6. Chapter 6
Chapter 6
E verybody but Tsytryn had lost their sense of direction during the tour of the windowless passages inside the theatre, but he quietly led them to the practice kitchen without hesitating at a single turn.
“Grew up in mountains,” he explained when Qhari questioned him, and Cemre realised his definition of ‘in’ meant literally inside, deep within the caves and tunnels. He’d be used to finding his way in complete darkness. She wondered how until he added, “Feet remember everything.”
Cemre paid attention to how the floor felt through her new steel-toed boots. At first she couldn’t feel anything but the clomp of the heavy soles against the wooden slats, but the more she concentrated, the more she noticed the rise and fall of the slightly uneven floor, the faintly hollow sensation when there was a gap in the boards.
The practice kitchen was empty when they arrived. Massimo ran up to one of the shiny white stoves and began turning knobs.
“Is incredible!” With all four burners switched on, he opened the oven compartment and stuck his hand inside. “Already it’s getting warm! I never use one like this before.”
He was about to stick his head inside when Tsytryn yanked him away. “Gas,” the troll said simply as he turned all the knobs to off.
Massimo looked confused.
“The gas fumes in the oven could make you pass out or worse,” explained Rhydian.
Massimo nodded understandingly, then bounced toward the equipment section. “Look at this!”
Cemre couldn’t blame him for being excited. The variety of equipment available was mind-boggling. She couldn’t wait to try out the things she’d never used before, like the miniature ice cream maker and equally compact butter churner. They looked so much easier for her small hands to manage than the big butter churner they used to have at home. She usually couldn’t get the kind of quantities of milk needed for it to work, so she’d sold it and made do without.
It suddenly occurred to her that for once she wouldn’t have to do without. There was a great big pantry of food behind her. She drifted toward it as though drawn by a magnet. The spice rack alone made her want to try a million things she’d never cooked before. They had saffron – actual saffron! Before she knew it, her arms were filled with paper envelopes of spices.
“We have to cook something,” said Massimo from behind her. The other three were also browsing the shelves.
“In less than two hours?” said Rhydian doubtfully.
“Maybe we have much less time in the competition,” said Qhari. “We should practice cooking with speed.”
“The gas stoves will surely be much faster than the stoves we’re used to,” added Cemre. Then she turned to the others. “Have any of you cooked with gas before?”
Everyone shook their heads.
“Well, then, let’s give the stoves a try. Even if we do something small to start, like a sauce.”
Massimo had already filled a basket with ingredients. “I’m going to make something from my home, my favourite.” He emptied the basket onto his bench, spreading things out, then collected a whole lot of equipment.
The others selected benches near his, and Qhari pointed to the one beside him. “Come, Algernon, don’t be timid.”
Cemre carefully set out her ingredients in order. She’d decided to try a simple saffron custard first, so she could get to know how to work with the unfamiliar spice. And she was dying to taste it.
As she began to slowly heat the milk and separate the eggs, she glanced over at Qhari’s bench. He was struggling to get his stove lit.
“Here, let me help.” She showed him how to push the knob down towards the flame symbol first to light it, just as she’d seen Mrs. Dudley do, before adjusting the temperature.
“Thank you.” Qhari gave her a warm smile. “We don’t even have gas lights where I come from. You have them in your home?”
“Ye-es.” Cemre didn’t add that they hadn’t been able to afford the gas bill for years. “But it’s an old iron coal stove. I don’t enjoy the blacking, that’s for certain.” Iron stoves needed constant attention: starting and stoking the fire, emptying the ashes and separating out the cinders – the partially burned coals – to use again, then putting out the dustbin of leftover ash for the dustman. And then there was the cleaning off of burned-on food and the waxing with black wax to prevent rust.
Cemre gulped. A male cook wouldn’t have the job of blacking the stove – only the lowliest of kitchen maids got that most despised, dirtiest task in the home or kitchen. Had Qhari noticed her slip?
She stroked the smooth white porcelain and quickly said as gruffly as she could, “This is such a beauty. I wish I could always work on one of these.” She removed her milk from the heat and dropped her saffron fronds into it, then flinched as she saw Qhari hold a red pepper directly over the flame of one of the burners. “What are you making?”
“It’s a dish traditional from my country. From my town.” He turned the pepper so that it was scorched evenly on all sides. Cemre feared he’d burned himself, but he expertly avoided getting his fingers in the flame, using the stalk of the pepper to turn it. “We have the volcanos around, remember? So we say that our life is from the volcano; our hearts are from the volcano.” He placed the pepper on a chopping board and removed the core. “This is the volcano, and inside I will put the mincemeat and the spices, all the heat you find inside our hearts.”
Cemre’s wings ached to burst from their bindings. Such passion for cooking went straight to her own heart, and she felt grateful to be around these people who seemed to care about it as much as she did. Her family appreciated her cooking, but they certainly didn’t share her culinary fervour.
A whiff of smoke brushed her nose, but Qhari’s pepper was no longer scorching on the flame. She looked around at the other benches and noticed a pot boiling over on one of the stoves. She rushed over and pulled it off, switching off the burner.
“Oh, thank you! I forget,” said Massimo with a big grin as he walked back to the bench from the direction of the pantry. “I see many things in there and take longer than I plan.” He carried a basket as full as the first one he’d taken from the pantry.
Cemre looked at his bench, scattered with ingredients, chopping boards of half-cut vegetables, mixtures in small steel bowls, and dishcloths. “Let me help you make some space.” She began collecting the unused ingredients into one corner of the bench.
“No, you have your own cooking to do,” said Massimo. “I want to see what you make.”
