10. Chapter 10
Chapter 10
C emre straightened her neckerchief as she and her friends dawdled in the wings. Today, she was ready to do battle, to show those blasted judges that she deserved to be here, that she could cook just as well as any man who’d been to culinary school. They’d never call her dish “simple” again.
And then there was their secret weapon.
“Are you ready?” she asked Tsytryn. “Be sure to wait for one of the orchestra pauses.”
It was hard to gage the troll’s facial expressions, but the slight petrification of the crevices around his mouth and eyes made Cemre feel he was glaring at her. Was she being too bossy? She only wanted to make sure they were successful. She glanced at Massimo, and he tapped his forehead with a grin. She smiled back and tried to relax her brow.
“I’ve faith in you, butt,” said Rhydian, slapping the troll on the back and then shaking out his hand. “All you have to do is start, and we’ll follow right along.” He patted Qhari on the shoulder. “Soon as our man here gives us our note.”
“On me you can rely,” affirmed Qhari, his chest pushed out.
The curtain rose, and Cemre strode onto the stage with all the swagger she could manage. Walk like a man. Show them who’s head chef.
Queen Valeria was once more in attendance. She hadn’t missed a show so far. Cemre wondered what she’d think of today’s performance.
Sir Beckwith-Parsons began by approaching a cloth-covered table and grasping two corners of the fabric. “This challenge requires imagination.” He ripped the black satin away. On the table sat a number of traditional Anglish dishes: roast lamb with potatoes and mint sauce, pork pie, bangers and mash, beef stew, toad in the hole, and braised pheasant with leeks. “You are required to take one of these classic recipes and reinvent it. Turn an old, well-known favourite into something novel and extraordinary.”
Cemre’s wings quivered with excitement. She knew exactly what she was going to do. The braised pheasant would be her starting point, but she was going to make it with duck and she was going to use the method Massimo had told her about. It would be rich, expensive, something that spoke of luxury. She would certainly not worry about waste – none of the other chefs did.
She gathered five ducks, earning a dirty look from several chefs who found the ice box empty. Then she chose the most rare and expensive ingredients available: truffles, caviar, triple-distilled brandy. She wasn’t certain how she’d use them yet, but she’d find a way to cram as much extravagance into the meal as possible.
Three ducks went into the broth which would become the braising liquid, one was rendered of its fat, and the final one was set aside for its meat. As she worked, Cemre kept one ear open for their cue from Tsytryn. She didn’t consider herself a singer of any talent, and it was especially tricky to hold a tune while putting on her manly tone, but Rhydian had seemed pleased with the overall effect of their combined voices.
And then it came – a moment of silence as the orchestra paused to allow one of the judges to speak to a contestant. Neither of them got a word out before Tsytryn started pounding a rhythm into his bench. He’d dented two countertops during their rehearsals the night before, and then he’d found a suitable force that would preserve the furniture while still being loud enough to be heard throughout the auditorium. Of course, loudness was never going to be a concern for him.
Qhari sung out one clear note and then began the melody, and they all chimed in with their harmonies.
At first, everyone seemed too alarmed to react. And then someone in the audience began clapping along, and the next thing they knew, everyone was singing the words to the popular tune and even stamping their feet in time with Tsytryn’s fist.
Rhydian flipped the contents of his pan while hitting a particularly high note, and the crowd cheered.
Her heart mimicked his flip. It’s working. She snuck a peek at the judges. They were completely flabbergasted, mouths gaping as they looked from audience to singers and back again. The other contestants were similarly stunned. Only Chef Santini watched Massimo, lips tight in a thin line.
Their song came to an end, and the audience leapt to their feet, applauding and whistling for all they were worth. When they didn’t seem to be planning on stopping anytime soon, Sir Beckwith-Parsons strode to the front of the stage and flapped his pearl-white hands at them. “Yes, yes, that’s quite enough.”
Finally, the crowd responded – with a little encouragement from the Constabulary posted around the Pit – and the shouting died down into animated whispering. The contestants who had frozen shook themselves and got back to work. Cemre and her friends had never fully stopped their cooking, but it was certainly easier not trying to hold a tune and tempo at the same time.
The orchestra, which had apparently been dumbstruck, was waved back into action by Sir Beckwith-Parsons. He then turned his back on the auditorium and threw a glare at each of the misbehaving chefs. “Well,” he said. Then, after a huff from his sizeable nose, “ Well. ”
Cemre desperately wanted to giggle, but she still had a dish to complete. As she set aside the duck carcasses leached of flavour, she felt a pang of guilt. How many could she have fed with this meat that would be tossed into the bin? But she brushed the disquiet away. That wasn’t important right now. The only thing that mattered was winning.
Chef Santini approached Massimo’s bench, stone-faced. “é una cocina o un circo?”
Massimo paled and sucked his lip between his teeth. His mentor simply turned and marched away. What could he have said to him? It was clear he was not happy with their performance.
Dragging her eyes back to her bench, Cemre centred her thoughts on making her dish look as elaborate as possible. She piled gleaming black caviar on top of her braised duck and sprinkled it liberally with gold leaf. Only a diamond sculpture of the meal could be fancier.
Time was called, and Cemre quickly checked her friends’ fare. Opulent couldn’t begin to describe what they’d produced.
They want looks, we’ll give them looks.
