“So you didn’t know him either?” Chef Adam asked Toby. She shook her head no. “Then I’d suggest we go ahead and get this over with. I’m losing money every minute I sit here without getting anything accomplished. I told my kitchen staff I would be out two days, three at the most.”
I reluctantly agreed. Wally was expecting an article on this chef competition for Key Zest. And my own scramble to get hired was recent enough that I could understand how fiercely the candidates on this show wanted to succeed. I could feel the buzz of their excited and nervous energy from twenty-five yards away. They’d be devastated to hear the show’s taping had been canceled. Because canceling the taping would very likely mean the end of the opportunity. Peter Shapiro had warned us early on that he was operating with a gossamer-thin budget.
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.”