“It’s only a dull custard,” said Cemre, thinking longingly of her saffron milk. “You are making something more interesting, it seems. What is it?”
Massimo laughed. “I don’t know yet. I start to make pasta because I want to make my favourite dish from home, but then I saw they have the nut mill and I want to try that too. And when I went to get the nuts, I saw the beef tongue which I never cook before, so I brought that, and now . . .” He shrugged with hands spread wide, still beaming.
Rhydian laughed from the bench next to them, where he sliced raw fish into delicate slivers and laid them in a shallow bowl of clear liquid. “You’ve a ling di long mind, haven’t ye, butt?”
“I do not understand half your words, my friend,” Qhari told the asrai as he crushed garlic.
Cemre pointed to a lump of dough on the counter. “Is this for your pasta?” she asked Massimo.
“Yes, it has been resting. But almost it is ready to roll out.”
“I’ve never made pasta before.”
“I show you!” Massimo pulled over the flour sack and began dumping handfuls of it onto the worktop.
“Wait! What would you do next with this one?”
Massimo poked the lump. “No, is too dry. I forget to cover it. We start again.”
He swiped the lump to the side and poured a pile of flour onto the workbench, then made a well in the centre of it. “In here we put the eggs.” He cracked four eggs directly into the well and then mixed it with a fork, flinging in a pinch of salt. Then he tossed the fork aside and mixed the flour into the eggs with his hands. “You have to do with your hands, so you can feel if it’s right.”
As Cemre struggled to keep her eyes on the dough rather than Massimo’s strong, deft hands, the powdery flour and runny eggs came together into a sticky mass.
“Please,” said Massimo as he kneaded, tipping his chin toward the flour bag. “A little more flour.”
Cemre scooped out a handful and sprinkled it over the dough, more interested in how the flecks landed on Massimo’s nut-brown skin than how they were incorporated into the mixture.
“Yes, is better. One more and it will be perfecto.”
She let another handful of flour sift through her fingers, and the dough became a smooth ball with a slight sheen.
“Now.” Massimo clapped his hands together, exploding a cloud of white dust over everything. “Where is the olive oil?” His eyes darted back and forth over the mishmash of bottles and jars scattered across his bench.
“Here.” Cemre picked the green-glass bottle from the mess and handed it to him. He reminded her of Rubella when she did her homework, spreading all her books and papers and writing tools across the kitchen counter, then not being able to find what was right in front of her.
Massimo trickled oil over the dough ball and spread it with his hands until it was evenly coated. “Now it have to rest. We need the cloth to cover it so it don’t dry.” Again he scanned his bench but seemed to see nothing, so Cemre helpfully grabbed a cloth lying folded on top of a condensed milk tin and handed it to him. He carefully wrapped the cloth around the dough and gave it a pat, as though it were a well-behaved child. “Riposati! Now we make the sauce. Oh!” He ran to the sink and collected some water in a cup. It splashed onto the floor as he trotted back to his bench. He dipped his fingers in the water and flicked some over the cloth. “This is also good for keeping it . . . how you say . . .”
“Moist?” supplied Cemre.
Massimo smiled as if she’d told him the meaning of life, and her wings put forth a concerted effort to escape. She folded her arms, trying to still them.
“Fancy a bit of mackerel ceviche?” Rhydian proffered a platter of his fish slivers, now garnished with near-translucent slices of radish and delicate fronds of cress.
“Mackerel . . . what?” asked Cemre.
“Ceviche. Qhari told me all about it while we were waiting for the orientation to start. It’s from his country – white-fleshed fish pickled in lime juice. But where I come from, we eat a lot of mackerel, usually fried with lots of salt and vinegar, and I thought . . . why not try pickling it in vinegar instead?”
Cemre couldn’t say she was excited to try raw fish, but Rhydian had such a gently pleased expression, she had to at least taste it.
She was not sorry she did.
The soft but firm fish melted in her mouth, the hint of sweet wine vinegar perfectly balanced with salt and the tangy crunch of the radishes, cress, and shallot shavings. A smattering of lemon zest gave it all a pleasant zing. It reminded her of a fresh bag of fish and chips at the seaside but ten times fancier.
“Is incredible,” exclaimed Massimo, shoving another forkful into his mouth.
“Leave some for Qhari and Tsytryn,” laughed Rhydian.
Qhari’s head popped up at Rhydian’s elbow. “You say my name?” Then, eyes landing on the platter, “Aye, you tried it!” The fish disappeared into his mouth with a smack of his lips. “So amazing,” he declared.
“Tsytryn,” called Cemre, taking the platter from Rhydian and carrying it over to the troll, who was completely focused on the pot he stirred. “Try some before it’s all gone.”
Tsytryn eyed the raw fish with the mossed-over ledge above one eye raised. After some moments, he said, “No.”
“Don’t tell me you’re afeared of fish,” said Rhydian with his breathy laugh. “Surely you have lakes and rivers aplenty in the mountains.”
“No fish.” Tsytryn stoically carried on stirring his pot. It was clear from his enunciation that he referred to his personal diet rather than the content of the waterways in his homeland.
“C’mon.” Rhydian waved the plate under Tsytryn’s nose. “I dare ya.”
Tsytryn’s spoon stilled, and he glared at the proffered dish with the detached immovability only a rock could manage.
Finally, he reached out and pinched a tiny sliver of fish between chunky forefinger and thumb and held it up before his eyes.
He placed it in his mouth.
His great jaw masticated in two laborious rotations.
He swallowed.
Everyone stared for what felt like a lifetime, scanning the troll’s face for any movement, any hint of reaction.
