar.
Light and sweet. The way he’d been drinking it since he and Jenara had coffee at that dive diner on the highway, the first time he’d competed on this show.
Focus, man.
Aromas.
Olive oil, dill, scallions.
Phantom.
Focusing. It was right. They’d been right. Whatever they had was doomed before it began. Too much of the same baggage makes a heavy load. Cake. Sugar. Chocolate. Maybe someone would have the guts to bake something in the dessert round.
“It’s going to come down to me and you.”
Rhiannon stood just behind him, at his elbow.
“What makes you say that?”
“Those two? They’ll blow it, first and second.
Mark my words.”
“You psychic or something?”
He grinned and she laughed.
Nice laugh. Easy.
“No, just a good judge of character.
Look at them.
They’ve already decided we’re going to be easy to pick off and are circling each other like a couple of puffed-out pigeons.
That’s going to tank them, I’m telling you.”
“Maybe they’re just that good.”
Rhiannon snorted.
“No one is as good as those two think they are.”
Told you not to underestimate the vegetarian.
“Can I ask you something?”
Rhiannon groaned.
“No, I wasn’t named for the song.
It’s an old family name.”
“That’s not what I was going to ask.”
“Oh.Sorry.Everyone does.
Or they assume. Okay, shoot.”
“Are you a vegetarian?”
“Me?”
Her laughter didn’t wobble or pitch too shrilly.
It was actually deeper than it should have been, given her voice.
“No, I’m not a vegetarian.
I’m sous in an artisanal steak house, and there’s nothing I like better than a locally sourced, grass-fed, humanely butchered piece of beef.”
Close enough.
Rhiannon held out her hand.
“Good luck in there.”
Gale took it.
Warm.
Calloused.
Nice. The tip of what he assumed was a chef-knife tattoo peeked out from the cuff of her chef jacket. Kindred, of a kind. All of them. Even Avraam and Nucci still posturing. “Yeah, you too.”
It was kind of hard to see from her vantage point, but Regina wasn’t going to kick.
They were in an observation room packed with old equipment and file boxes filled with obsolete forms now stored digitally that no one thought to recycle.
Saskia had gotten her into the studio without any fanfare and very little stealth.
It was the reputation of her magazine—and the promise of a focus piece in A Chef’s Life—that got them into the taping of the Grand Championship, not Queenie B. She still had a little time before that inevitability. At the moment, she was still just Regina. And she was here for Gale.
“You want me to get you coffee or something?”
Saskia asked.
“I’m good.
You sure no one’ll come up here?”
“I told you I have it all covered.
No one will know you’re here.”
Saskia leaned on the back of a chair.
“But, you know, it’d be an amazing bit of publicity, if you’d just go down there, after the competition’s over, of course, and—”
“Saskia. Stop.”
But Saskia shook her head.
“Did you see who’s down there? I couldn’t have scripted this better.”
Tom, of course.
He was a staple of the show.
Regina had indeed spotted him, along with two judges she might or might not recognize, and Harold Javian.
Culinary star turned culinary royalty, and an old friend. Harold had aged in that way of good-looking men who got frustratingly better-looking, somehow. Silver fox, she believed was the term, dressed like he didn’t care in the obviously expensive—Loro Piana, if she guessed right—T-shirt showing off his tan, toned arms. Tom had, eerily, not aged at all. Queenie B had been brash and beautiful, completely wild and flamboyantly talented. What would Regina look like to them? She did not care to speculate. The old days were not only a blur, they were a long time ago. The one thing that had changed dramatically was, now, Regina didn’t really give a shit.
“I’m here to see Gale compete.”
Regina kept her cool.
“End of story. Got me?”
“Fine.”
Saskia deflated.
“You can’t blame me for trying.”
No, she couldn’t.
Queenie had been pestering Regina for days.
The publicity.
