CHAPTER THREE
RJ and Elias had never seen so many pots, pans, cookie sheets, cake tins, and strange objects that they knew nothing about. To them, it looked like a torture chamber. Except the outcome wasn’t death, it was delicious food.
Moving up and down the aisles, the girls grabbed everything they thought they might need, some items there were four or five. In the first aisle they gathered digital scales, measuring spoons and cups, oven thermometers, and portion scoops.
In the next aisle, stand mixers, of which they grabbed six. Elias looked at the price and nearly choked.
“Uh, are we sure we need six of these?” he frowned.
“Babe, we will be working multiple stations. And yes, we need six of them. We’ll use them in the kitchens at Belle Fleur going forward.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” he nodded. He turned to RJ and shrugged his shoulders.
Janie grabbed three dozen mixing bowls of various sizes along with different size whisks.
“Why different sizes?” frowned RJ.
“Well, some are called balloon whisks, some are French whisks. They’re meant for different things. These are meant for dry ingredients, like flour and baking soda. These are used to whip cream or other things.”
“Got it,” he said looking at Elias and shaking his head. He mouthed to his friend, ‘don’t got it’.
They then grabbed various sizes and types of spatulas and scrapers, rolling pins and dough sheeters. When they got to the knives, Elias raised a brow.
“Now, this is my kind of equipment,” he smirked.
“You are not to touch these knives!” said his wife. “These are for the kitchen only.”
“Awe, babe, I was just kidding,” he smiled.
“Still, no touchy.” She grabbed knives for chopping, knives for slicing, and knives for cutting breads and cakes. Then she moved to the specific utensils. Pastry cutters and wheels to cut lattice for the tops of pies.
Although the competition agreed to provide sheet pans, trays and cooling racks, bakers were allowed to bring their own if they preferred.
The ladies at Belle Fleur preferred their own.
They grabbed multiples of everything. Sheet pans, aluminum trays, baking mats, parchment paper, cooling racks, and more.
Finally, they reached the section that required someone skilled to understand what was needed. You couldn’t hand anyone a list and think you’d get what you needed. No. A baker had to pick these out for themselves.
Pastry bags with dozens of tips, offset spatulas, and five cake turntables.
“I can’t believe how many options there are in here,” frowned RJ. “What did you do before we brought you here?”
“We have a lot of this back home,” said Celia.
“George and Mama Irene knew what they were doing when the kitchen was set up, along with Sara of course. But using newer pans will prevent anything from tasting or smelling like something we baked last week. We’ll prep the pans and test them before we bring them, but this had to happen. ”
“I noticed the mixing stand things are really expensive but some of the other things you didn’t pick out the most expensive. Why?” asked Elias.
“Sometimes the most expensive thing isn’t really the best,” smiled Janie.
The men frowned staring at her. “Okay, let me ask you this. If you see a handgun that’s exactly the same in every way but one has been hyped by a celebrity or law enforcement.
It’s nearly double the price of the other.
Do you take the one that’s been hyped up or the one with the name you trust? ”
“The name we trust,” they said in unison. She nodded.
“It’s the same here. Some of these items are backed by famous chefs or bakers, or famous companies. It doesn’t mean they’re better, just more expensive. We know what we like and what works best for us.”
“Makes perfect sense to me,” said RJ.
When the total at the register popped up, both men nearly choked but just nodded, handing over the corporate credit card. With everything loaded into the car, they walked back inside to see the girls speaking to a tall, thin older man.
“You took the last one,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I’m sorry, Frank. Surely they have more in the warehouse,” said Celia looking at the manager. The woman nodded.
“I told him that. If you’ll give me fifteen minutes, Frank, I’ll go get what you need.”
“I don’t have fifteen minutes!” he yelled.
“Is there a problem here,” growled RJ standing in front of his wife. Elias stood beside him with folded arms, his massive biceps inflating his tattoos like balloons.
“I see you brought your private security,” he sneered.
“They’re our husbands, Frank,” said Janie.
“Fine. Fine, I’ll wait fifteen minutes for what I need. It won’t matter, you know. You’re not going to win the competition. You’re nothing but country bumpkin bakers. You can’t compete against a professional French pastry chef.”
Elias stepped forward, staring at the man with a sneer.
“Wanna bet?”