Finally, his cavernous chest expanded as he took a breath and opened his mouth.
“Not terrible,” he rumbled.
Cemre cast a quick glance at Rhydian, concerned for his feelings, but the asrai simply laughed and smacked Tsytryn on the shoulder, then shook out his hand.
“What do you cook here?” asked Massimo, pointing to the pot Tsytryn was stirring again.
“Banush.”
Cemre peered into the pot. There was a yellow porridge-like substance inside. “What is it made from?”
“Cornmeal. Sour cream.” Tsytryn tapped his spoon on the side of the pot and laid it aside. “Is ready.” He lifted the cover of a pan on an unlit burner. The scent of bacon and mushrooms wafted over to Cemre’s nose, and her mouth watered. “Is traditional in my homeland.”
Tsytryn scooped a perfect quenelle of smooth cornmeal onto a plate, then using tweezers, laid a thatch of thin-stalked mushrooms and crispy bacon across the top. Around it in a circular pattern, he drizzled a brown gravy that smelled of onions, then crumbled white cheese over it.
He slid the beautiful plate forward on the counter. “You taste.”
It felt like a command, but it certainly wasn’t necessary. Nobody hesitated to grab eating utensils and help themselves.
“Smashing, butt.” Rhydian smacked his lips.
“That sauce is magnificent,” added Cemre, licking her spoon to prolong the comforting fattiness coating her tongue.
Qhari scraped the plate with his fork. “You must have studied with the great teachers, my friend.”
Tsytryn shook his head – one turn left and right only. “Is peasant food.”
“Your peasants are the most happy, yes?” Massimo waved his fork. “The royalty . . . cavolo, I cannot even imagine.”
“Now you.” Tsytryn tipped his chin at Massimo. “Show us your food.”
Massimo waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, is not yet ready. The pasta dough is resting.”
“Love a good pasta, myself,” said Rhydian. “We have a Cantuccinian restaurant back home. They do a banging spaghetti with meat sauce and cheddar.”
Massimo’s face fell. It was a stark contrast to his usual unshakable jollity. “Scusa?” The word sizzled like the tip of a fuse connected to a very large barrel of gunpowder.
“Spa-ghet-ti.” Rhydian mimed a long narrow shape. “With cheddar.”
“You mean parmigiano?” Massimo’s teeth barely unclenched to let the words through.
“No, it was definitely cheddar.”
Massimo’s nostrils flared. “Cheddar.” He let off a string of Cantuccinian and began to pace.
“They serve it with a nice chutney on the side too.”
Massimo slammed his hand on the bench. “No, no, this is unacceptable. I make for you the proper pasta. The right way.”
He began furiously rolling out the pasta that had been resting, mumbling indignant Cantuccinian under his breath. Suddenly he flung out a hand towards Cemre. “Come. You will blanch the tomatoes for the sauce.”
Intrigued by this new, rather forceful side of him, Cemre obediently followed his instructions until they were serving up bowls of ridged penne pasta in an arrabbiata sauce.
“Ah, I didn’t expect the chilli,” exclaimed Rhydian after his first bite. “Nice touch.”
“It’s traditional.” Massimo’s words were blunt. He hadn’t quite forgiven the awful slight to his culture. “Arrabbiata mean ‘angry’.”
“I like this,” said Qhari. “Always my mother taught me to put the emotions into the food.”
“Your mother must have been a good cook,” observed Cemre before shovelling another bite of delicious pasta into her mouth.
“She taught me all the things.” Qhari wiped sauce off his chin with his thumb. “It is for her that I am here. I want a better life for her and my brothers and sisters. My country is very poor, you see. Most people are farmers, but . . .” He shook his head sadly. “There are taxes. The young people, they go to the cities to earn money for this because in the rural areas, we have no use for coin. It is the colonists who brought this. But they work very hard for very little because they do not have the foreign education.” He raised his fork with a flourish. “I want to make the opportunities. I will do this by opening a cooking school.”
“There’s lovely,” said Rhydian. “Could tell you were the selfless sort. Unlike me. I just want to not live in a small town anymore. Nobody ever leaves, do they?” He answered his own question with a shake of his head. “They grow up there, get married there, have children there, get themselves buried there. I’m not being funny, but that’s no life for me. I’ve got my eye on travel, like. Learn about food from other countries, meet more chefs like you lot.” He waved his fork at his audience.
“This is not selfish,” insisted Massimo. “It is good to seek a life that makes you happy. And you will teach others about food from your home. Learning and sharing what you know – this is magnanimous.”
A pang of jealousy gnawed at Cemre’s stomach. How fortunate Rhydian was not to have any responsibilities to hold him back, to be able to travel and see the world and make his passion for food the focus of his life.
She immediately squashed the thought. Her family was her whole world. How could she ever wish to leave them?
“What of you, Massimo?” asked Qhari. “What made you enter the competition?”
She already knew Massimo’s motives, but the way he shyly explained to the others squeezed her heart. He worried his lip in between sentences, and she noticed part of it was raw. Her legs twinged. Poor thing, his outgoing nature hid a deep anxiety. She supposed going against one’s family’s preferences to make one’s own way in the world would be enough to worry anyone. He must feel a good deal of pressure to succeed in order to prove he’d made the right choice.
“Algernon?” said Massimo.
Cemre flinched at the summons, having slipped into her own thoughts. “Yes?”
“The competition – why did you enter?”
“Oh.” How much should she reveal? What had she told Massimo on that day in the park? It was probably safest to be vague. “My family needs the money,” she said simply. “Medicine, clothes – that sort of thing.” She shoved a forkful of food into her mouth, hoping that would prevent any further questioning.