A sneak peek leading up to the interview. Even the gratification of seeing the looks on all their faces—Harold’s especially, the bastard. Damn, she missed him and hadn’t even realized it until seeing him down there. Regina held firm. This was about Gale’s moment, not Queenie B’s rise from the ashes. Hubris made her confident she would, indeed, rise, but would it be fame or infamy lifting her up? None of that was going to touch Gale. None. She’d watch him. She’d go home. Only later would she tell him she’d been there the whole time.
He had spooked her, last night.
His fragile unraveling, the dazzling smile laced with tears.
Queenie had never been like that.
Her chaos had been the aggressive kind; her unraveling took whole cities with her. Last night, she’d been afraid to let him go home alone, but did. Because, as Regina knew from the most intimate experience, either he would, or he wouldn’t, and nothing she could do would change anything. And now there he was, filing into the studio with the other contestants. Smiling without the edge cutting through it. Joking with the lone woman in a room full of men. Regina would risk being there in that studio, full of people who’d know her in an instant, a million times over, just to see that.
“I’m going to have to go down and say hello during a break,”
Saskia was saying.
“Otherwise it’ll seem suspicious.”
“Whatever you need to do.
Just keep me out of it.”
Cues were called.
What are you competing for? Regina could have scripted the answers herself.
The older man—whose name and accent were Greek—said he wanted to take his wife on a well-earned vacation around the world, but the truth that he did not speak was, he was really there to prove he still had it.
She could relate.
The young guy who was not Gale claimed he would use the fifty grand prize money to buy the motorcycle of his dreams, but the truth he did not speak was that he was really there in the hopes of becoming one of the famous chefs sitting as judges.
She could also relate.
The only woman in the competition said she’d pay off student loans accrued when she thought she wanted to be in finance, only to discover her heart was in food.
Winning would prove to her parents she’d made the right choice.
Regina believed her.
Regina also instinctively knew the truth she did not speak; she was there to prove a woman was as good in the kitchen as a man. Regina could absolutely relate.
Then it was Gale’s turn.
“I’m here because a friend sent in the application I chickened out of sending.”
Dazzling.
Flirting with the camera despite the roil inside him.
“And there’s a woman I want to impress the hell out of.”
“That’s my boy,”
she muttered so low even Saskia didn’t hear her, savoring the burn of knowing she was the woman he wanted to impress.
The contestants got the rules they already knew by heart.
Took their marks.
Opened their crates. And . . .
Frenzy.
First round.
Gale moved with confidence.
Kept his cool.
No roiling now. Gale, in cooking mode. Controlled. The gears in his head clicking through flavors and aromas and textures. Motorcycle guy was cocky, putting on a show, calling out prompts to the judges as if they’d think he was clever. Harold absolutely would not. Know your audience, kid. Greek’s experience showed, in good ways and bad. The woman moved with quiet confidence, as if she’d forgotten everyone else was in the room. She was Gale’s biggest competition, without a doubt, if not in skill, in determination.
And, just like that, the round was over.
The contestants brought their plates to the board for judging.
After the initial sampling and comments, the contestants filed out again.
“The young lady won that round,”
Saskia leaned in to whisper.
“But looks like your boy’s going to be safe.
Who do you think’s going out?”
“The older guy, unfortunately.
Not innovative enough.”
“It’s going to be a while before they send someone packing.
You want that coffee now?”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
Saskia left her alone in the dark, crowded observation room.
Regina stayed well back from the window, even if no one would actually be able to see her if they looked.
She watched Harold.
She watched Tom. She itched to be in the break room with Gale, or at least a fly on the wall. Not just for him, but for her. For Queenie. The closer she got to this world, the harder she ached for it all.
“Sorry it took so long.”
Saskia backed in through the door, only one coffee in hand.
“I said my hellos and got a few quotes on the first round while I was down there and ended up drinking your coffee.
It’d have looked weird to stand there holding it.
I wasn’t sure how you take it these days. I brought creamers and sweeteners, just in case it’s no longer black.”
“Good call.”
Back then, Regina drank it mostly to sober her up.
She added both cream and sugar now.
