by Libby Klein
Bess started wiggling to the edge of her chair. “Well, any chef worth his salt would have noticed from a mile away.” She tried to stand and stumbled. “I think they all need to go back to ssschool for shome decent training.”
I put out my hand to catch her. “Would you like some coffee?”
She ignored me. “And I’ll tell you shomething. I’ve had my share of bad chhhefs, whoo! Poppy, what brand of tea ish this? It doesn’t taste like Harney & Shons. Any good bed and breakfast that is not capable of blending their own tea like I am would know to sherve Harney & Shons.”
“I don’t believe it is, but I will make a note to consider replacing it.”
“Good. Shee that you do. And while you’re at it, your shilver tea tray could use a good polish.” She threw her arm up over her head and fell back into the wingback chair.
Horatio rested both of his hands out in front of him on his walking stick and shook his head. “Poppy, you were the chef on your team who realized someone had undermined the pantry, weren’t you? I know you agree with me that a chef should taste their dish several times as they create it.”
“Absolutely.” I’ve been known to eat half a pan of brownies before getting them into the oven. “But, I’m not a real chef. I’m only helping Chef Tim for the event.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, dear, you’re a chef down in your bones where it counts. You have a gift. Don’t let anyone rob you of your dreams by being overly critical. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve seen a student give up because a teacher told them they couldn’t do something.”
“Thank you, Mr. Duplessis. That’s very kind of you to say. Was there anything else you all needed?”
Stormin’ Norman barely looked up from his iPhone. “Can you make a good recommendation for dinner tonight? I’m starving after that failure today. If it were up to me, all the chefs would have been chopped.”
Miss New Jersey was also on her iPhone. “Oh gawd. Stop with the Chopped already, fanboy. Poppy, where is that dreamy chef’s restaurant located? Maxine’s?”
Here Figaro. Here kitty, kitty, kitty. “Uh . . .”
Horatio sat forward on the couch “No, that won’t do. It would be unethical to eat in a contestant’s restaurant.”
Miss New Jersey drew her bottom lip out. “We eat here every morning.”
Bess gave a slight nod of her head. “Yesh, but Poppy isn’t a restaurant chef. She’s an innk . . . an innk . . . a bed and breakfasht owner. And it takes no special training to do that.”
Horatio scowled at Bess. “I don’t know. I’ve known many a lousy chef who thinks they know more than they do because of the address on a diploma. It takes more than exams to make a proper chef. A good teacher can recognize the spark of excellence in their student, and cultivate it. Sometimes the best chefs come from the most humble of beginnings.”
I looked around the wood-paneled library with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with Aunt Ginny’s collection of first editions and leather-bound classics. The fire burning in the stone fireplace cast a warm glow on the blue and cream Oriental rug. I thought it was rather elegant in here.
“Give me a greasy spoon any day. As a highly regarded food critic, there’s always a bunch of foolishness whenever I’m noticed. I usually have to wear a disguise when I go to a fancy dining establishment. As soon as the front staff recognizes me, it’s all over. Chefs parade out their best dishes, service is impeccable, the plating is pure artistry. One look at what the other diners are getting, and it’s easy to realize the staff is putting on the Ritz just for me.”
Miss New Jersey blew her nose. “You poor dear, that sounds like hell.”
Was that . . . was that a joke?
Horatio straightened his bow tie. “It makes it impossible to leave an unbiased review, and I believe professional chefs should be held to scrupulous standards. In any event, I’m ready to retire. I’ve had enough jetting around, eating rich food, enduring ridiculous dishes with molecular gastronomy like salmon foam and balsamic pearls.” Horatio gave a little shudder. “I’m ready to get in my own kitchen and make my own meals. I long to get back to the basic simplicity of well-made gourmet.”
The front door flew open and a tumbleweed of bad attitude rolled into the house in the form of Ashlee Pickel and Tess Rodriguez. They were elbow deep in at least one argument. Possibly two. Ashlee was hollering about being upstaged, and Tess was spouting off complaints in Spanish. Neither seemed to need the other to understand them, so long as the volume was loud.