“Medicine?” rumbled Tsytryn.
Curses. She focused on scraping the remaining sauce on her plate into a puddle in the centre. “For my sister.”
“She is infirm?” asked Qhari.
Why wouldn’t they let the topic go? And how was she supposed to explain that her sister was . . . sad?
“She was ill some years ago,” she explained, “and it destroyed her sense of smell and taste.” Her fork scratched against the porcelain dish. “It’s been very hard for her.”
“Mun, that’s a raw deal,” lamented Rhydian. “Imagine not being able to taste anything.”
“I try to cook in a way she can still enjoy,” said Cemre, feeling guilty for bringing down the mood. “Different textures and colours. Or things that she can sense in other ways, like horseradish. It makes her nose tingle when she eats it.”
“Ah, this is a fantastic idea!” exclaimed Massimo. “It makes me think differently about my ingredients.”
Her pride over having thought of these ways to please Taurine was quickly subdued by fear of discovery if they kept asking her questions. “It’s Tsytryn’s turn,” she blurted, turning to the troll. “Why are you here?”
His mossy eyebrows lifted at the rate of a hand-winched drawbridge. They lowered at a similar pace before he said, “I apply to many kitchens. They say, ‘you too big’, ‘you get in way’, ‘you break things’.” He set his empty plate on the counter. “I will open my own restaurant. With big kitchen. Lots of space for me.”
She wasn’t the only one to face prejudice, then, thought Cemre. Women, species besides humans and elves – they all ran into the same wall when it came to entering the culinary world.
“You’ll do it, butt,” said Rhydian, patting Tsytryn on the shoulder – gently, this time, Cemre noted. “If anyone’s determined enough, it’s you.”
“Yes,” agreed Massimo. “All of us, we will find a way to these dreams, yes?”
He seemed so sure, and so did the others as they nodded along with him.
Cemre wished she had the same confidence.
“Ay, the time!” exclaimed Qhari. “We have to be on the stage in a few minutes. And we still have to put on the uniforms.”
Cemre bounced to her feet. “Oh, we’d better clean up quickly. Can’t leave the kitchen looking like this.”
Massimo put a hand on her arm. “But what of your dish? You didn’t finish it.”
Cemre shrugged. “That’s all right. It was only a boring custard.”
“No! You were too busy helping me.” He looked genuinely cross. “You cannot leave your own things for mine.”
“I wanted to help,” said Cemre with a smile.
“You were helping me too,” said Qhari. “You are very kind, but in the competition you cannot do this. You will not complete a dish if always you are helping everyone else.”
“It is your dream to be here, yes?” Massimo’s eyes leaked earnestness. “Food is your passion.”
“It’s that way for everyone here.” Why did she feel as though he was trying to take something important away from her? As if telling her to focus on herself was a forbidden path into a dark, cursed forest?
“But for you is different. You will not allow yourself . . . I don’t know how to explain this.” Massimo grabbed both her hands and clasped them tight in his. “You have to fight for this.”
“I . . . All right.” What was she agreeing to? It was hard to think clearly with his hands around hers. She felt safe and terrified all at the same time. “We . . . we had better get ourselves dressed and onto that stage.” She gently tugged her hands away and gestured to the mess. “We can clean this afterwards.”
Massimo frowned at her as though he wasn’t convinced she’d understood him, and he would not have been wrong.
“I’ll . . . I’ll think about what you said.”
Her words had the desired effect: Massimo smiled, and her wings fluttered.
At this rate, the linen holding them down would not last very long.
***
They arrived on the stage and joined the crowd of contestants forming in front of Mrs. Dudley.
After keeping them waiting for thirty minutes, the three judges finally arrived. The contestants clapped, and Cemre tried to refrain from glaring. She was just another man who deserved his place in this competition. She certainly wasn’t a woman fuming over the injustice of the judges’ bigotry, longing to take a cast iron frying pan to their humungous, ego-stuffed heads, no she was not.
“Welcome contestants,” said Sir Beckwith-Parsons, the light elf head judge. “You have been selected from hundreds of applicants, the very best we could find in the great city of Wenn.”
Who weren’t women, Cemre added mentally.
“This is the very first run of Prime Chef,” said Mr. Bronson, “but we hope to repeat the competition on a yearly basis. You will set the standard for every production after this one. This is a serious responsibility. We expect you to act with dignity at all times. Be respectful of your peers, the judges, and the production team who will be working around you.”
Mrs. Dudley cleared her throat.
“If you have any questions or concerns, please address them to Mrs. Dudley,” Mr. Bronson added.
Because we men don’t have time for such trivialities. Cemre mentally smacked herself. She really had to stop thinking like that, or she’d end up with a permanent scowl. And possibly throwing something.
“Let us begin with introducing ourselves,” said Sir Beckwith-Parsons. He placed his hand on his chest, which had puffed out. “You have no doubt all read my reviews, which are now published in no less than twenty-five newspapers and other circulars. I have won several food critic awards and judged a number of small-scale cooking competitions. This shall be the most illustrious yet.” He paused and closed his eyes, as if waiting for applause.
A contestant at the back began a reluctant clap, and the rest joined in.
Mr. Ogleby – the dark elf – cleared his throat. “I began my cooking apprenticeship at only fourteen years of age, training under many world-renowned chefs. I now own three successful restaurants in Wenn. Two have received four Grande Gourmand 1 stars, while the third has five stars, and I intend to open more establishments in other towns, so I shall be keeping an eye out for the most promising contestants.” He scanned his audience from right to left, then threw a wink into the middle distance.
