The Fatal Funnel Cake (6 page)

Chapter 8

T
he funnel cake competition was scheduled for one o'clock that afternoon.
The Joye of Cooking
broadcast was at two. There was a chance she and her friends would be able to attend both events, Phyllis thought, or at least get to the broadcast before it was over. Bailey had said she would introduce them to Joye Jameson after the show.

Phyllis had brought along some of the ingredients she would need and left them in the car along with the pan, funnel, and cooking oil she would use. The fair furnished the perishable ingredients and the stoves. This competition required advance registration, and Phyllis had worried that she wouldn't be able to get a spot. There must have been a cancellation, though, because when she went online to sign up, there was one opening and she'd been able to grab it.

Maybe that was a good omen, she had thought at the time, although she really wasn't a big believer in luck. Preparation, hard work, and a spark of creativity were much more important in cooking contests, as well as in life in general.

But a bit of good luck never hurt anything, either.

With the competition at one o'clock, the group ate an early lunch; then Phyllis and Sam went out to the car to fetch the things Phyllis would need for the contest. It was a beautiful autumn day, with a definite nip in the air that was balanced by the warmth of the sun. Phyllis barely noticed the weather, though. Her attention was focused on the task in front of her.

She had decided to make the maple pecan funnel cake topped with maple syrup and pecans. It was a departure from the traditional recipe, but not so offbeat that the judges would consider it bizarre, she hoped. She had practiced pouring out the batter until she was confident she could form the cakes in the usual shape. Fancy designs were still beyond her abilities, but there was something to be said for a well-executed classic funnel cake shape.

“Is there a special prize for winnin' this contest?” Sam asked as they entered the hall, each carrying a cardboard box containing the things Phyllis would need.

She shook her head and said, “Not that I know of, other than the recognition. And all the winning recipes are published each year in a new edition of the state fair cookbook. That's true of all the cooking contests.”

“Well, that'd be good, you and Carolyn both bein' in the same cookbook. Although that's probably happened before, hasn't it, what with all the different contests the two of you have been in?”

“As a matter of fact, it has,” Phyllis said. “But they were all locally produced cookbooks. People all over the state, and probably all over the country, buy the State Fair of Texas cookbook.”

“You'll be in it. I'm sure of it.”

“Like Carolyn said, you don't have to give me a pep talk, Sam. Although I do appreciate the support.”

“That's just the ol' coach in me talkin', I guess,” he said, smiling. “Confidence is a big part of winnin'.”

Phyllis was confident that she would do her very best. Beyond that, it was out of her hands.

Carolyn, Eve, and Peggy were waiting for them at the row of stoves set up along one wall. Other contestants were already there getting ready. An official wearing a state fair name badge consulted a list on a clipboard and told Phyllis which stove she was supposed to use. It was at the end of the row, so she would have a competitor to her right but not to her left.

“And good luck to you,” the official added.

“Thank you,” Phyllis said. She had decided that she would take all the luck she could get. Some of the other competitors looked very serious about what they were doing.

At the stove next to hers, a short, slender Hispanic man with a neatly trimmed gray mustache was setting up. He looked over at her and said, “I don't think I recognize you. How long have you been coming to the fair?”

“This is my first time in years,” Phyllis said.

“Oh. You're one of the amateurs.”

Phyllis wasn't quite sure what he meant by that, and he must have noticed her confusion, because he went on, “This contest used to be open just to the food concessionaires. It wasn't really an official state fair contest. But it was always good publicity for whoever won.” He smiled. “Modesty forbids me from mentioning that I took top honors a few times myself.”

“That's wonderful. Congratulations.”

The man shrugged. “This year, though, they decided to throw it open to anybody. I don't think any of the amateurs will win—no offense, but we do this for a living, you know.”

Phyllis laughed. “Well, now I'm more intimidated than ever. I never made funnel cakes before last week. I just thought it would be fun.”

“Oh, it's serious business. A big chunk of our yearly income comes from the state fair. Some of the concessionaires weren't happy about the contest being open to the public.” He shrugged. “It didn't bother me, of course. Competition never does. By the way, I'm Ramón Silva.” He held out his hand.

Phyllis shook hands with him and introduced herself. He didn't seem to recognize her name, which came as no surprise. Outside Weatherford, not many people knew about her cooking skills. And she certainly didn't want to draw attention to her skills as a detective. The less said about that, the better, as far as she was concerned.

Silva looked with interest at the ingredients Phyllis was taking out of the boxes. “What are you going to make?” he asked.

Normally she wouldn't give that sort of information to a rival, not even Carolyn. But with the contest about to begin at any minute, Silva couldn't really steal her recipe. He already had to have his own plans in place.

Phyllis told him about the maple pecan funnel cakes she had decided to make. Silva nodded and said, “That sounds interesting. If you can pull it off, it might be enough to get a little attention from the judges. Not enough to win, of course, but still, it might turn out nicely.”

His confidence—which bordered on arrogance, Phyllis thought—was starting to get on her nerves. She repeated what she had told Sam earlier. “I guess we'll have to wait and see.”

“That's right,” Silva said, but he still managed to sound like he thought she had no chance at all of beating him.

She could understand why people whose livelihoods depended on the food they cooked and sold at the state fair might not be too fond of the idea of competing against amateurs who really had nothing to lose. But that was the way things were set up this year and she didn't think she was doing anything wrong. So she wasn't going to worry about the possibility of hurting Ramón Silva's feelings if she happened to finish ahead of him in this contest, no matter how far-fetched he apparently considered that possibility.

