He didn’t look worried. He stood at the side, grinning when Clem made one of her cracks, his arms crossed over his chest, the top button of his jacket undone. She had a quick flashback to a couple of nights ago, Joe’s body wrapped around hers, her hands propped against the wall.
Her skin suddenly felt hot, and she checked her watch for a distraction.
Clem moved off the stage to loud applause from the crowd, including Joe, who moved forward to take her place. The crowd stirred slightly as he did. “Who is
that
?” a feminine voice murmured behind her.
Her friend said something inaudible and they both giggled. MG’s face flushed warm. He was a chef, goddamn it, not some piece of meat.
Right. Like you’ve never ogled him yourself.
“Chef Joe LeBlanc, executive chef of the Rose Restaurant. Assisted by sous chef Darcy Cunningham.”
Joe gave the announcer his lazy smile, and one of the women behind her did something that sounded like a growl. MG gritted her teeth
Mine. Hands off!
“Tell us about your philosophy for this meal, Chef.” The announcer was back to bland again. Apparently, he figured nobody else was going to mess with him the way Clem had.
Joe’s accent was maybe a little heavier than usual, but he didn’t seem to be laying it on too thick. “We’re a Hill Country restaurant, ladies and gentlemen, and we’re proud of that. Our philosophy at the Rose is to use the best ingredients we can find, and to find those ingredients in Texas whenever we can. Today’s menu features Texas produce, Texas meat, Texas cheese and Texas grits. We serve the best, y’all.” He grinned as the crowd cheered.
MG managed a slightly ironic grin of her own. If Todd Fairley hadn’t stolen the
fois gras
, that statement wouldn’t be true. They’d have had mangoes from Mexico and
fois gras
from New York State. But thanks to Fairley, Joe could now make a play for the hometown crowd. She wondered what Fairley would do to make up for it.
“What’s your first course, Chef?”
Joe nodded toward the plates being placed in front of the judges. “This is a roasted beet salad with goat cheese and a raspberry walnut oil vinaigrette. The goat cheese is from Black Diamond Farms outside Stonewall. The beets were grown north of Garland.”
And the walnut oil was from California, but clearly Joe didn’t see any need to point that out.
The judges sampled the salad carefully, cutting off bites of beet and goat cheese with the light sprinkling of grated apple on top. Joe leaned casually against the podium at the front, smiling affably, the picture of unconcern. MG wondered if she was the only one who noticed the slight tension in his jaw.
One of the judges, looked down at the salad thoughtfully, then cut off a second bite.
Glory, hallelujah!
Joe kept his smile in place as the judges marked their scorecards and the attendants removed the salad plates.
“What do you have for an entrée today, Chef?” the announcer asked.
“Our entrée is quail from right here in the Hill Country. Stuffed with pecans and North Texas cheddar. Served on a bed of Texas grits with bacon from Doheny Farms. The sauce is based on jalapeno jelly from Dripping Springs.”
The judges dug into the quail carefully, at least for the first bite. After that nobody was careful any more. When one of the attendants tried to take away one of the plates, the judge held on firmly, giving him a quelling look. Joe’s grin had moved from guarded to genuine.
“And for dessert?” The announcer looked like he wanted a quail of his own.
“For dessert, we present lemon
panna cotta
, dressed with a compote of Texas pear and pomegranate.” He turned his smile on the judges. “We hope you enjoy it.”
They did, if MG was any judge at all.
“Thank you, Chef,” the announcer intoned.
Joe inclined his head slightly toward the announcer, then toward the judges. And then he walked back to the sidelines with Darcy.
The woman behind MG sighed again. “Wow.”
Yes, indeed.
She began to work her way across the room as Fairley moved into the spot Joe had vacated. She didn’t much care what Fairley was serving anyway. When she reached the far side, Joe glanced up and saw her, his smile spreading to show a slight dimple in his cheek.
It was a good thing there were a lot of people around
.
Otherwise, she might have been honor bound to do something about that.
He made his way through the crowd toward her. “Hey,” he said.
She managed to keep her grin from sliding into the idiot category. “Hey yourself. You did a good job up there. The judges loved your quail.”
“Looked like they did. ’Course they’ve still got to taste whatever it is the Beav has cooked up.” He took her hand, pulling her back to stand with him and Darcy.
“And your philosophy, Chef?” the announcer was saying.
“We believe in giving the classics a new twist, bringing them up to date, so people can enjoy them all over again. It’s all about deconstruction and reconstruction.”
Darcy looked like she’d just sucked on one of her lemons. “It’s all about being a pompous asshat,” she muttered.
“He’s definitely got that covered,” MG muttered back.
“Shush, children.” Joe shook his head.
The Beav’s appetizer—a salad including nopales marinated in chile-laced vinegar—didn’t strike her as all that interesting, although the judges seemed to treat it with respect. Still, she didn’t notice any of them trying to hold onto their plates when the attendants came to take them away.
“And what’s your main dish, Chef?”
Fairley seemed to swell slightly, like a toad getting ready to croak. “For my main dish, I present my reinterpretation of a Texas classic.” He waited, smiling, chin up while the attendants placed the plates in front of each judge. MG narrowed her eyes. It looked like white, waxed paper bags on the plates.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the twenty-first century version of Frito pie. Venison chili with black beans on a bed of fresh tortilla chips. Enjoy!”
MG glanced at Joe. His forehead was furrowed. “What in the fucking hell?” he muttered.
Darcy shook her head. “Absolute horse shit.”
The judges looked at the bags a little dubiously. Fairley’s triumphant expression turned to irritation. Finally one of the judges tore the bag open, dumping the contents on his plate. After a moment, the others followed his example.
“What are the chances they’ll like this?” MG whispered.
Joe shook his head. “No idea.”