The contestants, prepared this time but unsure if he was finished, applauded hesitantly.
The only human judge, Mr. Bronson, stepped forward and tucked his thumbs into the lapels of his waistcoat. “I was selected from hundreds of candidates to attend the elite Culinary Tecknikon of Wenn.” Cemre wondered how many of those candidates had been female. “I have also studied abroad at the most elite schools in Quellebaguette, Espadrille, and the rest of the continent, training under . . .” He rattled off a list of great chefs. “I have twenty-nine pleats in my official chef’s hat and have also written ten cookbooks, which all of you should have in your kitchens. If you do not, you can purchase a copy through the Great River 2 sprite.”
Having caught on to the dramatic pauses at the end of each judge’s speech, the contestants clapped confidently.
“Now,” said Mr. Ogleby, “the format of the competition. Every cooking challenge will have a time limit. Once the timer starts” – he gestured to the large clock hanging above the stage – “you may begin the cook. This includes selecting your ingredients and equipment. None of this may be done before the timer starts.”
“We will be looking for technique, ingenuity, presentation, and above all, flavour,” added Mr. Bronson. “Even the best presented dish might be rejected if the flavour is lacking.”
“As you have no doubt realised,” said Sir Beckwith-Parsons, “we have chosen an unusual setting for the contest, staging it as a theatrical production with the public paying to attend. In addition, we shall be using the latest tecknical advances to broadcast the show to select venues beyond the theatre. These too shall have paying audiences.” Cemre could see the gold coins flashing before the elf’s eyes. “This allows us to offer the grandest prize ever seen before: 10,000 crunes!”
One of the contestants cheered, then attempted to hide the sound behind a cough.
Mrs. Dudley nipped forward and whispered something into Sir Beckwith-Parsons’ ear.
“Ah yes,” he said, deflated. “We shall now allow the contestants to introduce themselves.” He pointed to one end of the crowd. “Beginning with you. Please tell us your name and where you trained.”
The human chef he’d selected stepped forward and went on for some minutes about the schools he’d attended, the chefs he’d worked with, until Sir Beckwith-Parsons waved at him to stop and instructed each contestant to keep their introduction under two minutes.
Even with the time limit, all the chefs revealed their extensive training at proper cooking schools or while apprenticed to well-known chefs. Massimo had been taught by Chef Santini himself!
Cemre wrung her hands behind her back, hoping her despair was not evident on her face. Perhaps her moustache would hide it.
Rhydian nudged her with his elbow. “Don’t let them get to you, butt,” he whispered. “They can talk a lot about their skill, but the proof is in the pudding.” He smirked. “Pun intended.”
On her other side, Massimo winked and tapped between his eyebrows. Cemre quickly relaxed her own forehead. So much for hiding her anxiety.
When it came to her turn to speak, she simply said, “My name is Algernon and I’ve been cooking since I was a child.” Then she turned to Rhydian, who was next, and sent him a silent plea to continue, which he thankfully did.
Introductions complete, Mr. Ogleby murmured something to Mrs. Dudley, and she zipped off the stage. He then rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Now we have a surprise. You all know that we have engaged our illustrious colleague, Chef Santini, as a mentor for the duration of the competition. He will not be judging the dishes, but he will give advice and nurture the most promising chefs.” Mr. Ogleby directed a smile at the contestant who must have been his personal favourite. “And tonight, he is here!” The elf threw his arm wide, and Chef Santini exited the wings, trailed by Mrs. Dudley and an unidentified human man in a plain black suit. The contestants burst into ecstatic applause.
Chef Santini! Here now! With all the to-do around Cemre’s disguise and second audition and then her preparations for her stay at the theatre, Chef Santini had slipped to the back of her mind.
“Welcome, Chef,” said Sir Beckwith-Parsons, pumping Santini’s hand.
“Honoured to have you with us,” said Mr. Bronson, all but shoving Beckwith-Parsons out of the way to extend his own greeting.
Chef Santini muttered something in Cantuccinian, and the man in the black suit interpreted, “I am happy to be here.”
Cemre couldn’t help noticing that Chef Santini did not smile at the judges when he said it. His mouth did, however, crinkle up in one corner when he examined the line of contestants.
“As a warm-up and to get you familiar with the format of the competition,” said Mr. Ogleby, “we are going to set a very simple challenge for you to complete right now. You have one hour to present us with a savoury or sweet dish featuring . . .” He swung his arms towards Mr. Bronson, who announced, “Butter!”
Butter? What an odd thing to make the most important ingredient in your dish. Though it was certainly true that it could make almost any dish taste better, it had never occurred to Cemre to build a dish around butter itself.
“You may put anything you choose in the dish,” said Sir Beckwith-Parsons, “but butter must play the main role in the presentation.” He gestured to Chef Santini. “Our guest will visit your benches during the cook to advise you.”
“Your time starts . . .” Mr. Bronson paused theatrically. “Now!”
Half the contestants raced to the pantry while the other half sprinted for the equipment racks. Cemre had joined the first half, hoping a look at the pantry would inspire her. As the cooks around her grabbed cuts of meat and handfuls of fruit or vegetables, panic crept up Cemre’s spine, tickling her wings and itching her insides.
Chef Santini had liked her choux pastry, but was that buttery enough? And an hour wasn’t nearly enough time to make all the bits that had gone with it.
What if the choux had been a fluke and Chef Santini hated everything else she cooked?
The itching under her skin intensified.
She nearly jumped right out of it when someone laid a hand on her back.
“You are all right?” asked Massimo. His basket was filled with potatoes.
