Topped Chef A Key West Food Critic Mystery (26 page)

While the guests were getting settled and I was looking around, Toby and Chef Adam were seated on stools facing the stove and then attacked by the makeup artist bearing oil-absorbing powder. Up close they looked dusty like a dry roadbed with all that makeup, but the camera would love them. Bright spotlights had been positioned near the ceiling, casting beams of hot light onto the work surface. The three chef candidates hovered in the pantry off the back of the kitchen. Every person involved with the show looked anxious, from the contestants to the judges to the lead cameraman.

Peter emerged from the people in the courtyard and entered the kitchen. “Chop, chop, people!” he called. “Take your places. The final episode of
Topped Chef
Key West–style is about to begin.” The theme song from
Oliver!
began to play from the home’s fancy speakers, both out in the courtyard and inside the kitchen. The audience quickly took seats.

I sat at the counter between Chef Adam and Toby, clipped on my microphone, and submitted to a quick face powdering. Rivulets of sweat began to run down my back and chest. Behind us, I could hear the guests rustling and murmuring. I felt vulnerable and tense; I remembered hearing how a judge who handled
high-profile criminal cases always sat with his back to the wall in case some loony tunes came after him with a gun.

He would not have agreed to sit on this stool.

“Welcome, welcome!” Peter called, once everyone was in place. The music faded away. “We are so pleased to present the final, thrilling installment of our contest. You’ve seen our contestants interviewed. You’ve heard about their visions for a Key West wedding and tasted their party specialties. You’ve watched as they pulled together a meal from secret ingredients.” He rubbed his palms with feigned anticipation—or was it real? “Tonight we crown the Topped Chef of Key West! Tonight we choose the chef who will take his or her interpretation of island delicacies and spread the word to the world. This episode is all about romancing the audience. Are you ready to be swept off your feet?”

The courtyard audience roared. But inside the kitchen, the tension was palpable, as if we were all waiting for one more awful thing to happen. Peter addressed the chefs, who had gathered in a knot to the left of the double sinks. “Chefs, are you ready to leap from the frying pan into the fire?”

“Ready!” yelped Randy.

The other two merely nodded.

“We’ve drawn lots to select the order in which you will cook. We’ll begin with chef Randy Thompson, followed by chef Henrietta Stentzel, and finally, chef Buddy Higgs will close the competition.”

Randy stepped up to the counter, as the other two retreated to the pantry. “Thank you for that wonderful introduction—I adore a good romance.” He winked at
the camera and began to belt out the words from the song Peter had chosen as the show’s theme. “Food, glorious food,” he warbled as he organized his dinner ingredients. “We’re all anxious to try it!”

He measured cornmeal into a pan of simmering chicken broth, shucked the shells off a pile of pink shrimp, and grated a mound of white cheddar cheese, all while chattering amiably about cooking and entertaining and interspersing his comments with snatches of song. And most appealing of all, half a pound of bacon spat in his frying pan, perfuming the air. The audience laughed and cheered at his antics: I couldn’t imagine that the other two would be able to match this performance.

“Every Southern chef worth his or her salt has a variation on the classic recipe for shrimp and grits,” said Randy. “And they will argue about whether the necessary secret ingredient is the bacon, the tasso ham, the green peppers, the heavy cream versus the cheese. But Key West has a supersecret weapon.” He winked and grinned. “We are so lucky on this island to have access to gorgeous local shrimp—Key West pinks, they’re called, for those of you who aren’t local.” He stopped and beckoned the camera forward to show a close-up of the shrimp.

Then, leaning toward us judges with both hands on the counter, he made eye contact with the front row of the audience. “I know it’s not always possible, but fresh and local ingredients make a huge difference to your meals. Sometimes it’s better to change the menu if you can’t find the right stuff,” he said, and then plopped half a stick of butter into the pan that now
contained hot bacon grease. When the butter had melted, he dropped in some minced garlic, scallions, and green peppers, followed by a double handful of shrimp. They sizzled and spat.

“For instance, those flabby Southeast Asian crustaceans?” His lips formed a horrified O. “Absolutely deadly. Those are a never for me!”

By the time Randy had completed his shrimp and grits dish, I thought he’d won over the studio audience completely. He was relaxed and charming and the smell of his food made my stomach leap with anticipation. But Chef Adam’s face looked blank and Toby’s expression was bemused rather than enchanted. One of the assistants came forward to divide his dish onto three plates.

