Topped Chef A Key West Food Critic Mystery (7 page)

I threw my hands up in agreement and Chef Adam signaled to Peter that we were prepared to continue.

“Wonderful!” Peter clapped his hands together, flashing a relieved and grateful smile. “Here’s how the morning will go. We’ll introduce the candidates one at a time. You will want to ask them about the dish they prepared for you yesterday—their ingredients, their methods, their philosophy of cooking. Open-ended questions work best—sometimes these amateurs freeze in front of the camera. Try to understand their ambitions to host a cooking show—see how well they can explain themselves. And why do they think they would make a popular host? What do they bring to the table that’s fresh? And always, look for a sense of humor—the audience will eat that up. At the end of the segment, I’ll announce the challenge for tomorrow.”

“I assume their personal lives should be off-limits?” I asked.

“Of course not,” said Peter, rubbing his hands together and grinning. “The juicier the better. And remember, our job is to edit the whole mess into something viewable. In other words, don’t worry too much about the blunders you make or dead ends you wander down. We expect all that. We’ll fix it.”

“But we’ll try not to embarrass the candidates, correct?” asked Toby.

Peter all but rolled his eyes. “They’ve all signed releases giving us rights in perpetuity for their image and likeness. This is television, people, not grammar school. We take whatever they give us and exploit the bloody hell out of it!”

He flashed a big smile, adjusted his glasses, and snapped his fingers at the group hovering across the courtyard. Two men with cameras moved forward and began to film the chefs as they trooped from the courtyard to the TV set. Catching an oblique glimpse of myself in the monitor that had been set up in the kitchen, I tried to fluff up my helmet-flattened curls. Deena herded the first chef over to the porch; he looked like he felt as though he was the next chicken on the chopping block.

Peter took a few steps back and began to speak: “Ladies and gentlemen, meet our first contestant, Randy Thompson.” He took the wrist of the slender man with green eyes and bleached blond hair gelled into points and pulled him forward. “Randy was born in Texas and raised near Houston. He moved here about ten years ago and has worked as a line cook in several of our Key West restaurants. He is also a singer who enjoys performing at local bars. Randy focuses on Keys-style cuisine and comfort food and says he loves highlighting local flavors in the meals he prepares.”

Randy faked a curtsy and laughed, like a man who wasn’t afraid of having a little fun once he relaxed, even at his own expense.

“You will remember enjoying his dish ‘Homestyle Shrimp and Cheesy Grits,’ which he says he based on a polenta recipe handed down from his grandmother,”
Peter continued. “Randy, please take a seat in front of our panel of distinguished judges.”

Randy sat at the table, across from the three of us. Up close, he looked nervous and chalky under the makeup. The cameraman zoomed in and caught him licking his lips.

“Please tell us about your grandmother and her influence on your cooking style,” I said before Adam could fire off a hardball that might cause Randy to crumble.

The skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled at me. “Grandma loved company in the kitchen,” he said. “But none of her other grandkids were much interested so I enjoyed the undivided benefit of her experience. She taught me about both Italian food and Southern-style recipes—like how to wrestle your vegetables into submission by boiling them for hours with salt pork, and how to tame your fear of butter. And Crisco.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Chef Adam. “Crisco?”

Randy grinned again and patted his stomach, which was perfectly flat. “I don’t believe in diet foods—they taste horrible and they trick people into thinking they are eating healthy and so can eat more. My theory is that diners should learn to eat fabulous food, only in smaller portions.”

Chef Adam leaned forward, fingers knotted together. “So then, you are essentially repeating Grandmother’s repertoire. But wouldn’t you imagine that shrimp and grits might be found on fifty percent of the menus in America—at least in the southern half of the country? How would you stand out as the host of
Topped Chef
? And how would your propensity toward fattening foods fit in with a world struggling with a full-blown obesity epidemic?” He sat back, looking satisfied.

By now I wished I couldn’t see the monitor at all. I’d heard that the camera added ten pounds—on me it looked closer to twenty. And the slight time delay had the effect of repeating everything twice, making me feel as though I were moving in slow motion. Underwater. Bad enough to go through all this once.

Randy’s face paled and he stumbled through an explanation of how he took solid cooking as his baseline and tweaked it with local flavors. “I’m not afraid of a deep-fat fryer,” he insisted.

