Topped Chef(52)

Buddy turned away, frowning. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, and stumped over to join Henri.

While we three judges dissected Randy’s contribution—delicious to my mind, odoriferous and heavy to Chef Adam’s, and overly spicy to Toby’s—the Topped Chef assistants began to cut the remainder of the food into bite-sized portions and set small plates out on our table for the big-spender gold-level audience members to enjoy. The crowd pushed forward to get dibs on the samples, nearly trampling the rest of us in the rush. A cacophony of clanking silver on plates and the chatter of the diners began to rise.

Right in front of me, a large woman with a florid face suddenly crumpled to the ground, moaning and grabbing at her stomach. She flailed on the concrete, foaming at the mouth.

“Stand back!” I called, my voice weak with fear, and then crouched down to speak to her. “Are you all right?” Of course she wasn’t all right—she was writhing in pain, her eyes rolling back in her head, unable to answer at all.

“Call 911,” I yelled into my microphone, and this time the words echoed out over the crowd. I smoothed down her purple-flowered muumuu to cover her thighs, murmuring platitudes about how help was on the way.

More people pushed forward, grabbing for plates and asking how they could help and what was wrong…. I began to feel light-headed and queasy myself and sat cross-legged on the ground, patting the woman’s sweaty forehead with a paper napkin.

Finally, Peter Shapiro and Deena pushed through the onlookers, forcing them aside to leave space in front of the stricken guest. I heard the whine of the approaching sirens and then the clatter of a stretcher being pushed across the bricks.

A gaggle of paramedics appeared and two of them knelt to attend to the woman. One slipped an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, while the other attached a blood pressure cuff and took her pulse. Then he started an IV while the first medic attached what looked like an EKG machine to her chest.

“What happened here?” the lead medic asked as he worked.

“I have no idea,” I said. “One minute she was eating and the next she just crumpled.”

“Eating what?” he asked. “Does she have food allergies?”

I shrugged helplessly and Peter elbowed me aside.

“It’s a cooking reality show,” he explained at the same time that one of the cops assigned to crowd control on Mallory Square arrived. “Our top chefs have prepared meals from the ingredients we provided. They all had access to the same things, with varying degrees of success in the outcome. But it looks to me as though she may have been stricken with a heart attack.”

Ignoring Peter’s explanation, the policeman consulted with the paramedics and then addressed the crowd. “Does anyone else feel ill?”

No one came forward.

“Is anyone here related to this woman?”

A tiny woman wearing a pantsuit that resembled pajamas pushed up from the back of the crowd, looking shaky and scared. “We’re traveling together. We came off the cruise ship this morning.” She pointed over at the hulking boat tethered to the pier and then glanced at her watch. “Oh my gosh, I told her we should have stayed on board. We’re due back in an hour. Do you think she’ll be okay?”

The paramedics did not answer, hoisting her large friend onto the gurney and strapping her down. They raised the stretcher waist high and pushed the woman and all the equipment back toward Front Street, clattering across the brick and concrete, the distressed woman’s companion in tow.

A policeman I recognized from the near-drowning incident on Mallory Square came over to me. “Miss Snow, yes?”

I nodded.

“Please tell me what you noticed before and after this woman took ill.”

“As Mr. Shapiro said, this is one of the legs of a contest that will determine a new reality cooking show host. Once the food was set out on this table, there was a mad crush for people to grab plates and taste it. She was one of the first to get a plate. And then she simply buckled to the concrete.”

“What was she eating?” he asked.

“The food that our contestants had prepared. All three of our chefs had access to the same ingredients,” I explained. “Some were used by all three and some were only chosen by one. But she would have had a little of everything on her plate.” I paused to re-create the dishes in my mind’s eye and identify anything that seemed off. “Henri Stentzel did not use the jalapeño, if I remember right. Which is a little odd, considering her background. And her salsa tasted a bit salty, which I don’t think she intended. I think she intended for it to mirror the sweetness of the mango.”