In fact, she realized, the idea held some definite appeal for her, if she was being honest with herself.

Phyllis looked over her shoulder at the spectators, who were standing back behind a taped line on the floor to watch the competition. Sam smiled and gave her a little salute. Carolyn, Eve, and Peggy waved. Phyllis smiled back at them. It felt good to know they were there to root for her.

The starting times for the contestants were staggered, so that the judges could sample each funnel cake when it was still fresh and warm. Since Phyllis was at the end of the line, she had to wait, but the judges moved quickly in her direction, increasing the tension she felt that much more.

“All right, get ready,” one of the contest workers told her. “Your time begins . . . now!”

Phyllis put oil in the iron skillet and started it heating while she mixed her ingredients. She paid no attention to what Ramón Silva and the other contestants and the judges were doing but focused all her attention on her own efforts.

When the batter was ready and the oil was hot enough, she set the metal ring into the hot oil and began pouring the batter inside the ring, using a traditional funnel. It took a steady hand to keep the line of batter from coming apart as it lay down in the hot oil, and there could be no stopping and starting if she wanted a smooth, unbroken design. More time to practice that skill might have come in handy, but this was all for fun, Phyllis told herself, so she didn't take any of it too seriously. She supposed that experienced funnel cake makers like Ramón Silva could do this automatically, without even thinking too much about what they were doing.

She tried not to let herself get too tense. Her movements needed to be smooth and flowing. As the oil sizzled, the funnel cake began to take shape in the pan. The loops and strands intersected and overlapped within the metal ring, giving them the strength required for them to hold together.

It seemed like the rest of the world had gone away, receding from around her until the only things she was aware of were the funnel, the batter, and the pan. She had to rely on instinct to know when the cake was ready to be turned over, and she hadn't had long to develop that instinct. Phyllis had always prided herself on being a quick learner, though, all the way back to the days when she was a student. She set the funnel inside a small bowl to keep the drips contained, and when she felt like the time was right, she picked up the tongs she had sitting there close at hand, ready for action, and used them to first remove the metal ring, setting it aside, and then take hold of the cake. A deft flick of the wrist, and the funnel cake came up and over and settled back down into the oil. The side that was now turned up was a rich golden brown. Despite hoping that she would do a good job, Phyllis was a little surprised at just how perfect it looked.

A few minutes later she used the tongs again, this time to remove the cake from the pan and place it on a plate with a paper towel on it. As soon as she thought the cake had drained enough, she moved it to another plate and picked up the high-quality maple syrup and the pecans she had chopped in Peggy's kitchen the night before. She drizzled the syrup on the hot funnel cake, being careful not to use too much or too little. Just like Goldilocks, she thought. She wanted it to be
just
right.

As she set the syrup down and sprinkled the pecans on top, she reminded herself that she wasn't finished. She had to make two more cakes, three in all for the judges, and there was no time to waste. It was a delicate balance, keeping the oil at just the right temperature.

Even though she knew better than to check on the competition, Phyllis flicked a glance over at Ramón Silva. He was just taking his first cake out of the pan. His design was a lot more elaborate than hers, so it had taken longer.

Of course, this wasn't a race, Phyllis thought. The contestants would be allowed all the time they needed, within reason. If they weren't satisfied with the way a cake turned out, they could discard it and start over, as long as they didn't go over that time limit.

She began working on her second one, trying to make it exactly the same as the first one. Uniformity was important, as was appearance, but the cakes were judged primarily on taste.

“Looks good,” Silva said. “Not as spectacular as mine, of course, but not bad for a newbie.”

“Thank you,” Phyllis said without taking her eyes off what she was doing. She wasn't going to allow him to distract her as she began to pour again, and she certainly wasn't going to engage in trash talk with him.

“Better be careful. You know how easy that batter breaks.”

She started to get angry, knowing that he was trying to get her goat. But that was exactly the response he wanted to provoke, she told herself, so she called on the almost Zen-like calm that every good teacher developed in order to stay sane in the classroom. She was even able to summon up a tranquil smile.

That ought to infuriate Ramón Silva, she thought.

Her second cake looked just as good as the first. When she took it out of the skillet, Silva was just flipping his second cake. It was totally irrational to feel that way since speed didn't matter, but Phyllis was pleased that she was pulling ahead of him.

Silva wasn't happy about it, though. She could tell that from the hooded glances he kept shooting in her direction. Phyllis did her best to ignore the man and concentrate on her own efforts.

“No funnel cake can match up to mine,” Silva muttered. Phyllis heard him but pretended that she hadn't.

Her movements weren't quite as smooth as she poured the third cake. Tension was taking its toll on her muscles, she supposed. But the strands didn't break and the cake formed the way it was supposed to. There were minor variations, of course—like snowflakes, no two funnel cakes were exactly alike—but it was obvious that all three were poured by the same hand. Phyllis adjusted the temperature on the stove's burner, bumping it down a little to keep the oil from getting too hot. She picked up the tongs and turned the cake.

This was the home stretch, she told herself. As soon as this side finished browning, she would be almost done. Again relying on instinct, she waited as the seconds ticked by and turned into minutes. Then, holding her breath, she reached out with the tongs and grasped the cake.