“Um, yes, of course,” stuttered Cemre. “Just deciding what to make. What are you going to do with all those potatoes?”
“Gnocchi,” answered Massimo with a smile. “And a sage butter sauce with speck and parmigiano and” – he waved his hand noncommittally – “some other things maybe.”
“You can do all that in an hour?”
Massimo laughed. “We will find out, yes? But come, you have to choose your ingredients and start cooking.”
The itching gave way to a general drooping. She could hear the clock ticking above the stage, and each tock seemed to knock another idea out of her reach.
“You like the sweet things, yes?” said Massimo. “You begin with the custard earlier. What of a sweet pastry? Pastry needs much butter, yes?”
It was as good a place to start as any, she thought. Perhaps she’d think of a way to make it more interesting once she started cooking it.
“Yes,” she said to Massimo. “I’ll make a nice buttery pastry.”
He dashed away as she collected her ingredients, but when she got back out onto the stage, he waved at her and pointed to the bench beside him. Tsytryn, Qhari, and Rhydian had benches on either side and in front of them, and they each looked up and smiled at her as she approached, which gave her heart a little jolt of encouragement. Although, Tsytryn didn’t so much smile as throw her a brief nod, but the few hours she’d spent with the troll had taught her that this was a significant effort on his part.
She got to work bringing together her pastry dough, rolling it out and folding it multiple times with cold butter between the layers to make it as flaky and light as possible. But she couldn’t help fretting over what else she was going to do. A plain pastry wouldn’t be enough. Her eyes flicked between the various cooks around her, all with many expensive ingredients covering their benches.
Except Qhari, who was roasting small potatoes whole in a box of coals. As the skins turned brown and crispy, Qhari finely diced a mountain of chilli peppers. Cemre hoped he wasn’t planning to burn the tastebuds off the judges in some kind of long-term strategy.
The word burn caught on a cog in her brain and grated against it with each revolution.
Burn burn burn burn
Burnt butter!
Cook had taught her to make it when a quick savoury sauce was needed. But the nutty taste would work perfectly in a pastry filling. She could flavour a patisserie cream with it, perhaps cook some apple slices in it for a little sharpness to cut through all the rich fat. Baked apples were Rubella’s favourite treat, Cemre thought fondly, especially with a touch of nutmeg sprinkled over them.
After another visit to the pantry, her hands flew over the worktop, slicing apples and stirring melted butter and whisking together the patisserie cream base. A tiny spark of confidence propelled her onwards.
“Scusi.”
Cemre jumped, and the whisk she’d been holding clattered against the floor.
Chef Santini stood before her with a gentle smile lifting his moustache. He spoke, and his assistant hurriedly interpreted, “I apologize. Allow me to procure you a clean one.”
Cemre protested, but the assistant dashed to the equipment rack and fetched her a new whisk. A squeaking noise drew Cemre’s attention to the ground. A team of brownies in matching blue aprons scuttered out from under the bench and wiped up the cream splatter, carrying off the dirty whisk like a set of pallbearers late for the procession.
After presenting her with the fresh whisk his assistant had brought, Chef Santini spread his hands at her bench. “What are you making?” his interpreter asked.
Cemre explained her concept, and Chef Santini nodded sagely along. He produced a spoon from a pocket and tasted her browning butter.
“Very good,” translated his assistant as the chef himself pinched the air and bobbed the closed fingers in time with his speech. “That is almost dark enough. A few minutes more and you will have it just right.”
Cemre’s wings fluttered with nervous delight. “Thank you.”
Chef Santini moved over to Qhari’s bench, and an animated exchange followed. Pleasure at how well they all seemed to be doing bubbled up from Cemre’s stomach.
A chef at a bench in front of her held a tiny dragon over a baked custard with raw sugar on top. “This isn’t working,” he complained, tapping the dragon gently on the back. “It’s not crème brulee unless the top is—”
The dragon burped, and the ramekin of custard collapsed into a pile of ashes.
“Twenty minutes!” yelled Mr. Bronson.
Cemre pulled her pastry out of the oven, crisp and golden brown on top. It needed to cool before she could fill it, but there wasn’t much time. Her eyes were drawn to the blast chiller. Now was as good a time as any to try it out. She nipped over to it and slipped her pastry inside, then she got her patisserie cream into an ice bath and gave it a good stir.
All her elements were ready; now it was simply a matter of waiting for the pastry to chill. The clock told her she had fifteen minutes left. Five would be plenty to assemble the dish.
She glanced over at Massimo – as in the practice kitchen, he’d strewn his bench with all sorts of bottles and packages and bowls and was racing from one end to the other, picking up items and putting them down again, not seeming to know what to do next.
Cemre couldn’t stop her feet from carrying her to his side. “How are you managing?”
He threw her his brilliant smile, and her toes curled inside her safety boots. “I am well. The gnocchi is ready to be cooked. I have only to finish the sauce and toast the bruschetta and then prepare the salad.”
“How long does the gnocchi need to cook?”
He blinked at her. “Until it is ready.”
Ah, he had the same opinion of time as Rubella, apparently – a nebulous notion that did not adhere to any knowable rules and seldom applied in the practical world.
“Is your water boiling?” She saw that it wasn’t. “Let’s get that on, shall we?”
Water on the stove, she herded him towards his sauce and fielded his distractions until Mr. Ogleby announced that they had five minutes remaining. Massimo’s sauce was ready and his gnocchi boiling.
“Leave out the salad and the bruschetta,” she threw over her shoulder as she hurried to the blast chiller to fetch her pastry, and Massimo returned a firm, “Si!”
