“If you absolutely must sauce it, stone crab wants to be savory, rather than sweet,” said Chef Adam. “This is the kind of dish you might expect to find in Ohio. Key West? Not so much.”
Toby took a deep breath and raised a finger. “I like it.”
“Interesting, but a little odd,” I added, feeling utterly lame.
The two male judges exchanged tortured glances, and Chef Adam signaled for the next dish. The plates were whisked away and one of the assistants placed pieces of white fish in a butter and caper sauce onto clean ones. I nibbled quickly so I could come to my own conclusions before the others colored my perspective. Not bad, though the cook had been overgenerous with the capers, so the saltiness overwhelmed the pallid, white flesh of the fish.
“Would you say it’s a little salty?” I ventured, wanting to register an opinion but unable to suppress the idea that the creator of this dish would be hanging on our every word. Probably this very chef’s family and friends were gathered in the Armory, watching his hopes and dreams get torn to shreds on a TV monitor.
“I would say it’s not awful, but perhaps unremarkable,” said Chef Adam.
“Remarkable for its pedestrian treatment,” Sam agreed, pushing the plate aside. “In fact, the strongest flavor in the sauce is the hint of metal lid from the caper jar. How long do you suppose they were in his refrigerator? Next.”
Toby looked as though she’d been about to say something but the plates were removed before she had the chance. Shapiro’s assistant placed a small blob of polenta and a pink shrimp on each of our fresh plates. I carved off an inch of the crustacean, drew it through the buttery, cheesy cornmeal, and popped it into my mouth.
“I love this!” I said as soon as I’d swallowed.
“Classic, but unimaginative,” said Chef Adam.
“I agree with Hayley—it’s a simple recipe but executed flawlessly,” Toby piped up.
“Not terrible,” said Sam in a booming voice, looking directly at the camera. “But quite the Key West cliché. I know you want a chef who can cook regional dishes, but shouldn’t they show evidence of some imagination? Let’s sidestep the dishes with ‘uneven and overreaching preparation,’ shall we?”
I didn’t dare look down the table. Uneven and overreaching preparation were the words I’d used to describe his restaurant. Along with bad cooking juju and some other phrases I wanted to forget.
Assistants delivered the next dish, a lobster salad drizzled with a spicy green foam that looked like something that had washed up on the beach after a storm. It was garnished with a glistening spoonful of caviar. I took one fiery bite and clutched my neck, signaling for a glass of water. One of the assistants hurried over with a glass and I gulped it down.
Chef Adam finished chewing, leaned back in his chair, and sighed in satisfaction. “Nearly perfect. Whereas the caper sauce overwhelmed the other fish with its metallic salinity, the jalapeño foam provides just enough contrast to brighten the fish. And the caviar is both gorgeous and delightful.”
Had Chef Adam even noticed the metallic taste of the previous dish before Mr. Rizzoli mentioned it? Their tag-team act was starting to seriously annoy me.
“It tries too hard,” I snapped, feeling my throat continue to burn and thinking this description applied to Chef Adam, too. But then I added a softening smile, hoping I didn’t sound as mean as the two men. “I like hot peppers, but not so hot I have to call the fire department after I eat.”
“Would this fall into the school of molecular gastronomy?” Toby asked. “It’s tasty, but I’ve never quite connected with the foams and fumes and so on. How could a home chef possibly hope to reproduce it?”
“That’s exactly the point, then, isn’t it?” asked Chef Adam. “To have people introduced to food they wouldn’t otherwise experience? Most people can throw a roast in the oven or whip up a skillet of tacos and call it supper. This kind of cooking goes way beyond that sort of thing.”
“I’d rate it nine out of ten,” Sam Rizzoli agreed.
In the background, Peter Shapiro was rubbing his hands, looking pleased and excited. He motioned for the final dish to be delivered. This appeared to be seafood in a red sauce, served on a tiny nest of linguine. I poked through the sauce with my fork, identifying a ring of squid, a small shrimp, and a mussel. I tasted.
“Wonderful,” I said, closing my eyes to savor the spicy fra diavolo sauce. “This is the best so far. Hot enough to tingle the tongue without scorching.”
The men weighed in, Chef Adam for and Rizzoli against—though I had the feeling he would have dismissed anything I liked. Toby waffled, enamored of the red sauce but unimpressed with the jumble of sea creatures.