“Bravo,” said Toby. “The restraint should come from the diner, not the chef.”

“Fascinating stuff,” said Peter Shapiro, “but we must move on to our second contestant.” He hustled Randy out of the spotlight and had him sit on a high stool at the far end of the porch.

“Now, judges, what do you think about Randy’s prospects?” he asked us.

No one said anything.

“You want us to talk about him now?” Toby asked, her pale eyebrows knitting together as she frowned. “Right here where everyone can hear us, including him?”

“That’s the whole idea,” Peter said. “It’s reality television. No conflict, no ratings.” He backed away, smiling a little stiffly, and signaled for us to continue the discussion.

More silence. We kept our eyes on the table, and
squirmed in our seats. Finally, I couldn’t stand it. I had to say something.

“He clearly loves food,” I said. “Seems like he’d be able to connect with home cooks. That’s why my mom is nuts about Rachael Ray. Mom could sauté circles around her and yet she loves watching Rachael’s show. She has a certain warmth that she’s able to telegraph to her viewers. She makes us feel like we’re friends at the table in her kitchen. I sense a similar possibility with Randy. I think his personality would really shine if he wasn’t quite so nervous. His jitters would get worked out with a little more practice. And I’d love to meet his grandmother.”

Chef Adam groaned. “You want to invite his granny? Sure death to our ratings. And don’t we have enough low-brow shows on the air?” he asked. “If I want something fried, I’ll go to the diner downtown, or even”—he shuddered—“a fast-food restaurant. How would this be different from what’s out there already?”

“He’s a man,” Toby offered. “Maybe he’d appeal to gentlemen viewers?”

Through the glass doors into the kitchen, I could see that Peter Shapiro and Deena had begun to argue in heated whispers. He thrust his clipboard at her and strode back out onto the porch.

“Cut!” Peter swept his glasses off and clasped his free hand over his eyes. After heaving a great sigh, he replaced the glasses and then dropped his hands to his sides. “People, you have to speak your minds more bluntly here. This is reality television, not an edited sound bite on public radio. Viewers have the attention spans of gnats. You’re losing them. You’re losing me. You’re flat, you’re forced,
you’re stiff.” He wiggled his shoulders. “Let’s loosen up, shall we?”

Chef Adam’s face reddened and I imagined he was thinking what I was thinking: I quit.

“Honestly, Mr. Shapiro,” said Toby, “it’s hard to concentrate after getting that news about Mr. Rizzoli. It makes all this feel”—she gestured at the cameras, her lips trembling as she searched for the right words—“rather inconsequential.”

Shapiro forced a smile but his voice softened. “Understood. We are all in shock over the news. But again, I must ask you to think about these young chefs. They have big dreams. Are you willing to quit on them because of this tragedy? I think not. You are our experts, handpicked. We brought you on board because we believe you can help us find the next star. Think outside the food here, people. Can you see the kernel of celebrity in one of our contestants?”

He made eye contact with each of us, his blue eyes intense, then waved forward a thin, tanned man with a long ponytail and settled him in the chair that Randy had vacated. With one hand on the man’s shoulder, Peter turned to address the camera.

“Buddy Higgs has completed a number of internships in well-known kitchens, and dreams of opening his own restaurant. He takes the nouveau cuisine of Grant Achatz in Chicago and the former chef Ferran Adrià at El Bulli as his models. He would love to bring the sophistication of molecular gastronomy to the American public.”

I fidgeted silently. Molecular gastronomy—replete with its foams, fumes, tubes of aspic, tubs of foie gras,
and peculiar combinations and arrangements of spices—was something I felt the public could safely ignore. Higgs must have been the creator of yesterday’s oddball lobster salad over which Chef Adam and the now-deceased Sam Rizzoli had swooned. I remembered tasting parsnip chips, caviar, jalapeños, saffron threads, mustard seeds, and god only knows what else in the lobster dish. I also remembered yearning for some simple steamed lobster meat and a ramekin of melted butter.

“I’m curious, Mr. Higgs,” I said. “Why should the public take an interest in molecular gastronomy? My impression has been that the techniques are so complicated, and the results so, well, odd, that most folks—your TV viewers—will find this type of cuisine way over their heads. They cook with pots and stoves, not test tubes and Bunsen burners.”

