“Let me get those for you,” Mitchell says. “Our bell staff hasn’t started yet.”
Wavonne and I begin to follow Mitchell to our room, when Twyla emerges from the hallway into the lobby.
“Hello,” she says to me and Wavonne. “I was just freshening up a little bit before we start part two.” She looks at me and then Wavonne. “Something I’m guessing you two have not done yet?”
I’m about to respond to her rude assumption when I see a large, black SUV pull up in front of the hotel. The passenger door flings open, and I see Cynthia step out. Sherry, Trey, and Vera file out of the back seat and walk around to the rear of the vehicle and start grabbing grocery bags.
“Ladies,” Cynthia calls, poking her head through the hotel doorway. “I need you three in the restaurant. There are a few things I want to go over with you before we start taping. Now, please.”
“Now?” Wavonne asks. “I was going to switch out my wig and touch up my makeup.”
“No time for that,” Cynthia calls, stepping back, letting the door close, and regrouping with the contestants outside.
“Better do what the boss’s wife says,” Mitchell suggests. “I’ll take your bags to your room.”
“Wait, wait,” Wavonne says as Mitchell reaches for her suitcase. “Let me get in there for a second. I need my makeup bag and my wig comb. I’ve got to touch up all this,” she adds, waving her hand from her chin up to the top of her hair, “before we go on TV.”
“You look fine.”
“Looking fine is your thing, Halia. I want to look fabulous.”
“I don’t think we have time for fabulous, Wavonne,” I say. “Cynthia wants us in the restaurant now.”
“That’s fine. I can multitask and reapply my makeup while she talks to us.”
“I think you should give her your full attention, Wavonne. She may have something important to tell us.”
“Halia, in high school I used to hot comb my hair, put on my face, and paint my nails durin’ first period algebra—I think I can handle a little touchin’ up while Cynthia goes over a few things with us. And don’t think I didn’t learn my algebra either. Just yesterday I figured, if I was averagin’ eighteen percent in tips, I needed $888 worth of checks if I was gonna get the $160 I need for those Dolce sunglasses I’ve been eyein’.”
“Maybe I underestimated you, Wavonne.”
“Crap. This isn’t my makeup,” she says, looking into the bag she retrieved from her luggage. “This is my bag of Pringles and Cheez-its in case I get hungry later.”
“Then again...” I say softly as she scurries down the hall toward Mitchell, “maybe not.”
Chapter 17
After Wavonne switches out her bag of salty snacks for her makeup kit, we exit the lobby and walk through the breezeway that connects to the restaurant.
“Wow,” I say when we come through the entrance to Sunfish. We’re clearly in what will be the main dining room—there’s textured beige paper on the walls, squares of smooth oak tiles on the ceiling, and four eye-catching chandeliers hanging overhead.
“They’re gorgeous. Aren’t they?” Cynthia notices me eyeing the sizable chandeliers made from slats of curved wood bound by dark copper rings. “We had them custom made from the wood of wine barrels.”
“Yes. Very chic,” I say. “But they don’t quite go with all of this.” I gesture to the metal counters, makeshift stove tops, sinks, and mixers scattered about. “Are those countertop convection ovens?”
“Yes. We’re equipped with everything the contestants need for the challenges.”
“I’m assuming, unless this is the most bizarre restaurant ever, that there is a kitchen somewhere. Why aren’t we filming in there?” As I ask this I take another look around at what appears to be three stations, each outfitted with a large metal counter stocked with all sorts of supplies and cooking utensils, a sink, a few burners, an oven, and half a dozen small appliances... can openers, mixers, blenders, etc. “Oh, I get it. The kitchen is not big enough for this whole... this whole production.”
“Exactly,” Cynthia says. “We need space for all the equipment and then room for the cameras to move about. So we did the build-out here in the dining room.”
“Well, I can tell it’s going to be a lovely space when it’s finished.”
“It will be. We wrap filming in a few days, and then we’ll lay the floors, start the booth installations, and get the tables and chairs in here. And we commissioned some wonderful artwork for the walls. We expect everything to be in place shortly after we wrap the show for the season.”
