Chapter 12 When Your Mise en Place Is a Bust
When Your Mise en Place Is a Bust
SYLVIE LOOKED AROUND AND TRIED TO GET HER BEARINGS.
People stood in the stands. Most of them chanted, “Vive la France!“
A small group waving star-spangled flags shouted, “Go USA!“
“Vamos, Espana!“ yelled another handful.
A half-dozen chairs flanked Sylvie on each side. It took her a moment to realize, with a jolt, where she was sitting. The judges’ table.
In the center sat a small man with hawkish eyes that seemed far too big for his face. A stern expression had glued his eyebrows together. Next to him was a tall man with not enough hair and too many chins. Sylvie recognized him from the photo she’d seen. Balthazar LeGrande.
LeGrande picked up a microphone. “If the audience could please be quiet. The judges need to speak to the leaders of Team USA and Team France.”
Some hissing and boos followed. Sylvie couldn’t tell if it was for the teams or the requested silence. Her gaze moved down the line of unfamiliar faces at the table and settled on the woman seated at the far end.
Madame Godard. In this moment, she seemed fragile, like a half-cracked egg.
“Abby Jones, leader of Team USA, please step forward,” said Balthazar.
Colorful lights flashed across the arena floor, lighting it up like a Christmas tree. Beyond the bright lights, a line of chefs stood in silhouette. Sylvie squinted, trying to spot her mom.
A twenty-something version of her mother stepped out of the shadows. Her long auburn hair was now swept into a ponytail. The creases Sylvie had watched grow comfortably around the corners of her mom’s eyes hadn’t formed yet. “I’m here.”
Madame Godard looked at her. “You’ve been accused of cheating by the French team.”
“BOO! HISSS!”
“Silence!” bellowed Balthazar, trying to calm the large French crowd.
Her mom stood there for a moment, looking tired and stunned. “But Madame Godard. I did not—would not. You’ve known me since I was a Brindille student.”
“She’s lying!” said a voice.
The petite form of Josephine Flammé stepped forward.
Her blonde hair was trimmed into a pixie cut.
Sylvie had only seen photos of her, always looking hollowed out and defeated.
But here, her green eyes sparkled. Flammé turned and glared at Sylvie’s mom.
She held up the remnants of her dish. “Someone swapped the ingredients in my star-gazy pie.”
Peeking through the flaky crust were a half-dozen fish heads. Their milky white eyes stared up toward the ceiling as their mouths hung agape.
Sylvie crinkled her nose.
“It would’ve been perfect,” said Flammé. “But when I cut into it, instead of creating a starry night, it stunned the judges, turning them stiff as these fish.”
Sylvie knew, in cooking, sometimes all it took was one missing ingredient for a dish to go from spectacular to disaster.
Flammé dug out a plastic container. She pointed to the red tape on the lid. “This is your team’s color.”
Sylvie now noticed that her mother’s chef’s coat was red, whereas Josephine’s was blue.
“Mrs. Jones. Can you explain how your team’s tape ended up in Team France’s kitchen?” asked the tiny man seated in the middle. His hawkish eyes darted between the two women, as if searching for some hidden piece of proof.
“I … I don’t know, Monsieur Treusso.”
“BOOO!” chanted the rowdy French crowd.
Abby got that little crinkle between her brows, like she did whenever she tried to work her way out of an uncomfortable situation. “Check my Blade!” Her mom pulled out her eight-inch polished Santoku knife. “You’ll see. I didn’t do anything to her recipe.”
A low murmur erupted.
Monsieur Treusso leaned forward, eyeing the knife as if it were an overcooked piece of meat.
“I may be the head of the Council of Culinary Sages, but I can’t check your Blade, at least not this time.
The container with Mademoiselle Flammé’s gilead buds was simply swapped with butcher’s-broom … so there’s no spell to trace.”
“Coupable!” the French spectators cried.
Sylvie wasn’t exactly sure of the meaning, but it didn’t seem good. Once again, Balthazar tried to quiet them, to no avail.
“The tape from your team’s kitchen is circumstantial evidence at best,” continued Monsieur Treusso, “but the butcher’s-broom—it was the key ingredient in Team USA’s spell. No other team had access to it.”
Josephine gave a satisfied nod.
Sylvie searched her mother’s face for a clue. A twitch of a smile. A flicker of fear. But there was nothing. She simply looked as if a ship had carried her off into a stormy sea.
“Wait!” A young man in a red chef’s coat hustled forward. “This is my fault.”