Saskia reached into her messenger bag, pulled out a bagel with cream cheese, and a paper coffee cup that held smoked salmon, capers, and red onion.
“I thought you might be hungry.”
“I am now.”
Regina spread out a napkin, assembled her feast. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.
No trouble at all.”
Saskia sat back in her chair, hands resting on her belly and an amused grin on her face, this woman who’d once taken care of her even when she didn’t deserve the loyalty.
Regina wished she could have loved Saskia then, the way she deserved.
The way she loved Gale now.
But Regina hadn’t even been able to love her own son. Not then. Not during those oblivious, oblivion years when love was a stumbling block between her and the next high. Yet here was Saskia Specter—older, accomplished, a woman with a family and a career and clout in the world she’d flirted with from Queenie B’s dressing room. Saskia was once again taking care of her with a smile on her face. As if no time had passed at all. It gave Regina hope that, maybe, she hadn’t been as unlovable, as unloving as memory—and childhood—told her she’d been. If Gale loved her now and Saskia loved her still, maybe Julian could, someday, too.
An hour and a surreptitious foray to the bathroom later, the contestants filed back into the studio.
“You called it,”
Saskia said.
“I’m sure he’s a good chef,”
Regina said.
“Set in his ways, but good.
Cuisine needs to evolve, just like everything else.”
Saskia tapped into her computer.
“Good line.
Mind if I find a place to use that in the next article?”
“It’s not original.”
“It will be.”
Saskia winked.
“Once it’s a quote from Queenie B.”
Tom called the second round.
Again, the frenzy.
With only three contestants, it would have been logical to assume it wouldn’t be as nuts as the first.
It was. Maybe more so. The woman stared a little too long at the honking-big pork shoulder thirty minutes would never cook. Gale and Motorcycle both went for the meat grinder at the same time. Motorcycle beat him to it.
“You have the knife skills,”
Regina muttered.
“Use them.
Come on, Gale.”
As if he heard her, Gale got a second knife from his kit and sausaged the hell out of that pork shoulder.
The woman sliced hers superthin, got it into a marinade.
Regina felt bad for her; she should have gone for the pressure cooker.
Stir-fry was a good idea, if a bit expected, but it wasn’t a long-enough marinade to tenderize, too short a cook time to break down the collagen. She would lose this round. Regina would put money on it.
Then Motorcycle burned his meatballs.
As far as she could tell, Gale was whizzing through this round with bulgogi pork meatballs—Asian, yet again, though she might have gone that route herself—in lettuce wrappers, some sort of sauce concocted from the guacamole in the crate.
Time ticked down.
The contestants pushed through.
Sweat glistened on skin, lined chef jackets, and darkened armpits. He was going to do it. Gale would win this round. Regina’s heart raced way too fast.
“Time’s up!”
Laser focused on Gale, Regina took heart that he laughed without that shaky wobble.
He glanced left and right, at the dishes his fellow contestants put up.
And she could see, even from high above, his confidence.
“Looking good.”
“Very good,”
Regina agreed.
“Who are you calling out this round?”
“Hard to say without tasting, but burned meatballs?”
“Her meat is going to be like shoe leather.
Which is the greater culinary sin?”
Apparently, burned meatballs.
Regina would have rather seen Gale go up against Motorcycle.
The woman had clearly taken the first round.
Gale, clearly, the second.
That meant it all came down to the final round, and dessert was still not his forte.
Standing at his station, hands on the handles of his mystery crate, stomach in knots and his brain whirring, Gale maintained his focus.
Not on phantom aromas, but on the round he’d just won.
He wanted to win.
He wanted the money. It wouldn’t change the fact he was a recovering addict whose dead best friend lived inside his head, but it would make life a little easier. For him. His parents. He just had to get through the dessert round. Not just get through it. Win it.
You got this, Gale.
Not Sean’s voice. Regina’s.
“Open your crates.”
Corn nuts.
A pi?ata full of hard candy.
Chocolate sausage.
Saltine crackers.
Gale’s brain flicked through the textures, the tastes of each ingredient.