Horatio waited calmly for an opening then asked, “Would you ladies care to calm yourselves down long enough to join us for dinner?”
“I’m not eating anywhere with her!”
Tess jabbed two fingers toward her eyes. “Prefiero empujar mis ojos con tenedores! Norman! You’re having dinner with me! Vamonos!”
Norman sprung off the couch like Tess held an invisible ejector button. “Where do you want to go?”
“Just shut up and follow me.”
Horatio turned to Ashlee. “Just the four of us then?”
Bess struggled to her feet again. “I’ve had enough bad fooo for one day. I have a migraine commingonumuan. I’ll jush go to buh.”
She was running her words together so badly that I only understood about half of them. I helped her over to the stairs while suggesting a popular burger place on the mall to the others. “It’s walking distance, and I doubt the staff would recognize you.”
I led Bess up to her room, and went to let her in. She blocked me from reaching the handle and asked me to send up some saltines to help settle her stomach. When I returned, her lights were off, and I could hear her snoring through the door.
I did not envy the hangover she would have in the morning.
Chapter Eleven
“Aren’t the others coming down to breakfast this morning?” I put the Southwestern egg casserole on the buffet, and took the bowl of fresh salsa from Aunt Ginny. I picked up the coffee, and, judging by the weight of the carafe, found it to be nearly empty.
Ashlee passed up the eggs and helped herself to a broiled grapefruit half. “I haven’t seen Tess all night, that tramp. She didn’t sleep in the room, so God only knows where she is. She could have been taken and sold into human trafficking. Hey, can I get the Wi-Fi code again? I have to post to my Instagram. I’m up to eight hundred followers, and I don’t want Tess to get ahead of me.”
Your level of concern is staggering.
Horatio brought his plate over to the buffet for some of the spicy casserole with chorizo sausage. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that our weatherman hasn’t come down for breakfast either.”
Aunt Ginny brought in a basket of fresh biscuits and butter. Horatio had one in hand before the basket touched the linen tablecloth.
Miss New Jersey had her head lying on her forearm on the table. A cup of coffee cooled at her side.
“Are you okay, Brandy? Do you need anything?”
Miss New Jersey looked up through bloodshot eyes and a nose Rudolph would be proud of. “I just took someb allergy medicine. Imb okay.” She blew her nose into a tissue and dropped it on my floor.
On my way back to the kitchen I passed Figaro slinking his way around the buffet toward his victim. “Nope.” I reached down and scooped him up with one hand. I deposited him in the kitchen where he glared at me reproachfully.
“What is your problem with her, Fig? Have mercy, the woman can hardly breathe.”
Figaro showed his remorse by swatting an empty pineapple juice jug across the floor.
Aunt Ginny refilled the carafe of coffee and handed it back to me. “Do you think Bess is okay? No one has seen her since before dinner last night.”
“I think she’s just sleeping it off. Better have some aspirin on hand for when she gets up.”
I took the coffee and another pitcher of cream into the dining room and refilled Horatio and Ashlee’s cups. Miss New Jersey was more interested in peppering me with ridiculous question
s about things that were none of her business.
“How long have you worked for that sexy blond chef on your team?”
I played it very cool. Don’t you even mention Tim’s name, you baboon! Okay, I didn’t say that out loud. What I said was, “Oh, Tim. Um . . . I guess I’ve known him for about thirty years or so.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, so he’s like a brother to you?”
“Ah, no. I wouldn’t say a brother, exactly.”
“But you probably know a lot about him, right?”
I put the heavy carafe down, so I wouldn’t be tempted to whack the beauty queen upside the head with it. “I think so, yes. Why?”
Her green eyes sparkled, and she laid her chin on her fist. “He is so gorgeous. I would love to go out with him. Tell me everything you know.”
I knew it wouldn’t be fair to Tim to ruin his chances of happiness with a beautiful woman. He and I weren’t married or anything, and I still didn’t know where my heart was between him and Gia. So, I knew I had to do the adult thing here and be honest with Brandy. If it was meant to be between me and Tim, it would happen.