“And one of those three,” I say, nodding my head in the general direction of Sherry, Trey, and Vera as they unpack their groceries, “will be the new executive chef here?”
“Yes. Speaking of which,” Cynthia says. “We need to get things rolling. Why don’t you take a seat over there with Twyla and Russell.”
Cynthia points toward a long table outfitted with three microphones—it looks like something Simon Cowell should be sitting behind with Paula Abdul and Randy Jackson. She follows us as we approach the table and take our seats. Wavonne and I are to the left of Russell, and Twyla is to his right. Both Russell and Twyla are talking on their cell phones.
“Sit tight for a few minutes. We’ll get started shortly. You’ll spend most of the evening right here observing as the contestants prepare their dishes.”
While Wavonne touches up her makeup, I sit back and watch the scene in front of me. The production setup in here is much more sophisticated than at the museum. There are cameras and lighting equipment... and people everywhere. While teams of folks are moving things around, adjusting fixtures, and testing microphones, a young woman with what looks like a tool belt around her waist appears at the table. Only instead of screwdrivers and wrenches, her belt is lined with makeup brushes and tubes of concealer and foundation. Without a word, she begins to apply some of her lotions and potions to Russell’s face while he continues to yammer on his phone.
“Oh honey, no,” Wavonne says to her. “He’ll be creasing in no time with that. We’re about the same complexion. Use this.” She tries to hand the young lady an elegant-looking glass jar with a shiny metal lid. “Glossier Stretch Concealer.”
The woman stares daggers at Wavonne. “Everything I put on Mr. Mellinger’s face has been carefully evaluated. Neither he nor I are interested in your drugstore paraphernalia.”
“Drugstore? I paid eighteen dollars for this at Sephora.”
Russell’s makeup artist ignores Wavonne’s comment and is barely finished with his face when another woman appears, sprays something on his head, and begins brushing his hair with a big square brush.
“Do you people know nothing?” Wavonne says to the second woman. “That brush leads to split end city. Try my tangle buster.” Wavonne pulls the most bizarre-looking hairbrush I’ve ever seen from her bag. It looks more like a spiked paddle than a grooming device.
“Forgive me if I don’t take hair advice from a woman wearing a dime-store wig,” the stylist says.
“Dime-store wig?” Wavonne turns to me. “These heifers are mean up in here,” she laments. “But she’s right. It is a cheap wig. I had planned to switch it out. I was saving my good wig for tonight. I think I’m gonna run back to the room and swap out Gladys for Earnestine.”
“You leave Earnestine in her box. We’re about to get started.”
Russell is still barking at someone on his phone as the woman tending to his hair gives it a final coif and teeters off. He’ll never be eye candy, but the makeup artist and hair stylist have made him look... well... “less unattractive” is about the nicest description I can come up with. I saw the same ladies tending to Leon when we came into the restaurant. I guess it’s safe to assume that he and Russell are the only ones getting some professional styling. The rest of us—me, Wavonne, Twyla, and the contestants—apparently, are on our own.
“Okay, folks, quiet on the set. Places everyone. Places,” Cynthia calls out
as the overhead lights dim.
Some cameramen scatter about, there’s a clack on the slate board, and a spotlight comes alive with its beam directed toward Leon. “Welcome back to the Elite Chef semifinals,” he says, looking at the camera in front of him. “We’re coming to you from Russell Mellinger’s newest dining spot, Sunfish, the signature restaurant at his soon to be opened hotel, the Willow Oak Inn in Fort Washington, Maryland.
“As you saw earlier, we spent the morning touring the African American museum and, after a tasty lunch in the museum café, our Thrifty Three were given their challenges, put on a thirty-dollar budget, and whisked off to a local grocer to buy whatever they needed for their entry.” Leon pauses for a moment and takes a breath. “The stakes are high tonight. We’re down to just three contenders for a fifty-thousand-dollar cash prize, a career-defining position to lead culinary operations right here at Sunfish... and, of course, the coveted title of Elite Chef.” The lights come on over Sherry, Trey, and Vera and their three cooking stations. “Let’s check in with our contestants and see what they have in store for us this evening.”