How they’d go together.
How to make them go together.
The easy route would be currant and chocolate sausage ice cream, some sort of brittle made with melted-down hard candies from the pi?ata. It was the first place his mind went, and so he discarded it. Rhiannon was already at the refrigerator, gathering the makings for an ice cream base.
He unwrapped a yellow hard candy.
Lemon.
Unwrapped several more and got them in a pan with a little water to melt.
The brittle was still a good idea, and he was sticking with it. Grabbing a lemon from the pantry, he spotted marshmallows. It would be better to make his own, but time didn’t allow. The dessert forming in his head coated his tongue. Sweet on sweet. He needed the saltines as a salty element . . .
And it hit him.
Years and years of his mother’s brand of cooking.
The only “cookie”
she’d ever made successfully—mock toffee cookies.
He’d elevate it, somehow.
Discarding the marshmallows, Gale grabbed saltines.
His heart pounded.
Mom would be thrilled if he won with her Christmas standby.
She might swat him with a towel if it cost him the round. Either way, she’d be proud.
He tossed the lemon candies, replaced them with cherry.
His brain palate told him there was too much sweet.
Back to the pantry.
Wonder of wonders, there was the tart cherry liqueur he hoped would be tart enough, because he wasn’t tasting it. Not even a drop.
While the candies melted in the liqueur, he rough-chopped the corn nuts, to add once they were.
Gale buttered a cookie sheet, layered saltines.
Using the underside of a saucepan, he crushed them up just enough for the syrup to seep in.
A taste of the chocolate sausage proved it more bitter than he’d like on its own, but a perfect counter.
Candies melted, butter incorporated, he poured the cherry caramel over the saltines.
On top of that, chocolate sausage chopped up with some more of the corn nuts.
Gale slid it into the oven.
They’d only need a few minutes to melt together. Good thing, because a few minutes was all he had.
Salt, sweet, acid.
His dessert lacked a creamy element.
Rhiannon was getting her ice cream from the machine.
It looked perfect.
Creamy, creamy, creamy that wasn’t ice cream or the too-easy whipped cream.
Darting to the pantry one last time, Gale grabbed the mascarpone cream.
And there he saw it.
His coup de grace.
A container of coconut cream.
Was there enough time? The clock was winding down fast.
The blender was his only hope.
Tossing the coconut cream into it with a splash of the cherry liqueur, a pinch of salt, and a prayer, Gale went through all the ingredients in his head.
He took his version of his mother’s mock-toffee cookies from the oven. Perfect. Just melted enough. He drizzled caramel still in the pan onto the plate, set the slab of cookie on top. Went through his ingredients again.
The coconut cream wasn’t whipped enough. Dammit! But all crate ingredients were on the plate.
“Five, four . . .”
The coconut cream was nearly there.
“...three, two . . .”
Gale grabbed a spoon, threw some of the cream from the blender on top of one of the cookies.
“...one! Time’s up! Step away from your station.”
Looking down at the one dish he got the cream onto, Gale knew he had a winner.
Hands down, more creative than Rhiannon’s ice cream and saltine waffle bowl.
But only on that one dish.
Without the coconut cream, his dessert wasn’t finished. Maybe he should have gone with the easier—and way more expected—whipped cream. Too late. It was what it was.
“Good job.”
He offered his hand to Rhiannon.
She smiled up at him.
He hadn’t realized how tiny she was.
In the break room, she seemed much bigger.
“Thanks. You too.”
Their hands fell, heads turning to the judges’ table, to those whose decision would change one of their lives.
For the better.
For the worse.
Maybe a little of both. Or maybe not at all. Gale wasn’t all that much older than he’d been when Kyle sent his application in, but he was way wiser.
He told himself over and over, on his long walk home the night prior, that Regina was right. He had to let himself shine, to stop living with his past as a monkey on his back.
And who knew better than Queenie B? Today, in this moment, coconut cream or no coconut cream, Gale believed it with every foodie fiber of his being.