“Do not forget to have fun while you’re planning the menu and cooking for company,” Randy said, waggling his finger at the audience and grinning again. “It should never be a drag to entertain.” He placed a plate in front of each of us and stood back like a proud father.

I nibbled the cheesy grits first, then cut into a perfectly cooked pink shrimp. “This is sublime,” I said. “I adore the bacon and the bits of green pepper. So buttery and rich. And not the slightest bit fishy.”

“I like it,” said Toby. “But I’m not bowled over.”

Chef Adam tasted and then clattered his fork onto the plate. “It’s definitely heavy. Bordering on greasy,” he said. “There’s a month’s worth of cholesterol just in this one dish.” One of the cameras zoomed in on the food in front of Chef Adam, while another caught the disappointed grimace on Randy’s face. “To me it tastes like a grand cliché of Southern cooking. Paula Deen squared.”

Assistants rushed in to whisk away the dishes and maneuver Randy out of the way, so that Henri Stentzel could take her place and prepare to replicate the seafood fra diavolo that she’d prepared the first day of the contest. She was more nervous than she’d been earlier in the week, as I could tell from the sloppy way she chopped her onions. Her hands shook so badly that the jalapeño peppers came out in large chunks. And finally she cut a chunk of skin out of her finger and began to bleed into the onions.

Deena rushed forward with a Band-Aid and a replacement onion. Once patched up, Henri resumed chatting about the steps she was taking to make the spicy red sauce, but she stammered and stumbled over her words. It was painful to watch. When at last she was finished, an assistant produced more clean plates and ladled us each a taste.

Toby spoke first. “This doesn’t appeal to me quite as much as it did on the first day we tried it. There isn’t the same brightness to the dish.”

“It’s almost as if the chef’s anxiety has infused her food,” said Chef Adam. “It lacks luminosity.”

“Luminosity?” I asked, and then bit into a pepper so large and hot that tears sprang to my eyes. I signaled to Deena for a glass of water, sipped, and swallowed. “Maybe go easy on the peppers next time,” I suggested, trying to temper my advice with a smile. “Aside from my tongue blistering, I’m not having the same reaction as my colleagues. I find Chef Stentzel’s food solid and compelling.”

“But?” asked Chef Adam. “It sounds like you have a but…”

I tipped my head to one side and then the other, trying to press out the crackling knots of tension gathering in my neck. “But I think we want to choose a chef whose personality is luminous, along with the food. I want to see that right here in Chef Stentzel’s presentation, because I have enjoyed her cooking.” I emphasized
personality
and
want
, and then swallowed nervously. “But I admit that today I don’t.” I didn’t dare make eye contact with her because I knew she’d be shooting me angry daggers of death.

“And now, chef Buddy Higgs will take center stage,” Peter crowed as Henri slunk away.

Buddy strode out from the shadows of the pantry, leaned forward, looking past us to make eye contact with the studio guests just as Randy had. He began to speak. “To my mind, excellent cooking—cooking that rises to the level of a television experience—should challenge both the chef and his diners. I don’t want to waste precious minutes in the lives of TV viewers by preparing something they could get by paging through the recipes of Fannie Farmer or Irma Rombauer. Allow me to show you what I mean.”

He headed to the refrigerator and returned with two large, live lobsters, pincers and antennae waving. “Anyone can drop a crustacean into a pot of water and microwave melted butter on the side. With that menu, the biggest challenge is containing the diners’ mess.”

The lobsters scrambled for purchase on the marble countertop. The crowd looked on, mesmerized as Buddy chose a cleaver from the knife rack. There was a collective gasp as he hacked off the heads of the lobsters,
and then cut the bodies into pieces. A few customers booed his brutality.

Notwithstanding the crustacean carnage, Buddy himself looked more appealing than I’d seen him this week—his toque was starched, his jacket immaculate, and his checked chef’s pants fit perfectly. Even his hair was clean. Honestly, he looked and sounded professional. And utterly ruthless.

“On the other hand,” Buddy said, “a grilled lobster with olive oil sea foam, jalapeño caviar, and edible sand garnish doesn’t require a PhD in cutlery to consume—but it challenges even the most jaded taste buds. I promise you that those spheres of jalapeño caviar will burst with flavor in the mouths of your dinner guests, leaving a lasting impression.”