She was thrilled to find the pastry nicely cooled and ready for its filling of burnt butter cream and apple. A light grating of nutmeg and her dish was ready the moment the ten-second countdown began.
Massimo was slicing bread, his sauce still in the pan, only naked gnocchi plated up.
“On the plate, Massimo!” she yelled. “Your sauce!”
His head whipped up, and he seemed to register the countdown. He dropped his knife and raced over to the saucepan, tipping a generous amount over the gnocchi a millisecond before the final “Time’s up!”
Cemre released a tight breath and dropped the hand that had been clutching her stomach. Massimo needed a personal assistant at his bench to keep him on task!
She scanned the contestants around her, many of whom had rather elaborate concoctions before them, and her wings drooped. Would her simple pastry be enough?
Sir Beckwith-Parsons cleared his throat in the manner of one whose throat is in fact already clear but not in the mood for a yell of “Attention please.” “When your name is called, bring your dish up here.” He tapped the high table in front of him, just wide enough to fit the three judges and Chef Santini standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Knives, forks, spoons, and serviettes were laid out before each of them.
The first five contestants to present their dishes were all from popular restaurants in Wenn, and Cemre wondered if the judges knew any of them personally. Each plate of food was classic, extravagant, and hardly what Cemre would term imaginative, but the judges seemed pleased, though Chef Santini said little.
Finally, her friends were summoned one by one. The judges choked on Qhari’s spices while Chef Santini praised his depth of flavour. They seemed utterly confused by Rhydian’s twist on bread-and-butter pudding while Chef Santini smacked his lips and lauded his inventiveness. Tsytryn received grumbled compliments on his exquisite dessert, a tower of small cakes with decorations Cemre couldn’t begin to comprehend. Chef Santini simply shook the troll’s hand and patted it, a tear in his eye.
Massimo’s gnocchi was well-received, though Chef Santini commented that the sauce tasted rushed and needed more time and care to fully develop. The rueful, lopsided smile Massimo returned spoke to the frequency of such critique from his mentor.
Then it was Cemre’s turn.
She walked her plate to the front, placed it on the wooden table, and took a step back, folding her hands behind her. She didn’t dare meet the eyes of the judges.
“What is that?” asked Mr. Ogleby with a trace of disdain.
“A burnt butter pastry,” Cemre murmured, her attempt at a gruff voice collapsing into a tremulous growl.
“What’s that you say?” demanded Sir Beckwith-Parsons. “Speak up, lad.”
“A burnt butter custard tart.” Cemre coughed, examining her shoes. “With apple.”
The judges tucked in, devouring the tart in seconds.
Mr. Bronson licked a crumb from his lips, then sucked the inside of his mouth as though extracting every last bit of flavour. He let his fork drop with a clink against the plate. “Satisfactory,” he said.
“Too simple for my taste,” sneered Sir Beckwith-Parsons.
Mr. Ogleby hummed in agreement.
A thud made Cemre jump and look up. The judges appeared just as shocked, all gaping at Chef Santini, who glared back at them. His fist lay on the table, and Cemre wondered if that had been the source of the thud.
The Cantuccinian chef dragged his angry eyes from the Anglish judges and laid them on Cemre, instantly softening the hard lines of his face into a smile. His ensuing words were delivered in such a kind tone, Cemre barely needed the translation.
“There is love in this dish,” explained his assistant. “One does not need embellishment when there is love.”
Apparently satisfied, the chef stepped away from the table and folded his arms. Flustered, Sir Beckwith-Parsons dismissed Cemre, and she fled to her bench with a spark of joy in her heart. The organ pounded her chest like a meat tenderizer, and she didn’t hear a word that was said to any of the remaining contestants.
When everyone had presented their dishes, Sir Beckwith-Parsons puffed out his chest and advised them all to be ready to put on a good show on the morrow.
They filed off the stage, Cemre and her roommates drifting together as they moved towards the passage to their quarters.
“That was . . .” Massimo’s hands flapped like a Pegasus foal preparing for take-off. “Incredible!” His face shone with excitement. “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”
“Might be my last day here,” Rhydian mumbled, shoulders slumped. “I’ve a pig’s feet on me, and that’s no lie.”
“No, first I will go,” said Qhari sadly. “They don’t like my style.”
“That’s because they’re idiots,” said Cemre, surprising herself with her vehemence. “They wouldn’t know skill if it bit them in the . . . in the . . .” Only Rubella’s phrases came to mind, and she didn’t want to say those in front of her new friends.
“Arse,” said Tsytryn.
Rhydian sniggered, but then his face fell again. “I suppose I’ll have to try my luck elsewhere.”
“No! Chef Santini love your dishes,” insisted Massimo. “I know her – his – expression. He appreciates unique ideas.”
“It doesn’t matter what anyone except the judges thinks.” Rhydian shoved his hands in his pockets. “They’re the ones who make the final decisions.”
“I am hungry,” rumbled Tsytryn.
“Let’s go to the practice kitchen,” suggested Cemre. “There were so many leftovers from our experiments earlier.”
“Good idea.” Rhydian stretched his arms. “And then we probably ought to get to bed. Tomorrow will be a long day. A long, difficult day,” he added gloomily.
Massimo slapped him on the back, knocking an “oof” out of the asrai. “No, my friend! Don’t look down like this. You have the incredible skill, the ideas of many new things. These others” – he gestured broadly in the vague direction of the human and elf chefs who’d gone ahead of them – “they think only of the tradition, the classic. They don’t look over the . . . the . . . como se dice . . . their own bench.” He took Rhydian by the shoulders. “You can see far. You have big eyes.”
