Topped Chef(9)
“That’s all there is,” Shapiro announced to the camera. “And now the moment of truth, in which our esteemed judges narrow the field….”
After five minutes of debate, we settled on three dishes—the homey Key West–style shrimp and grits dish, the lobster with caviar salsa and jalapeño foam, and the sophisticated yet substantial Italian seafood fra diavolo.
“Fabrulous, fabrulous,” said Shapiro. “Now we shall briefly meet our chef contestants.” He signaled to Deena, who ushered a gaggle of six chefs from the alley to the courtyard.
“Thank you all for your participation in Topped Chef!” said Peter. “We so enjoyed experiencing your contributions.” One young blond man grinned but the other candidates looked solemn and nervous, maybe wondering as I was what was wrong with old-fashioned food tasting.
“As certain as we are that all of your dishes were outstanding, our judges have spoken! Will the following individuals please join us here on the set: chef Randy Thompson!” The smiley blond man leaped into the air, clapping, and bounded up the steps.
“Chef Henrietta Stentzel, formerly of Hola on Miami Beach, and now chef-owner of Bad Boy Burritos!”
I blinked in disbelief. Then my heart sank with a hollow clunk as a fortysomething woman with a long braid climbed the stairs, looking everywhere but at me. Food was not the only thing we had in common—though I adored her small storefront burrito shop. Unfortunately, I’d suspected her in the murder of my ex’s girlfriend last fall—and from what I could tell, she had not forgiven me.
“And last but not least, meet chef Buddy Higgs!” Peter crowed.
A very tan man with a weathered face and a scraggly ponytail joined the other two as the rest of us clapped. Were Buddy and Randy currently not employed, or had Peter forgotten to mention that?
“That’s a wrap. Chefs are dismissed. Be here tomorrow morning at nine sharp.” Peter turned back to face the judges. “Not bad for a first day.” Sam and Chef Adam got to their feet as Deena came forward to hand Peter a clipboard. “Listen up, people—I have a few tips for tomorrow’s taping. First—and this is very, very important, be here promptly at nine.” He glanced down at his papers. “No offense intended, but I have a few notes to pass along from our photography director. They are intended to help you show your very best sides.”
First he turned to face Chef Adam and gave a little bow. “We all know you’re a real chef—not to be confused with Chef Boyardee.”
Toby and I snickered, but the chef didn’t crack a smile. He adjusted his toque, looking as if he’d like to dive across the table and strangle someone.
“Anyway, my camera people suggest that you lose the white coat. The camera does not love white and it washes out your color and makes you look sallow. And Toby”—he stroked his neck—“a scarf tomorrow maybe? Something salmon-colored perhaps? Our middle-aged quirks tend to show up more distinctly under the lights….”
He smiled regretfully and looked at his clipboard again. “Mr. Rizzoli, watch the loud patterned shirts—they can be distracting to viewers, even make them dizzy. And if they’re dizzy, they are likely to flip to another channel. And Miss Snow”—he grinned and patted his belly—“you have an adorable shape; shall we say plump like a guinea hen? Perhaps choose something less formfitting for the next episode? Less, yellow? But definitely no horizontal stripes, darling.”
Sam Rizzoli snickered loudly enough so that everyone on the set heard him.
As color and heat rushed to my face, I felt myself shrinking into a puddle of humiliation. Then I got mad. The Key Zest shirt might very well be a fashion faux pas, but it was my faux pas. And that of my friend and ally Wally, who’d stood up for me this morning in the face of a raging bully.
“You wanted someone to represent Key Zest on your show,” I heard myself say. “The shirt comes as part of the package.”
Peter looked stunned but then he burst out laughing. “Brava! I didn’t think you had it in you.” He tossed his head, the white mane flying. “That’s it, people. Until tomorrow.”
I plastered on a smile, then gathered my backpack and sunglasses, and walked out. Wally owed me big-time for this.
4
I’ll have what she’s having.
—Nora Ephron
I was already antsy about having dinner with Detective Bransford later this evening. But even though I’d stood up for myself in the end, Peter Shapiro’s “guinea hen” comment magnified my nerves times ten. I tore through most of the items in my closet before settling on black jeans and a black sweater. According to my mother, who knows these things, sticking to one color was supposed to be slimming. And then I added my lucky red cowboy boots, which, as far as I was concerned, went with everything and took five pounds off, too. At least six times I checked my phone to reread the exchange of text messages I’d had with Bransford last night.