CHAPTER THREE
“I want you to make this burger look magnificent,” says the client, a short, ruddy-faced man who’s doused himself in so much spicy cologne I have to breathe through my mouth.
He points to the saddest-looking excuse for a burger I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Joel, the photographer, pulls his lips between his teeth, containing his laugh. Now I know why he recommended me for this particular shoot. A miracle is needed here.
When I stay silent, studying the burger, the client, whose name I’ve already forgotten, asks again, “Well, can you do it? Can you transform this burger into a masterpiece?”
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. “I can.”
“Kate’s one of the best food stylists in the industry, Phil ,” Joel assures him, subtly reminding me of the client’s name. I flick him a grateful smile, my first genuine smile of the day. Joel’s worked with me before and knows what I’m like with names.
Realizing I won’t get away with my forgetfulness a second time, I apply a trick my grandmother taught me to remember a name. Word association. Let’s see, Phil the Pill. It feels a little mean, but at least I won’t forget his name anytime soon.
We’re standing in Phil’s restaurant kitchen. I managed to drop Lisset off at school on time and now, for the next couple of hours, I’ll be working with Joel on a print photo shoot for Phil’s flagging restaurant chain.
I like working with Joel. He’s an excellent photographer, calm and patient. He’s also better at interacting with clients, which helps to take the pressure off me. While my language is food, his is light. We work well together because neither of us favors small talk and we don’t haul our egos to a shoot.
Joel’s biggest disadvantage, though, is his appearance. With his shoulder-length dark hair and dark eyes, he’s ridiculously handsome. I’ve had female assistants, art directors, and even clients tongue-tied and clumsy in his presence, which he finds amusing and I find disruptive. A small scar on his cheekbone only adds to his mystery. He’s never explained the scar and I’ve never asked him about it. We’re both silent regarding our pasts. All I know is, some scars are visible, while others are hidden.
Abruptly, Phil snaps his fingers, as if recalling something. “Kate Miller, that’s right. They call you The Magician .”
They call me a lot of other names too, not all of them complimentary. For today, though, I’ll accept this one, particularly if it reinforces the myth and lore around food styling.
Phil continues talking, which, honestly, is one of the more tedious aspects of my job, the client explaining to me in twenty minutes what could easily be conveyed in ten.
I answer Phil’s questions while I pull the tools I’ll need from my food styling bag. Lisset calls it my Mary Poppins bag and she’s not wrong. My extensive kit contains everything I need to create magic.
“Run me through what’s in your burger,” I say to Phil. After he’s listed the ingredients, I ask, “Are they all in the kitchen?”
“Yes.” He shifts uncomfortably. Something is clearly bothering him. “Uh, so are you, you know, going to build the burger using fake stuff?”
I hold back a sigh. Someone’s been watching too many YouTube videos. In my most neutral tone, I explain to Phil that I’ll use only the ingredients he has on hand, and I won’t add any ingredient to the burger that’s not already in it, because that would be false advertising.
“The techniques I employ are about trying to extend the shelf life of the burger so Joel can get his shot,” I tell him.
And yes, I’m also going to shamelessly manipulate the heck out of every ingredient in that burger so that the final product looks the very best version of itself.
He nods, seemingly appeased, but when I move to the sink to wash my hands, I overhear Phil ask Joel in a dubious voice, “You sure about her?”
“Kate’s really good,” Joel assures him while he sets up his lighting stand. “Not with people,” he adds apologetically, “but with food, she’s a maestro.”
I’m quietly touched at Joel’s willingness to vouch for me.
Phil, however, is still hovering indecisively. I swallow my impatience. Some clients need a little extra hand holding and it’s not fair I let Joel shoulder it all.
When I return to the prep table, I turn to Phil and look him straight in the eye. “When I’m finished styling your burger, Phil,” I say in my most beguiling tone, “not only will the camera love it, but every single person who drives by your billboard will think of nothing else except the fact that they have to taste this burger and they have to taste it now.”
Phil’s eyes widen and I know I have him. He won’t question my abilities again. He’ll sit silently on the sidelines and leave us to do our work.
I turn away dismissively, slip on my apron and disposable gloves, and put together a quick stand-in burger for Joel so he can use it to play with the lighting and get the angles right. He’s already started selecting lenses and creating a set, brow furrowed in concentration.
“I didn’t know you had it in you,” Joel murmurs with a grin when I hand him his stand-in. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“Don’t get too excited,” I mutter. “That was a one-off.”