Buddy Higgs cleared his throat and touched a finger to his mustache, which undulated like a struggling caterpillar. “I believe you underestimate the public, Miss Snow.” He leaned forward and tapped on the table in front of me. “Chef Ashatz,” he said, “is purely a genius. What he has been able to do—and what I hope to expand upon—is to make his dining customers think.”

“Example, please,” said Chef Adam.

“Who says surf and turf has to be plain old lobster and steak? Why not a dish pairing foie gras with anchovies?” Buddy smiled slyly.

I could only think how grateful I was that he hadn’t prepared this yesterday. First of all, anchovies remind me of hair-covered fish bait. Paired with foie gras? I would have struggled to choke it down.

“What would be the point of that?” asked Toby, her forehead furrowed.

“The point is not to present mounds of fatty food for already-overweight patrons to gobble,” said Buddy. “The point is to challenge people as they eat. Food should be stimulating for the mind as well as the palate!”

For the first time, I saw the spark of creativity and joy that he hoped to convey in his cooking. But I still wasn’t dying to try more of it, nor did I imagine him as a popular TV personality. Maybe a small cult audience would follow him.

Peter surged forward, clapped Buddy on the back, and directed him to take the stool next to Randy. “Thank you, Mr. Higgs. Panelists? Your impressions?”

“I may be too simpleminded,” said Toby, “but I don’t quite get why I should have to think this hard over dinner.”

“He’s an interesting fellow,” I said, “and I can imagine the first few episodes making quite a splash. After that?” I shook my head. “I believe viewers would lose interest. Most Americans wouldn’t have a single one of his ingredients in their larder.”

“He’s cutting-edge. He’s brilliant,” said Chef Adam grimly. “Can’t you see the difference between choosing someone who cooks like his doddering grandmother and a host who is a brilliant professional?”

After a few more minutes, Peter cut off further discussion and brought forward Henrietta Stentzel, the third chef candidate. I sunk a little lower in my chair and avoided looking at her face.

“Please meet chef Henrietta Stentzel, Henri to her
friends,” said Peter. “Ms. Stentzel owns and operates a burrito restaurant in Key West, and is the former owner of Hola on Miami Beach. Judges, you will remember her for her seafood fra diavolo presentation.” He guided her to the hot seat and backed away. “Take it away, judges.”

“I’m puzzled,” said Chef Adam. “You chose to present an Italian dish and yet your background appears to be in Mexican food. Explain.”

Henri grinned, looking everywhere but at me. “I love all kinds of food, but Mexican seafood dishes are not my favorite part of that ethnic tradition. On the other hand, when I’m in a restaurant that offers anything in a fra diavolo sauce, I leap to order it. If I were to land this show, I would love to share a variety of dishes with the viewers. My techniques are not overly complicated, but I like to spread the word about seasonal foods, along with spices that may not be common to the American palate.”

“It sounds like such a show might appeal to a niche market, rather than the broader public,” Toby said.

Henri leaned forward and spoke eagerly. “That’s exactly the prejudice my show could fight. American food is not just steak and potatoes. It’s cilantro, oregano, cumin, basil. I would love to introduce viewers to new things, to encourage them to try recipes they never dreamed they’d enjoy. And to show them how the foods from other countries have shaped our American way of eating.”

“Your seafood dish was delightful,” I said, unable to think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t get her hackles up.

We stumbled through some other questions and then, as with the others, Peter instructed us to discuss her presentation and her personality while she looked on.

“There’s nothing particularly wrong with her,” said Chef Adam, “but where’s the beef?”

“What do you mean by that?” Toby asked. “She’s not a vegetarian chef.”

His eyes rolled back in his head.

“I think it was a lame joke,” I said. “He probably meant: where’s the sparkle? She’s got a lovely message, but maybe she’s too nervous for it to come through clearly? Maybe that would improve with time?” I was starting to sound like a Key West–style Pollyanna.

My gaze darted over to Henri, who was glaring, laser-eyed, at me, right along with Chef Adam. I patted my hair and fiddled with my microphone. I could not have felt more uncomfortable and I was sure it showed.

“On reality TV,” said Chef Adam, “there is no time to improve. Sloooooow-ly. Either you’re scintillating off the blocks or the viewers punch their clickers and change channels.”