“What is this?” asked Toby. “What are we supposed to do with it?”
“Bottoms up,” said Chef Adam, as he tipped the spoon to his mouth.
I followed suit, and felt a warm jolt, as though I’d just swallowed a shot of rum. Which I suppose I had.
“This is spectacular,” said Chef Adam.
“Though perhaps a little gimmicky?” I asked, and Toby nodded.
Once Buddy Higgs had finished telling us which chemicals caused the drink to gel, and finally cleared out of the way, Randy Thompson moved into the kitchen. He stood behind the counter, his hands behind his back, and smiled.
“A wedding is about the people, not the show. And people connect on a more honest level when the setting is casual. Hence, I’ve designed a picnic at Fort Zachary Taylor Park.”
He pulled a pitcher full of liquid and a small bag of mint from the refrigerator.
“I’ve got a mojito, too,” he said ruefully. “But no gelatin involved.” He turned to face Buddy Higgs. “By the way, Chef Buddy, on Duval Street, they’d call your concoction a Jell-O shot. And it’s usually sucked off someone’s belly. Hopefully not a beer gut.” A titter of laughter swept through the crew, but Buddy looked grim.
We watched Randy crush his mint leaves in the bottoms of three pint-sized mason jars, which he then filled to the brim with ice and a clear liquid. He delivered them to us and we sipped—refreshing and powerful.
“Since I’m proposing a casual setting, and maybe even a barefoot bride, I envisioned the wedding dessert as casual, too.” He pulled a tray from the freezer. “For the bride at the beach, what could be more fun than cake pops?”
He carried the tray over to us and we each took a ball of cake on a stick. Dark chocolate inside, a shell of white chocolate outside, studded with tiny silver beads of candy.
By now, I was feeling extremely light-headed, not to mention trembling from the sugar rush of the cumulative desserts. But the worst culprit had been the shimmery mojito. I reminded myself to watch for signs of alliance, either between Toby and Chef Adam, or either of them and the candidates. Pay attention to the subtext, I told myself. If something strange was going on among the little factions, I didn’t want to be caught unawares. I wanted the best candidate to land the show. But more important: If one of these people had killed Sam Rizzoli, the rest of us were also in danger. It was that simple.
Henri had seemed less distant than she had the other day. And Buddy had acted very confident. Either he was doing a good job hiding things or he was sure he had it nailed. Had he seen me last night on the yacht? Did he realize what I’d seen?
But I was finding it harder and harder to concentrate on the contest, my woozy mind wandering to the question of whether I’d ever get to plan a wedding. For me. Hard to imagine when I couldn’t even get through a first date without ending up all prickly and out of sorts.
“Judges?” boomed Peter Shapiro, interrupting my thoughts. “Your reactions to our contestants’ presentations?”
“I have two words for you,” said Chef Adam turning to face the camera. “Cake? Pops?”
“Yes, they were a little hokey, but you have to admit they were delicious,” I said, my words slurring just the tiniest bit. “And fun. I’d like to be a guest at Randy’s wedding reception. On the other hand, that gelatin ball might go over in Chicago or Los Angeles, but it doesn’t speak ‘parrothead’ to me. When I was a kid, I used to love those bath beads—the ones that look like gelatin until they dissolve in hot water. That’s all I could think about when he served us that Frangelico thing. Would it taste like soapsuds?”
Chef Adam glared at me as though I’d lost my marbles.
“The caterer has no business competing with the bride, in my opinion,” said Toby. “And the molecular gastronomy products shout look at me! On the other hand, I found the key lime cupcakes to be delightful.”
When we’d said all we had to say, and more, Peter signaled that the taping was over. “You people did well today. You kicked it up a notch. And you look good, too. The black is a big improvement,” he said to me. Then he touched his hand to his forehead and looked at Toby. “Everything all right with you?”
“I’m fine,” she answered with a forced smile. “Are we finished here?”
When Peter nodded, she leaped up and hurried across the courtyard.
12
That would be enough for him. To find her plums in season, and perfect nectarines, velvet apricots, dark succulent duck. To bring her all these things and watch her eat.
—Allegra Goodman, The Cookbook Collector