With Phil watching, Joel starts taking test shots for the light and I reflexively sink into my work headspace. I open a bag of buns and rifle through them, trying to find one with no creases or marks. When I eventually find one, I smooth the edges and use tweezers to rearrange the sesame seeds so there’s more of them in front. The whole bun gets sprayed with cooking spray.
I fry up five patties in a pan, cooking them just enough to brown the outside, but not enough to shrink them. They’re still raw inside, but that’s fine. No one’s eating this burger. After selecting the best-looking patty, I burn grill marks onto it with a hot skewer. I need a golden-brown edge on the sides, so I use a little shoe polish for a slightly charred look.
Joel is shooting the burger at eye level so everything will need to be moved to the front. Every single ingredient needs to be showcased so customers have a clear idea of what’s inside the burger.
I place the bun on a tray and position the beef patty so it hangs off the edge of the bun, giving the impression it fills up the entire bun. Next comes slices of bright yellow cheese, which I arrange over the patty to drape invitingly over the edge. I choose gleaming green pickles with a crinkle edge and pull them forward.
The lettuce has been soaking in cold water to keep it fresh. I pick out the smaller pieces, pat them dry, check for any dead spots, and fan them out onto the burger, making a ripple effect with the edges.
I slice up a vibrant-red tomato and a crisp red onion and build my layers. The tomato slice looks too flat, so I prop it forward slightly by inserting a makeup wedge beneath it. Then I pin all the ingredients in place. I take a step back to examine the burger. It’s too tall. I scoop out some of the filling in the top bun. That works. I grab my heat gun and melt the cheese in front so it looks as though the patty is receiving a warm, seductive hug.
Phil pushes up from his chair and moves to stand next to me, staring at the burger. His eyes are wide and a huge grin splits his face.
“Oh, man, that looks incredible!”
I don’t reply. I’m in the zone. Phil, however, doesn’t require a response; he’s too enamored with the creation in front of him.
“What about ketchup and mayo?” he asks.
“That’s next.”
I use a pipette to painstakingly position strategic dollops of ketchup and mayo onto the front of the burger, cleaning up any bleeds with a Q-tip.
Returning to Phil’s vantage point, I feel a rare moment of solidarity with him as we both stand there admiring the almost finished product. Joel wanders over and offers a nod of approval.
I pick up the tray and ever-so-carefully carry it to the set Joel’s created. He waits patiently, camera in hand, while I move the burger into position and apply the final touches. I use a syringe of water and glycerin to add tiny droplets to the tomato and lettuce, making them glisten. The glycerin helps the water to stick perfectly. I brush a little oil on top of the bun to make it shine.
Every little detail counts, especially when all those details are magnified on a billboard or poster. This burger has to dazzle .
Like the expression right now on Phil’s face. He’s giving me a look of such teary-eyed gratitude I automatically take a step back, my shoulders stiffening.
If he hugs me, I might have to dislocate his shoulder.
Fortunately, he comes to his senses and stays where he is.
“You ready?” I ask Joel.
“Ready,” he confirms.
I quickly retrieve a tampon from my kit and dunk it into a jug of steaming hot water, positioning it directly behind the burger, out of sight. Steam rises from the tampon, giving the impression it’s rising from the burger. It’s that last, masterful touch for the photo.
Some food stylists use cotton wool, but I find a tampon to be the most effective.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse the look of horror on Phil’s face. I’m guessing he’s one second away from gagging. I heave an exasperated, internal sigh. Really? These are the men who sign up for war and then they fall apart when confronted with a tampon?
We need more men like Joel, cool and unfazed as he aims his camera lens at the burger.
The moment Joel takes over, we’re racing the clock. I’ve tried to buy him enough time to take the perfect shot before the burger starts looking completely inedible under the hot camera lights.
Being the professional he is, he manages to secure that gorgeous eye-level photo that has all our saliva glands going. Phil is ecstatic. Another satisfied client.
The call from Lisset’s teacher comes as I’m packing up my stuff. Surprise, laced with unease, churns inside me. Lisset’s in an afterschool program, which she loves and which should be safe, but my mind always darts to worst-case scenarios whenever the school calls.
“I need to talk to you about Lisset,” the teacher says after I brush aside her attempt at pleasantries and ask her outright what’s wrong. “I’m afraid we have a problem.”