Topped Chef(5)
He smiled and patted his desk blotter. “Don’t look so worried. You’re doing fine. This is about a new assignment. A real plum. You know the Food and Wine Festival is upon us, right?”
“Of course. I have tickets for the Mallory Square Stroll tomorrow night, remember? And Duval Uncorked on Saturday.” One of the first events for the festival involved sampling morsels from restaurants from three districts around town. Diners would rotate among five businesses, tasting their food and drinking wine. It had seemed like a good way to try a few places I’d never visited, fast.
“And maybe you’ve heard about the Key West Topped Chef contest this weekend?”
I nodded again, searching my brain for the details of an article I’d skimmed in the Citizen. “I might have seen an announcement but I don’t know the details.”
Wally settled his glasses back on his nose and tucked a pencil behind the side bar. “It’s a reality TV cooking show slash contest and the winning chef scores an opportunity to do a pilot for a new network show. The producer called this morning asking Key Zest to provide a judge.”
“A judge?” I cleared my throat, feeling the tickle of an unpleasant assignment coming. “Isn’t it a little late to be naming judges?”
He peered over the top of his glasses, frowning. I wasn’t demonstrating the old rah-rah team spirit that he wanted in his one and three-quarters employees—me and Danielle. “I’d like it to be you.”
I sat back, the frayed nubs of the wicker chair poking my shoulder blades. “I wouldn’t have a clue how to choose a television personality. I know how to judge food, not people. And I’m a horrible actress—all you have to do is preview a few of my mom’s home movies to know that.”
He grinned. “Rain check on that. Do you watch any TV cooking shows?”
“Of course. It’s a blood sport in my family.”
“Which ones?”
“Rachael Ray, of course. She’s not much of a chef, but she’s utterly charming—and she makes her viewers feel like they can cook. She makes it all seem possible. That’s an art! On the other hand, Mom loves Emeril. Some of the other chefs think he acts too much like a clown, but we think he’s a fabulous entertainer. And I never miss…” My words trailed off as I realized I’d talked my way into the new gig.
“It will be fun!” Wally said, seizing the opening I’d given him. “The first session begins in half an hour at the Studios of Key West. Just imagine you’re at home on the couch with your mom.”
My first instinct was to whine and wheedle. I squelched that and tried to muster a smile. From the look on Wally’s face, I could tell the question was settled.
“If you have any questions, get in touch with Deena Smith. She’s helping to organize the weekend.” He slid a slip of paper across the desk with her phone number on it.
As if it wasn’t already etched in my mind for life. Deena was my ex-boyfriend Chad’s secretary and I’d called that number more times than was decent after our ugly breakup. In spite of those bad memories, I felt an immediate relief—Deena and I had managed to remain friends in spite of Chad. She was a levelheaded, evenhanded person—how bad could it be if she was involved?
3
The best tools, like the best chefs, are a little offset.
—Michael Ruhlman
I drove my scooter up Fleming Street, buzzed the long block across on White to Southard, and parked outside the cavernous yellow-sided former armory trimmed with turrets that now housed the Studios of Key West. I trudged up the front steps and went inside. The two-story vestibule was jammed with people—some in checkered chefs’ pants and white coats, some wearing earphones and carrying clipboards, some in random Key West dress—shorts, flip-flops, and T-shirts emblazoned with unprintable slogans.
Inside the main room—which stretched the full length and width of the armory and two stories high—I found Deena. She looked stunning as always, her thick black hair curling past her shoulders and an extra sparkle in her dark brown eyes. Her red tank top matched her high heels and her nail polish, any one of which would have looked ridiculous on me. Standing next to Deena always made me wish I were a little taller and that I’d dressed a little better—or a lot, if I was honest. Like changed out of the yellow Key Zest shirt that clashed with both my freckles and my auburn curls.
Deena offered me a quick hug and ran a finger down a line of typed names on her top page. Mine was penciled in at the bottom. She checked it off with a red pen.
“Welcome to the zoo.”