Topped Chef(48)

If he was trying to frighten me, it worked. I stared back, speechless, and then darted across the street. I heard brakes squeal and a horn blasting from the car that almost hit me.

“I mean it, Hayley,” the detective yelled. “Watch out.”

My hands shook badly, as I registered the cold steel of his warning. And the near miss with the car. Perched on my scooter, I breathed deeply for a few minutes until I could fit the key into the ignition. Apparently he thought I was an idiot who would bumble into risky situations without considering the possible cost. And he wasn’t completely wrong. I wasn’t thinking straight—I had to be more careful.

Though it never hurt to listen if presented with the right opportunity—like dropping by Mrs. Rizzoli’s gym.

I fired up the scooter and headed for the small We Be Fit gym a couple of blocks north of the pier on First Street. A tall blond woman, dressed in sweats, but graceful like a dancer, greeted me as I came in.

“I’m wondering whether you have any small-group weight-lifting classes for women?” I asked. I raised my arm and jiggled my tricep. “I’m a runner and I thought some weight training might be a good complement to my exercise program.” Which was all quite an exaggeration—I’d only been out running three times, and that hardly constituted a “program.”

“I’d love to start tomorrow morning if that’s possible,” I added. “Sometime around nine thirty or ten?”

After Leigh, the trainer, had ascertained that I had no experience in a gym, she was less than enthusiastic about having me work out with a group. “I recommend a few personal training sessions so we can assess where you are in terms of physical fitness and get you acquainted with the machines.”

“I may need personal attention,” I said with a smile, “but my budget is definitely group-oriented.”

“Let’s try a one-on-one session and then if it’s going well, we’ll try to find you a workout buddy,” she suggested.

Then she rattled off a list of embarrassing questions about my goals, my current workout schedule, and my eating, about which I was only partially honest. I had to think most people lied rather than expose their miserable habits at the first meeting. I signed a raft of permissions and disclaimers and she faxed a medical release off to my doctor in New Jersey. I hadn’t visited a medical professional since coming to Key West last fall—other than after my car accident, for which I had been treated in the ER; there had been no need for it. I cleaned out the last two twenties in my wallet to pay for tomorrow’s session.

“See you at ten,” she said when we were finished. “Or better still come fifteen minutes early and you can warm up on the treadmill.”





15


I always tell people, “Just put it in your mouth,” she said. “What’s the worst that can happen? You’re not going to die. Either you’re going to like it or you’re not.”

—Emma Hearst, chef at Sorella



I puttered around at my Key Zest desk until four o’clock, when Peter had told us to show up at the Westin Resort and Marina Pier on Mallory Square for the next Topped Chef challenge. The usual gaggle of tourists was snapping pictures of the oversized Seward Johnson statues dancing behind the Custom House Museum, a few silly man-boys posing beneath the statues of the naked women.

Behind the museum, alongside the Westin, three cooking stations had been set up under an enormous white tent. Stainless steel six-burner Wolf stoves with grills and ovens had been installed at each station—the equipment had me absolutely drooling. Peter must have spent a fortune to get it here. Each station was designed so the chefs would face the onlookers, with the food supply counter behind them. Although the advertising flyers said the show would begin at five, a large crowd had already begun to mill around outside the ropes. The central island counter space was piled high with the secret food supplies that had been promised, all covered by a white sheet. Deena waved me right over so I could get set up with my microphone.

“We’re doing things a little differently today,” she said. “You’re going to have an earpiece as well as a mic so Peter and I can give you instructions during the cook-off.”

“What kind of instructions?” I asked, suspicious. Hoping this wasn’t the point in the contest where they told us who we had to vote for.

“We might want you all to circle around and watch someone’s sauté technique or their knife skills. Or if something’s going terribly wrong, we’ll definitely want your reactions, live.” She grinned. I hadn’t seen her look this lighthearted since I’d met her last fall.