Everyone laughed because Rhydian physically did have large eyes, just as most asrai did.
Massimo chuckled at his own inadvertent joke. “Maybe this is why you have so many ideas.”
“No, is because of his big head,” rumbled Tsytryn.
“Hey, I’m not the one who couldn’t find a hat that fit.” Rhydian pushed open the door to the practice kitchen.
Tsytryn patted the cap perched precariously on his stony skull. He’d had to put it back there many times during the cook. “Hats not my style. More of a closed helm troll.” He waved his hand above his head. “With feather.”
Qhari was doubled over with laughter. “Stop,” he gasped. “I will die right here.”
“No, no, not near all this food,” scolded Cemre in her best Mrs. Dudley impression. “That wouldn’t be hygienic.”
With hoots of laughter and much teasing, they pulled together their leftover dishes, plus some supplementary items from the pantry.
When they’d reduced most of it to crumbs, Massimo met Cemre’s eyes and said, “I have the hunger for some custard. Some saffron custard.”
“Oh.” She waved him away. "Another time.”
“I too require custard,” said Tsytryn.
“Can’t sleep without a bowl of custard,” said Rhydian. “Only thing between me and a restless night.”
“How can you cook well if you don’t sleep well?” added Qhari. “You could lose the competition.”
“Oh, you lot.” Cemre tried to sound cross, but inside, her heart beamed. “I suppose I have no choice.”
She went and got the saffron-infused milk from the icebox. It could still be used if she heated it slowly.
“You know what go well with saffron?” said Massimo. “Pears.”
“Mm, poached pears are wonderful with custard. In a nice sweet wine.” Rhydian kissed his fingers.
Qhari scratched his chin. “It needs texture, something for a crunch. I’ll make a tuille. And toast some pistachios.” He scurried into the pantry.
“Acidity,” said Tsytryn.
“Ah yes. Some orange juice in the poaching liquid?” suggested Rhydian. “Fresh raspberries?”
“Orange juice caviar,” said Tsytryn.
“Ooh, fancy,” replied Rhydian. “I’ve never made that before.”
“I show you.” The two moved to another bench to work on the caviar, leaving Cemre stirring the custard while Massimo prepared pears beside her in companionable silence.
As they cooked together, joking all the way through, Cemre’s wings seemed ready to burst from their bindings and spread wide, as though they could lift her off the ground. She felt . . . effervescent. She was learning so much here, laughing, having fun in the kitchen. It had been a long time since cooking had felt like this.
Maybe that’s why her dishes hadn’t helped Taurine. She hadn’t been putting enough passion into them. She would do better, when she went home. If she could win the grand prize, they could have more variety of ingredients, a better quality of food. Maybe even an automaton so Taurine could communicate with the prince more easily.
Rhydian showed Massimo how to slice up his poached pears into near-transparent slivers so they could be layered prettily on a plate. Cemre added dollops of her saffron custard under Tsytryn’s artful direction, then Qhari scattered toasted almond flakes over it all and laid his tuille – which looked light enough to blow away if anyone breathed too hard – on top. Finally, Tsytryn used a pair of tweezers to balance neon orange pearls in a pyramid on the tuille.
“Fantastic, my friends,” said Qhari, rubbing his palms together. “We make the artwork together.”
Rhydian handed out dessert forks and spoons. “Don’t stand about – tuck in.” Rhydian scooped up a perfect mouthful, every element included.
As Cemre slowly chewed the amalgamation of flavours she would never have come up with by herself, hope sent thrills through her wings. She wondered if the prince had invited Taurine out yet. Whether the medication was working. She should take Xanthan to the doctor too, once she was back. And if they could go somewhere warm in winter—
“This is delicious, Algernon,” said Rhydian, scraping together another spoonful. “Saffron custard. Never would have thought of it, myself.”
“And the custard, she is so smooth, like ah . . .” Massimo snapped his fingers as he searched for the right word. “Silk. Mine always have the lumps.”
“The pears and pistachios and tuille are also wonderful,” said Cemre, feeling the praise was not being doled out evenly. “With the orange caviar, it’s the perfect combination.”
“We make good team,” rumbled Tsytryn.
“I wish the competition was a team event,” said Qhari mournfully. “Is so much more easy and fun when we help one another.”
It was so much easier, thought Cemre. Being part of a team did something to her that made her feel life was possible , that it wasn’t day after day of struggle.
But that wasn’t how life worked, was it? This was a theatre production, something that would only last a few days and then be over. And then she’d be back to taking care of her family. Alone.
She shivered the thought away. It was only right that she devote herself to them. It was her duty.
1. Grande Gourmand stars are awarded by the Continental Guide to Travel, an annual publication containing maps of the continent, recommended accommodation for travellers, and exceptional eateries rated on a scale of one to five. These ratings are submitted by a secret society of Food Tasters Errant, who never reveal their identities and are said to reside in a hidden lair when not visiting restaurants. This has led to many restaurant owners giving special treatment to patrons with particularly pale or grey skin and smoked glasses, which in turn has led to a general reduction in sunbathing amongst the fine dining elite.
2. Originally a purveyor of books from a rickety rented stall, Geoffrey Fatlip soon saw the benefit of embracing the developing web of sprites as a means of commerce. Instead of braving the foul and dangerous streets, any person in possession of an automaton could summon the Great River sprite, browse Geoffrey’s merchandise, and place an order to be delivered to their door by a Pegasus. Over time, Mr. Fatlip has expanded his range of offerings to include almost anything in the Angled Empire, employing cart drivers, trolls, and even ents to deliver larger items.