He lit the gas grill next to the stove top, brushed the lobster sections with olive oil, and laid them on the grill. “In this style of cooking, there is no room for repetitive, boring food. The plate is our canvas—if we even need a plate.” He chuckled. “Remember the mojito I offered several days ago? Who else would serve a cocktail in a spoon? In this case, I serve my lobster on edible sand, which is constructed of seaweed, crispy Panko crumbs, and a dash of miso oil.

“To make the sea foam, heat olive oil with glycerin flakes until they dissolve. Add salt, and then whip.” He mixed his ingredients, poured the mixture into a stainless steel can that resembled a whipped cream canister, and shook it. He had the full attention of the audience now. They craned around each other to see each step of what he was doing, appearing totally wowed. By the time he’d finished cooking and arranging the plates,
the dinner he’d made looked like a beach scene in miniature.

“Voilà!” he exclaimed. “Chef Buddy’s seafood à la Key West.”

Once his extravaganza was delivered to us, I extracted a bite of moist, pink lobster meat from its shell and dragged it through the faux sand and the olive oil foam. I cringed a little, waiting for something bizarre to hit my taste buds. Or even a gritty feeling—the fake sand was that realistic. Instead, the sample tasted delicious.

“Judges?” Peter asked, as the cameras zoomed in on the food and then our faces.

I jumped in. “I haven’t been such a big fan of Buddy’s work so far, but I have to admit, the lobster is amazing. And even though I can hardly believe I’m saying this, the foam and the phony sand are showstoppers.”

“He’s outdone himself,” said Chef Adam. “He’s risen to a culinary plane far above the other two chefs.”

“That’s a little bit of an exaggeration,” said Toby. She pushed her plate away. “The meal is definitely tasty, but what home cook could replicate it?”

“Hardly a concern,” said Chef Adam, with a flick of one hand. “This show is about entertainment—and Buddy Higgs is a natural.”

Peter stepped forward, beckoning the three chefs to accompany him. “You have all wowed us with your food, and entranced us with your personalities, but now the moment of truth is at hand.” He looked at each of the candidates. “You’ve heard our esteemed judges speak.”

He paused dramatically. “Randy Thompson, I’m afraid you are going to have to stand over here….”

Randy’s face fell.

“In the semifinalists’ circle!”

The audience clapped and cheered and Randy burst into a huge grin and moved closer to Peter.

“Chef Buddy Higgs,” said Peter, waving for silence. “I hate to say this”—he took a deep breath—“but we’d like you join him!”

Now Buddy smiled and waved at the audience as he moved closer to Randy.

“Let’s hear it from the audience for our third contestant,” said Peter. “Chef Henrietta Stentzel, thank you for coming and we wish you all the luck in the world in your cooking future!”

There was a polite smattering of applause as she disappeared back into the pantry, her eyes moist and shoulders slumped. I felt instantly sorry for her, even though it seemed like the right decision.

“Now is the time we hear from you!” Peter said to the audience, his voice hoarse with excitement. “Who do you want in your living rooms for the next TV season? Randy Thompson?”

Quite a few viewers stomped and whistled.

“Or Buddy Higgs?”

The crowd erupted.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Peter shouted over the din, “I bring you our Topped Chef Key West!”

The music amped up, the viewers cheered, and Buddy waded into the audience to shake hands with the men, hug the women, and accept congratulations. A tall, heavyset man in the back row leaped to his feet and rushed forward.

“This is a setup!” he yelled. “You had a ringer chosen
all along! You cheatin’, lying bugger—” As he neared Peter,two security guards tackled him and flung him to the ground.

I spun around on my stool, looking for Deena, dumbfounded at how quickly this had happened. In the shadows of the pantry, Henri removed her toque and her coat. She folded it into fastidious quarters and then draped it over her arm. Randy barreled up to Peter and began to argue. On his face I could read the depth of his disappointment. And anger.

“This was fixed from the beginning.” He spat out the words.

“Shall I call security again, once they take care of your friend?” Peter asked.

25

We don’t just know how to play. We’re not electrocuting bunnies in our lab coats. We’re part of something beautiful: cooking.