“He’s gay.”
I turned on my heel and fast marched out of the room. Okay, that was a fail. As I swung through the kitchen door, Figaro tried to sneak out. I grabbed him just in time, looked him in the bright orange eyes, then gingerly put him back down and opened the door a crack to let him at her. I would buy her a pack of Benadryl later, on the house.
* * *
I was dreading the competition today. I had to give myself a little pep talk in the ladies’ room to work up the courage to enter the room. The kitchens were silent. The air was thick with suspicion. All around the arena, chefs were scowling at us, full of anger and malice. I caught Adrian glaring at Tim while sharpening his knives, and instinctively wrapped my arms around myself.
There were a lot fewer empty seats, and a lot more white hair in the stands today. Mother Gibson had brought her church group, and they were all wearing matching T-shirts that said TEAM POPPY. Tim chuckled when he saw them, but it did not go over well with Gigi, who humphed and said, “It’s Team Maxine’s. There is no Team Poppy.”
Tim looked at me and whispered, “I’m Team Poppy.”
Sawyer was holding a sign that said GO ADRIAN! I pointed at her sign and made a swirly motion with my finger. She looked at the sign, lurched in her chair, and quickly spun it around where the other side said GO TIM!
Tim shook his head. “Subtle.”
Aunt Ginny had made herself the authority on all things competition related. She marched back and forth in front of the rows of seniors like the fish feeder at a SeaWorld orca show. “And that one down there with the tattoos, he used to go to cooking school with Tim. He’s got his knickers in a knot saying Tim cheated at another competition years ago.”
Tim sighed.
“But I think the one to keep your eye on is that fussy old Frenchie by the judges.”
Chef Philippe frowned and turned his back to the audience.
“He said he noticed the ingredients were all wrong, but did he tell anyone?”
The crowd of seniors shook their heads. “No, uh-uh.”
“Exactly, and no one is threating to tan his hide like they are Poppy’s. No one really knows what happened in that pantry yesterday.”
Mrs. Dodson gave a dignified nod. “You mark my words, they’ll all be tasting every single ingredient today. Oh yes.”
Tim leaned down to speak in my ear. “They do know they aren’t helping our cause with this, don’t they?”
I shrugged. “They march to the beat of their own drum . . . one played by a drunk, deaf monkey.”
The judges finally arrived: Horatio looking dapper in a three-piece plum suit with canary-yellow bow tie; Bess, obscured by a giant pair of dark sunglasses and aided by Horatio’s walking stick: Norman in a cashmere sweater the color of a gathering storm. He winked at Tess, and she rolled her eyes in return. The judges took their places as before. The makeup girl came over to give Miss New Jersey a touch-up, then settled on a full overhaul to cover the effects of Figaro.
“Okay everyone!” Ivy entered the arena with Roger in tow. “Let’s get started. Take your places, please. Audience, quiet on the set. Now before we begin, after yesterday’s fiasco with the ingredients, the culinary school students have painstakingly gone through the pantry and replaced and relabeled everything. I posted a guard in the pantry overnight, and there were no incidents.”
Roger yawned and gave a thumbs-up.
“The good news is, we created a lot of buzz on Facebook and Twitter. Last night’s show had the highest ratings of anything we’ve ever broadcast. We even got a mention on the network news at eleven. I’m just thrilled! Well done. Break a leg today, everyone! Ashlee and Tess, you want to take your places and introduce today’s baskets?”
Ashlee growled at Tess and they grappled over the roving microphone until Ashlee wrenched it free with a few expletives.
Tess rubbed her teeth with her finger to clear any smeared lipstick, flashed the camera a sweet smile, and welcomed the viewers to night two of the Cape May County Restaurant Week Competition. “Before we get cooking, Ashlee, should we offer the judges a little something from the wine cellar?”
“I know I always want a glass of red with my dinner, Tess.” Ashlee also flashed a brilliant smile for the camera.
“I know you do, girl.” The girls both giggled for the camera.
“And as a little clue to tonight’s main course, we have a lovely rosé from the Côtes de Provence.”
