“Chefs, it’s time to plate your meals,” said Peter.
After a flurry of last-minute frying and stirring, the contestants arranged their dinners on three heavy white stoneware dinner plates. Two assistants brought out a small table covered in a crisp white cloth and Peter motioned for the judges to come forward. As we prepared to taste the first dish, Peter came around the edge of the tent and thrust his microphone to Henri’s lips.
“Chef Henri, describe your contribution please!”
“I’ve chosen to make a Mexican seafood sauté,” she said, hands held out to the plate like a priest offering communion . “It gives an impressive appearance to guests, but even inexperienced home cooks are capable of producing such a dish. And I’ve chosen to use the mango, avocado, and star fruit in a salsa to complement the seafood.”
“Judges?” asked Peter, swinging around to face us again.
I was the first to take a nibble of Henri Stentzel’s Mexican seafood sauté. “Honestly, on the plate the dish does not look that appealing,” I said without meeting her eyes. She might never speak to me again—unfortunate when we both lived on an island—but I felt I had to tell the truth or I’d be called out for it later. I understood that this event was made for television; it was not reality. But my reputation rode on a frank assessment of what was put on the table in front of me.
“The final product’s a little runny. Though she did warn us to blot the seafood dry, it appears that she hurried that step herself. But I will say it tastes better than it looks. It’s fresh and tropical—really quite good.” I stepped away from the plate to signal that it was someone else’s turn to comment.
“It looks like the chef panicked and threw every ingredient she was obligated to use into the pan without considering the outcome,” said Chef Adam, wrinkling his nose as he nibbled on a second bite. “It’s an unattractive mishmash, which might be fine if it was wrapped up in a burrito skin. And of course that is Ms. Stentzel’s most recent culinary background.” He swallowed the last of his sample. “One more thing—there is something bitter in the aftertaste as well.”
“Oh, this is truly ridiculous,” Henri huffed, undoing the top button of her jacket and fanning her face with a spatula. “Sometimes you run that risk using older citrus. If I had ordered the ingredients from my own suppliers, and they delivered those miserable limes, I would have sent them back as soon as I opened the box.”
“Thank you, Chef Stentzel!” said Peter, and pointed at Toby. “We want to hear from the judges now, not the chefs.”
“I’m not a fan of liquor in food,” Toby said. “I have to say I prefer my tequila in shots.” The audience snickered while I looked at her with astonishment.
We moved on to Chef Buddy’s station to sample his grilled Cuban-style chicken—a relief from the other overly fancy things he’d produced this week. This time around he didn’t have access to the chemicals that would turn a perfectly good dinner into gelatin spheres. The chicken had been marinated briefly in a cumin and garlic paste, grilled, and then sliced over an arugula, mango, and avocado salad.
“If this had been prepared in my restaurant, we would have allowed the chicken to marinate for a longer period of time,” he said, before Peter could shut him down.
“It’s tasty,” I said. “Certainly a home cook could manage this.”
“Now there’s damning him with faint praise,” said Chef Adam. “It’s a gorgeous presentation of a classic summer supper salad.”
“The garlic is somewhat overpowering,” said Toby. “Not something you’d want to consume on a first date.” I looked at her with astonishment and she winked.
Finally, the plates were shuffled away and replaced with Chef Randy’s dish. He’d steamed white rice and topped it with a sautéed yellowtail snapper bathed in a jalapeño-scented cream sauce, which was based on the finely chopped vegetables he’d been so pleased to transform into mirepoix. My mouth watered just looking at it.
“If I were making this dish for a dinner party,” Randy said, “I would serve okra beignets with a sour cream and cilantro dipping sauce as starters. And finish up with key lime marscapone cannoli served in a pool of mango sauce, with star fruit as garnish.”
“None of those things were provided to us,” Buddy protested. “He’s just making things up.”
“A chef should have a good imagination, don’t you think?” Randy replied. “It should never be a drag to entertain.” He executed a few dance steps behind his stove, ending with a twirl, one hand posed overhead.