“Thanks. I think.” I rolled my eyes. “How the heck did you get roped into this?”
“I took the week off from Chad’s office,” she said. “I used to work in reality television before I moved down here. I love this stuff. It’s too unpredictable to do as a steady diet, but I couldn’t resist applying for a temporary job right here in town. It’s so much more exciting than the lawyer business.” She underlined my name on her clipboard and grinned. “When I called your office yesterday looking for another victim, I never imagined you’d get tapped.”
I couldn’t keep from rolling my eyes again. “I was the only option. And Wally’s a little desperate for Key Zest to make a splash.”
“Oh, hey, congrats on the review this morning, too.” Then her eyes got wide. “You do know that Sam Rizzoli is one of the judges?”
“Are you sure it’s Sam Rizzoli?”
She nodded. Checked her list and nodded again.
I felt a fist to my gut, but before I could follow up, a very tall man with a mane of white hair, a close-cut white beard, and intense blue eyes clapped his hands and called for attention. The chattering died down to a murmur. He pushed through the crowd and beckoned Deena to join him on the rustic stage that was used for “Old Town, New Folk” concerts.
“Welcome to Topped Chef, Key West–style,” he bellowed into the microphone mounted on the podium. “I’m the executive producer and director of the show, all wrapped up in one shiny package. Like surf and turf. Or fish and chips or…”
Deena put two fingers on his wrist and he stopped and grinned down at her.
“Okay, my assistant says enough with the foodie metaphors. My name is Peter Shapiro. Deena Smith—this gorgeous morsel next to me—will be assisting me with scheduling details. She’s my field and story producer, also known as the vice president in charge of difficult people.”
He squeezed Deena’s shoulder and smiled in a slightly oily way.
“For the preliminary round of this event, this morning our wannabe chefs delivered an original dish featuring the seafood of Key West to our staff. We’ve narrowed these dishes to six entries and these wonderful contestants are right here in this room.”
I glanced around, searching the faces of the people in chef’s clothing, feeling my curiosity blossom. Which of them would be disappointed when the contest ended? Only one would be elated—as I’d been when I landed the job at Key Zest in the fall. I had wanted the job so badly; actually landing it felt unreal.
“We have selected a distinguished panel of judges who will rate the food purely on appearance, flavor, general excellence of cooking, and evidence of technique, without consideration of the cooks behind them. Once the three winning dishes are chosen, the personalities will be introduced into the mix.” He rubbed his palms together, laughing in an evil way. “Then things get wonderfully interesting. Could the judges come forward to the stage?”
I headed to the back of the room and trooped up the steps to join Peter and Deena and three other judges—a rangy man with dark, wavy hair and wearing a paisley shirt, a small woman with an anxious look on her delicate features, and a substantial man wearing a white chef’s coat and black clogs and a white toque.
“Sam Rizzoli and his family have inhabited Key West for generations.” Peter pointed to the rangy man, who had the kind of muscles that came from regular workouts, but also a small gut that suggested he enjoyed indulging in food or drink, or both. “Sam owns four restaurants in town,” Peter added, “including the brand-new sensation Just Off Duval.”
Yep. The very same restaurant I had panned. The very man who’d been in our office this morning shouting at Wally about my foodie ignorance. I hadn’t gotten a look at him as I’d snuck down the hall, but I’d know his angry voice anywhere. I forced my face to retain the pleasant expression I’d painted on as I climbed the stairs to the stage. Spotlights beat down on the stage and I began to sweat.
“Next to Sam is Toby Davidson.” Peter Shapiro pointed to the small woman wearing a brown pageboy streaked with gray. She looked as uncomfortable as I felt—possibly even worse. She waggled her fingers and mouthed “hello.”
“Ms. Davidson has written a memoir about how she handled her grief over losing her husband through baking cakes. She is a founding editor of Bake with Joy, and has seen her work published in Gourmet, Bon Appetit, Cooking Light, and many other magazines. Her essays have been included in anthologies of the year’s best food writing for 2010, 2011, and 2012.”