Sylvie blinked. She’d seen pictures of this guy. His belly was smaller here, but the bulbous brown eyes were unmistakable. It’s Boris Bergen. My mom’s old teammate.
Boris turned to the judges. “I picked up our supplies. But when I was heading back to the competition floor, I sort of spilled the ingredients. We still had enough butcher’s-broom for our recipe. So, I didn’t think I needed to mention it. I’m sorry.”
Sylvie’s mom gave Boris’s arm a pat. “It’s not your fault.”
“This certainly sheds new light on the situation,” said Madame Godard. She no longer had the look of a lobster about to be tossed into boiling water. “Anyone could’ve picked up the butcher’s-broom and swapped it for the gilead buds.”
“Of course you’d say that,” said one of the portly female judges. She tightened the green scarf around the collar of her purple blouse, looking very much like an eggplant. “Because your American team will benefit from having Team France out of the way.”
“Team France was the favorite to win,” Godard said calmly. “So, I’d say all teams would benefit from France’s failure. The question now is, what do we do? Do we punish someone who claims they’re innocent?”
“We must put it to a vote,” said Balthazar.
The crowd let out a united gasp.
Sylvie knew how it all ended. Agnes had told her. Balthazar LeGrande threw his son’s team under the bus. Yet Sylvie still found herself holding her breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
Balthazar leaned into his microphone. “Would France’s lead assistant and the commis for both teams step forward?”
A young girl with mousy brown hair scuttled out of the shadows. “I am the commis for France.” She fiddled with her apron as she shifted her weight from side to side.
“Commis for Team USA. Go USA!” said a young boy with a heavy French accent. His brown eyes twinkled as he smiled at the judges.
Even though he was younger, and not yet wearing the signature eye patch that had earned him the nickname “Culinary Pirate,” Sylvie instantly recognized him. Guy Fabre.
“Je suis ici!” Someone new raced forward. His voice was soft as pelting rain. He reminded Sylvie of a young giraffe. Long. Lean. Still unsure of his footing.
Balthazar’s piercing gaze settled on him. “Fernand, you were Team France’s lead assistant. Did you handle the mise en place?”
Sylvie knew the term. Her mom used it all the time in the kitchen. It meant “everything in its place.” It was, as her mom reminded her, the first step every chef should take before cooking.
Fernand’s blond hair fell loosely over one eye as he adjusted the orange scarf sticking out beneath the collar of his chef’s coat. “I think I did, Fath—” Fernand laughed nervously. “I mean, Monsieur LeGrande.”
Balthazar raised a brow. “The Golden Whisk is about more than culinary skills and clever spells. It’s also a competition of the mind, of preparedness. You didn’t think to check your ingredients before the most important moment in your life?”
“I did.” Fernand glanced over at Josephine. “At least … I checked most of it. Then, I had our commis handle the rest.”
The young commis’s eyes grew wide. “I did check… . It was all there.”
Fernand gave a satisfied nod. “You see. I was sure it was fine.”
“Fine?” said Balthazar. “You handed the job off to someone else, and now look what’s happened!”
Sylvie felt sorry for Fernand.
“Well, I had to clean the fish. I was listening to ‘Vive le Feu.’ Then Le Cerf started to play, and I realized there wasn’t enough time to do everything—”
Balthazar slammed his fists down. “Have I taught you nothing? You dishonor your team. Yourself!”
Fernand’s face turned red. “I … I’m sorry, Father. Next time I’ll make sure—”
“You think there’ll be a next time?”
Despite his stature, Fernand suddenly looked small. An awkward silence filled the arena.
“I should’ve checked the mise en place myself,” said Flammé.
“You’re right. As the leader, you should’ve double-checked every step,” said Balthazar. His voice was cool. “And I will not punish another team for your shortcomings.”
“Father. Please!” Fernand suddenly found his voice.
Balthazar stared at his son. “I created this competition as a pursuit of excellence, to showcase the best and brightest Sages of each generation. That is what I intend to do. We’ll put it to a vote.” Balthazar turned to Monsieur Treusso. “Starting with you.”
“Me?” Monsier Treusso cleared his throat. “Of course. Just give me a moment to confer with my team. After all, this is what my agents are trained to do … spot falsehoods.” He turned around as two men in canvas aprons, embossed with the letters CCS, emerged from the shadows.
Sylvie stared at them. One was extremely tall and stocky, with tightly cropped hair tucked beneath a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. The other was slim with skin the color of a warm dusk night and sparkling auburn eyes. They leaned down and whispered to Treusso.