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.”
“I didn’t realize you were such an expert on reality TV,” I said sweetly.
Peter was grinning madly on the sidelines. “Let’s wrap things up for today,” he said, striding to the middle of the porch. “Contestants, here is your challenge for tomorrow: Key West is the site for many destination weddings. Tell us about the themes you would exploit if you were hired to do a wedding. And bring a sample of a signature drink for the prospective bride and groom and a piece of your wedding cake.”
The cameras panned the faces of the three contestants—Henri’s expression pleasant and interested, Randy’s excited, and Buddy’s, disgusted.
Peter signaled for them to stay seated and then turned to address the judges. “Before I let you three go, let’s buzz over where we are so far. If you had to choose today, do or die, for whom would you vote?”
“Ms. Stentzel, absolutely,” said Toby. “Women have cooked meals for centuries and I’m sick to death of male chefs pushing forward to take the limelight when suddenly there’s some money to be made of it.”
My jaw nearly dropped open to my knees. I wouldn’t have expected her to voice such a strong opinion. I said: “Point well taken, but are you saying we should choose a woman simply because she’s female? If we go on just what we’ve seen so far, I’m liking Randy Thompson.”
Chef Adam shook his head impatiently. “Buddy Higgs’s food and his presentation as a chef are head and shoulders above the others.” He pointed at the cameraman and said, “Cut!” and then turned to address Peter. “This is not for the camera. I think it was a mistake to continue without Sam Rizzoli. I’m not seeing how this panel has the necessary level of expertise to make an informed decision.” He faced me again. “Are you aware of the details of Randy Thompson’s so-called entertainment career?”
I shrugged and made a who cares face.
“He’s a drag queen. How do you think that will play with the American TV viewing public?”
“Great stuff!” said Peter to us. And then “Cut!” to the cameraman. “Finally, we’ve got some conflict!”
6
Whatever I would have expected to feel at this moment, excitement, sadness, anger, frustration, exhilaration, is suddenly obscured by a sudden and almost uncontrollable urge for a bowl of escarole soup.
—Meredith Mileti, Aftertaste
A thick layer of gray clouds had dropped low during the time we were filming, bringing a spitting rain that matched my mood. I agreed with Chef Adam on one thing: It had been a mistake to continue. And clearly Peter Shapiro was uninterested in respecting anyone’s boundaries. He had told us he would go for the jugular, and now I could see that he meant it.
I gathered up my backpack and sweater, wondering how to convince Wally that I had to bail out of the TV reality show assignment because one of the judges had been murdered and another was an idiot. Obviously a drag queen wasn’t exactly corn-belt Americana, but this was Key West. Drag shows were obligatory fun on Duval Street and some of the best entertainment in Florida came out of those clubs. Not that I completely understood the urge for a guy to dress up as a girl and dance around onstage, but if people loved to watch them and if it heated their skillets, why would anyone care? And if Peter Shapiro was looking for sparks—something livelier than your average “produce a homey casserole” cooking show—a chef in drag could be the answer.