“Our three judges will be circulating through the stations, commenting on the chefs’ choices and techniques,” Peter continued. “When the hour is up, they will sample the resulting dishes, as will our gold-level ticket holders.”
Gold level, meaning they’d paid a fortune to watch from inside the ropes. I was beginning to sweat under the pressure of the contest; I couldn’t even imagine how hard it would feel to cook with strange ingredients—and no recipes—in public.
“Chefs, please man your positions!” said Peter.
Henri, Buddy, and Randy walked over to take their places in front of the cooking stations.
“Ready, set, cook!” Peter shouted.
Two of Peter’s assistants snapped off the sheet that had covered the central island. The cameras zeroed in on the chefs’ faces as they studied the array of ingredients. I could see limes, mangoes, avocado, leeks, and carambola or star fruit, an odd-looking tropical fruit that I’d never tried to cook with. Buddy Higgs’s expression remained flat, and Henri’s grim, but Randy broke into a delighted smile.
“I do adore star fruit,” he said, “though it doesn’t really ‘go’ with anything else on the table.” He hummed tunelessly for a moment, tapping one bicep with his fingers. “When in doubt, start with a mirepoix, as they say in France,” he said, reaching for a large yellow onion. “Or sofrito, as the Spaniards might say. In any language, that’s often chopped onion, celery, and pepper.” He slid open a drawer underneath his cooktop, pulled out a chef’s knife, and began to chop. “Wasn’t it Julia Child who said the best way to execute French cuisine is to get loaded and whack the hell out of a chicken?”
He broke into a peal of laughter that rippled through the crowd, and they began to abandon the spaces in front of Henri and Buddy and push over to Randy’s station. “In this case I’ll choose the yellowtail snapper as my main dish because it’s an icon of Keys cuisine.”
“Do we have to listen to this idiot natter on for the whole hour?” Buddy muttered. He snatched four chicken breasts from the supplies, along with a variety of spices, orange juice, and the required fruits. The distinctive smell of toasting cumin soon wafted from his stovetop.
“When unexpected guests are on the menu, I choose grilling as my go-to option. It’s fast and furious, yet always seems special—it sends the message that you were hoping they’d drop by all along.” He grimaced and began to mash garlic into the toasted cumin and then spread it onto the chicken.
I couldn’t imagine dropping in on Buddy with or without an invitation.
Peter gestured for more camera close-ups on Buddy and Randy. “See if you can fan the flames of their competition,” he said for our ears only. “So far this is falling flatter than a pancake. I need you to take some action, people. Get them arguing if you can.”
I moved around the U-shaped cooking stations so I could get a better look at the food on the island, with Toby trailing behind me. Chef Adam marched off in the other direction.
“Looks like they have a choice of chicken, shrimp, and yellowtail snapper,” I reported, feeling self-conscious about talking to myself. And producing such trivial drivel. But Deena signaled for more.
“Looks like Randy Thompson is reaching for the heavy cream and optional jalapeños,” I said.
“Of course,” said Chef Adam from the other side of the central island, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Everything’s a cream sauce for Chef Thompson.” He circled around to join us from the far side of the tent, and watched as Randy finished dicing his onion and then dumped the chunks into a sizzling pan of butter. “His knife skills are barely more than basic,” he added. “Do you see how ragged and misshapen his chunks are? Chef Buddy Higgs, on the other hand, could offer a class at Le Cordon Bleu.”
“But would anyone take it?” piped up Toby. “Boring, as our producer would say. I’d go for taste over uniformity any day of the week!”
She looked as though she wished she could take the words back as soon as she’d said them, but Deena flashed her a quick thumbs-up. I trotted around to the other side of the tent so I could watch Henri sauté bites of snapper and shrimp.
“I like to marinate the seafood in tequila to give it that extra splash of bold taste,” she told the audience. “But then be sure to pat dry before cooking in order to get the full benefit of flash frying.” While the seafood sizzled, she chopped up an avocado and a mango and added them to a bowl with minced jalapeño and torn mint leaves. She squeezed a lime over the top of the salsa just as the six p.m. buzzer sounded.