And just as they’d expected, the judges could not fault their dishes, not when they were almost as thoroughly embellished as Queen Valeria’s crown.
“Fit for a king— Er, queen,” declared Mr. Bronson with a belated nod to the royal box.
Only Chef Santini remained silent through most of the tasting. When Cemre presented her dish, he frowned at her. After one mouthful, he flung his spoon to his plate like a fractious child hurling away a toy. “Mi fa un baffo.”
“He is unimpressed 1 ,” said the translator as the chef flicked his fingers in disgust. “There is no emotion here. Only ashes.”
Ashes? Surely it didn’t taste that bad? Not with the essence of three ducks in the sauce!
Chef Santini pounded his heart with a fist. “Where is this?”
She didn’t know how to answer. It was the first time she’d had all three judges thrilled with her dish, gushing praises. And now Chef Santini wasn’t happy? What had she done to disappoint him?
On the way back to her bench, she couldn’t decide whether to be pleased at their standing ovation from the audience and the favour of the judges or to be devastated that she’d let down her hero. Massimo gave her a wan smile as she took her place next to him.
Despite the niggle of doubt, a wave of jubilation rushed through her when she and her friends were in the top positions, gaining three of them the time advantage for the next day.
They could barely contain their rapture until the curtain was fully descended.
“We did it!” yelled Rhydian, stamping his feet.
“You heard the cheers?” Qhari threw his hands above his head. “Louder than ever!”
“The judges couldn’t help but praise our dishes,” added Cemre, beaming. “Not when the audience was so thrilled with us.”
Even Tsytryn seemed to be lighter of step. “It was . . . good.”
Massimo seemed torn between excited puppy and kicked puppy. “Chef Santini was not so happy. He ask me if this is a kitchen or a circus.” His poor lip was raw from his torturing it.
“He didn’t like my dish either.” Cemre patted Massimo’s arm. “But he is not the one who decides who stays and who goes. We are only doing this to get through the competition. Then we can go back to cooking the way we like.” Or in Cemre’s case, probably cooking in a small cottage kitchen for only her family. She didn’t like the way her wings grew heavy at the thought.
“For now, we should take the win!” said Rhydian. “Our singing won over the audience, and that combined with our extravagant dishes won over the judges. That’s a tidy result, and you won’t catch me looking a gift unicorn in the mouth.”
Qhari nodded along with the asrai’s words. “You make a good point, my friend.”
Rhydian put up his hands. “But we can’t be mitching now because we had a little success. We best practice a new song for tomorrow, keep things fresh.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” agreed Cemre. “The audience will get bored if we do the same thing every time.” She threw a mischievous glance at Massimo. “Maybe you can do your juggling after all.”
He smiled, but then it twisted into a frown. Chef Santini’s criticism had punched him in the gut, it seemed.
But Cemre wouldn’t allow one man’s disapproval to stop her, even if the idea of ignoring the one chef she’d looked up to for years made her stomach want to empty itself. She’d come this far. She could see herself and her friends as the remaining top five contestants. Her stomach roiled again. And then she’d really have to push herself to win. It would hurt because she had begun to really care for these people.
And then?
She couldn’t help glancing at Massimo as they made their way to their room to practice their singing. His silly joke about him hiring her to help him in the kitchen played over and over in her mind. Their fun in the practice kitchen had lit a spark in her. And once the competition was over, whether she won it or not, she’d have to go back to her lonely kitchen at home. And he’d go back to Cantuccini.
Unless . . . she went with him? Perhaps she could earn better money working with him in whatever kitchen he ended up in. He was talented and connected. He was willing to guard her secret. With money, she could secure a good place for her family.
They’d have to learn Cantuccinian, of course. Rubella might struggle at school.
The thoughts played hide and seek with each other throughout their singing rehearsal, not letting up when it was time for bed and – while waiting for the others to complete their ablutions so she’d have the wash room to herself – she lay back on her bunk. Round and round they went, visions of maintaining her disguise and working with Massimo, visions of winning the competition and finding that little cottage, that safe haven for her family.
Visions of life without ever seeing him again.
Visions of life seeing him every day.
No. She shook her head to convince herself. It was for the best she gave up on such ideas. It was best if things stayed as they were.
She sat up and pulled aside the curtain. She needed to wash and get ready for bed.
As she climbed out of the bunk, Massimo walked in through the door, fresh from his bath. His hair was wet and scraped back severely.
Something went ping in the back of Cemre’s mind.
He threw her a quick smile and began digging around in his satchel. “Now where I put that . . .” His words dissolved into mumbled Cantuccinian. His tormented lip received an undeserved chewing.
There was another ping in Cemre’s head.
He stood up straight, and his gaze glazed over as he slipped away from the current moment, perhaps thinking of where he’d last seen the mysterious item he was missing. His face took on a stoic, grim expression.
Ping ping ping.
Cemre had seen that expression before, that posture. But not on a man who wore chef’s whites. No chef’s cap, no checked neckerchief.
This man had been wearing a much smarter costume, one involving braiding and silver-fringed epaulettes and a red sash.
And he didn’t have a moustache.
Cemre held up her hand in front of her, blocking the lower half of Massimo’s face . . .
And saw Prince Vittorio of Cantuccini.
1. Lit. “It makes me a moustache.”