“Oh, I love it when you speak French, Ash.”
“Merci beaucoup, mon ami,” Ashlee read from the teleprompter.
Ashlee poured the glasses of wine, but Bess waved her off. “No. Not for me. I’ll shtick with my tea.”
Ashlee turned questioning eyes to Ivy, unsure of what to do.
“Cut!” Ivy strode over to the judges’ table. “Bess, we’re kinda doing a thing here every night with the drinks. Are you sure I can’t have Ashlee get you a glass of rosé? For the camera?”
“I never touch the shtuff.”
Aunt Ginny could be heard in the stands. “And roosters lay chocolate eggs.”
“I jus’ want my tea. Every leaf is hand rolled from the finest quality jasmine I grow in my greenhouse tea garden.”
Ivy cocked her head to the side as if considering her response. Then she snapped her fingers, and Roger flew out of the room to, once again, make a pot of tea while Ashlee handed out the remaining glasses of wine.
Norman reached for her before she could walk away. “Leave the bottle, baby.”
“Fine.” She tromped back to the staging area. “It’s not like we don’t have more.” She poured herself a large glass and knocked it back.
Roger returned with the steaming china pot, and everyone took their places. Ivy and Roger wheeled out the mystery baskets and placed them before each chef.
I was getting jittery and my breakfast casserole was rescrambling in my stomach. I tried to peek through the wicker weave to see what was waiting inside. I couldn’t make out anything definitive, but I could smell flowers. Lavender? There’s lavender in my basket. What can I do with that?
Back on camera, Tess and Ashlee introduced the basket ingredients. “Okay chefs, today’s theme is Afternoon in Provence.”
Miss New Jersey blew her nose. “What does Rhode Island have to do with pink wine?”
Norman turned to her. “Provence, not Providence, you dumb bimbo.” Then he took a quick selfie with his glass of rosé.
“Open your baskets.”
Inside the brown wicker hamper was a bunch of fresh lavender, along with crème fraîche and several bags of Pop Rocks. Since when are Pop Rocks French? I need to make something more sophisticated than yesterday. These other teams have actual pastry chefs who work in sugar art every day. They’re gonna make my sad little desserts look like they were made with an Easy Bake Oven.
“You have one hour. Go!”
We all rushed the pantry together, creating a bottleneck. Hot Sauce Louie shoved Adrian. Chef Oliva barreled into the fray like a human cannonball. I worked my way into the room where chefs had lids off and jars open to make sure the flour was flour and sugar was sugar. Chef Philippe gave me a hostile look from head to toe, then shoved his nose into ajar of marmalade and inhaled.
Gigi bounced in front of me while I was getting powdered sugar and flour. “I love working with frogs’ legs! I need butter, vinegar, and ginger to make a sauce from the Speculoos Cookie Butter, no substitutions.”
“I thought I showed you where everything was yesterday.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t listening.”
I grabbed her ingredients and got myself some butter and eggs while I was at it.
Vidrine gave me a hip check into the side of the freezer on her way out, and I crushed one of my eggs. The diaphanous goo oozed down the front of my apron. She glanced over her shoulder and called out, “Behind.”
I gathered everything I would need to make lemon-lavender crème brûlée with grape-lavender shortbread. At the last minute I grabbed some pistachios for color and crunch and ran back to my station.
I put some ramekins on a sheet pan and placed them in the oven to preheat. Then I whisked together egg yolks, cream, and sugar in a mixing bowl. All around the room, chefs were dipping fingers in the spices and eating pinches of salt and spoonsful of oil and nodding. I would have laughed if my head weren’t already on the executioner’s block with most of them. It looked like whatever prank, error, or sabotage that had happened yesterday wasn’t being repeated today. Everyone seemed to have what they expected to have. I zested and juiced a couple of Meyer lemons and added them to my filling along with a half a teaspoon of lavender extract.
Tim edged over to my workspace. “Hey, baby, can I buy a lemon?”
I snickered and handed him two. “What are you making?”
“It’s Meyer lemon-glazed duck season.”
“Wabbit season.”