She studied the judges’ faces, but they were back to deadpan again. One or two seemed to be taking several bites, while another one or two were a lot more restrained.
“Pretentious shit,” Darcy muttered. “If you’re making Frito pie, make fucking Frito pie. Don’t screw around.”
“And your dessert, Chef?” the announcer was saying.
“My dessert is another reinterpretation of traditional cuisine. Ladies and gentlemen, moon pies, with Cointreau flavored
crème fraiche
.”
Darcy’s eyebrow arched. “After chili? Is he nuts?”
Joe shrugged. “Could work. Depends on size.”
The moon pies that the attendants were placing on the judges’ tables looked like coasters. The judges were taking tiny bites, and MG wondered suddenly just how much appetite they had left after four partial meals.
Finally all six judges leaned back and the attendants removed the moon pie remains.
“Thank you, Chef,” the announcer intoned.
Fairley nodded curtly at the announcer and somewhat less curtly at the judges before stepping away.
“The judges will now confer with their score cards and we’ll announce the winners. While we wait, we invite you to try some of the dishes our judges have been sampling.” He waved toward a table at the side. The crowd moved toward the table so swiftly MG worried someone might be trampled in the stampede.
“When did they decide to do that?”
Darcy shrugged. “They let us know yesterday. We whipped up a few extra dishes.”
“Very few in the case of the quail,” Joe said dryly.
“So they’ll eat
panna cotta
.” Darcy shrugged again. “It’s cheap and it’s on the menu. Maybe some of them will come to the restaurant for more.”
He gave her a slow grin. “Spoken like a true sous chef.”
Darcy’s face flushed slightly. MG hoped it was with pleasure. She glanced at her watch. “I need to call the hospital again. Do you think it’s going to take them much longer?”
Joe shook his head. “No telling. Go on ahead, darlin’. You’ve got some time.”
MG felt the warmth of his smile all the way to her toes. She leaned up quickly and kissed him on the cheek. “Deal.”
His arm slid around her waist and he pulled her back, dipping his head to kiss her lips. She heard Darcy chuckle beside them.
“Get a room,” she muttered.
“I intend to. Just as soon as this damned competition is over.” His eyes were dark again, staring down into hers.
MG took a breath, willing her pulse to return to normal. “Well, okay then. I’ll be right back.” She stepped toward the door, giving him another quick smile, and beat a hasty retreat.
All the way across the room, she caught envious glances from other women. Which, of course, she absolutely deserved.
Joe tried to decide if a long judging period was good or bad. They’d been out almost a half hour now. Of course, they could be taking a Pepto-Bismol break. He would be himself if he’d had to finish up with that menu from the Beav.
MG had returned to stand beside him again, checking her watch regularly.
Darcy seemed to be moving from irritable to homicidal the longer they waited. He didn’t entirely blame her. The minute this sorry-ass competition was over, he was heading for the Faro for a beer. Maybe he’d get to hear MG sing.
Finally, forty minutes later, the judges returned to their table. They still looked slightly dazed. Not surprising, given the amount of food they’d consumed over the last hour and a half.
“Ladies and gentlemen, before I announce the judges’ decisions, let me thank you all for coming this afternoon. The first annual Wine and Food Festival Culinary Competition has been a rousing success.” The man at the microphone stepped away slightly so that he could lead the applause. Joe recognized him—Arthur Craven, head of the Konigsburg Merchants Association.
Craven leaned back to the microphone again. “Now, we have four categories here: best appetizer, best entrée, and best dessert. And the overall award for the best meal. Without further ado, let’s get on to the announcements.”
“Yeah, let’s,” Darcy snarled.
“Winners if you’d come forward when I announce your names,” Craven added, glancing around the room to make sure everyone was still around. Given the amount of time this was taking, Joe was almost surprised they all still were.
“For best appetizer, our very first award goes to…” Craven paused for effect. Darcy growled.
“Clemencia Rodriguez and the Faro for her superlative fried green tomatoes.” Craven clapped along with the crowd, oblivious to the noise it was making in the mike.
Clem stepped forward, grinning so widely she looked as if her face might split in two. Craven handed her the award—a medal encased in Plexiglas. She waved at the crowd, still grinning.
Darcy blew out a breath. “At least it wasn’t Fairley.”
“At least.” Joe kept his arms folded across his chest.
“Now we’re going to skip to the dessert before we do the entrée,” Craven explained.
“Why?” Darcy muttered, arching her brows.
Joe shrugged, keeping his gaze on Fairley.
“Best dessert goes to…Lee Contreras of Brenner’s for his
pot de crème
.” Craven slaughtered the pronunciation, of course, but Lee didn’t seem to care. He took his medal then gave Clem a quick hug before stepping next to her.
“Goddamn son of a bitch,” Darcy growled.
“Steady.” Joe’s chest felt so tight suddenly it was almost difficult to breathe.
Stupid contest.
“They can’t have chosen that goddamn Frito shit,” Darcy muttered. “Tell me they can’t.”
“Who knows, darlin’, who knows?”
“Best entrée…” Craven seemed to wait even longer this time before breaking into a wide grin. “Joe LeBlanc of the Rose for that Hill Country quail.”
The tightness in his chest relaxed as Darcy let out a whoop. Joe stepped forward, taking his award from Craven, only to be jumped by Clem, who threw her arms around his neck. “Nice going, Chef,” she whispered before letting him go.
“You too.” He turned and shook Lee’s hand, then glanced across the room. Fairley was looking at the three of them with a gaze like a laser beam. Joe gave him a bland smile but resisted flipping him the bird. That would come later.
“Now for the best overall meal.” Craven cleared his throat, glancing at the three chefs standing beside him.
“The overall winner of this year’s Wine and Food Festival Culinary Competition is…”