Leon walks over to Sherry’s station. “Sherry. You were tasked with reinventing a plain ole ham sandwich. What are your plans for making a ham sandwich into something everyone will be talking about by the watercooler tomorrow?”
“I’m making some drop biscuits filled with bits of honey ham and cheddar cheese. When they come out of the oven I’ll brush them with some salted butter and top them with oversized sugar crystals... the whole salty sweet thing.”
“What are these for?” Leon points to the pineapple and red peppers.
“Every biscuit needs a spread, Leon,” Sherry says. “I’m going to whip up a pineapple–red pepper jelly to go on the biscuits.”
“That sounds like heaven on a plate.”
“I hope so,” Sherry replies, still managing to look beautiful with her hair pulled back into a ponytail and a chef’s coat mollifying her curves. And, just when I think how nice it is that she got through her introduction without sounding like a half-wit, she says, “I figured some pineapple would be a good addition since those voodoo Creole ladies wore them on their heads.”
“Did they?” Leon asks. “I’m not sure about that, but whatever the motivation for preparing it, pineapple–red pepper jelly sure sounds good.”
Leon moves on to Trey’s station. “How about you, Trey. I see grits and eggs... and sweet potatoes. What do you have in the works?”
“I’ll be preparing a sweet potato–grits soufflé.”
“Very interesting. Can’t wait to see how that turns out,” Leon offers, and saunters over to Vera. “And, Vera, we’re excited to see your take on the classic grilled cheese. You’ve pulled out the waffle iron. I’m intrigued.”
Vera laughs. “I’m going to prepare a grilled cheese waffle with avocado and bacon.”
Leon starts riffling through the ingredients on Vera’s counter. “I see bacon and flour and sugar, but I don’t see any cheese.”
“Sherry over there”—Vera waves to Sherry—“blew her budget on ham and fancy sugar crystals, so I agreed to share my cheese with her. We went in together on baking powder too.”
Sherry holds up a brick of cheddar cheese and mouths the words, “Thank you,” in Vera’s direction.
“Great to see everyone playing so nice,” Leon says. “And what are these for.” He starts riffling through more containers on Vera’s counter. “Soy sauce? Lemon? Hot sauce?”
“I’m shying away from your typical sweet breakfast waffle. I want it to be more savory and satisfying, so I’m adding a few creative ingredients.”
Leon gives Vera a questionable look as if he thinks her ingredients might be a bit too creative before moving back to his original spot and talking directly to the television audience again. “So, there you have it. Our final three will get one hour to prepare a dish that makes our judges swoon. And, speaking of judges, let’s give our panel another welcome.” Some lights are cued to shine on me and the rest of the judges. “Of course, you all know our boss... leader . . . captain... the reason any of us are here, restaurateur and soon-to-be-hotelier extraordinaire, Russell Mellinger.” Russell casually lifts his hand and offers a quick wave. “Next, we have local Washington, DC, culinary legend, owner of the city’s top Cajun restaurant, Dauphine, and former host of Twyla’s Tips, Tricks, and Tidbits, Ms. Twyla Harper.” Twyla lights up with a big smile and blows a few kisses toward the camera. “And finally, we have the proprietor of Mahalia’s Sweet Tea, Prince George’s County’s go-to dining establishment for authentic soul food, Ms. Mahalia Watkins, along with her lovely assistant, Wavonne Hix.”
“Leon Winfield just called me lovely,” Wavonne leans in and says to me as we both smile and wave at the camera.
“So now it’s time to get down to business.” Leon raises his voice. “Contestants, you have exactly sixty minutes to prep, cook, and finalize your entrée for presentation to the judges. Starting now!”
And just like that, a frenzy of activity begins—I see Vera measuring out dry ingredients and dumping them into a mixing bowl, Trey hurriedly cutting sweet potatoes, and Sherry grating cheese like her life depends on it.
“Why didn’t she buy preshredded cheese?” Wavonne asks.
“You’re asking this about the girl who was just talking about voodoo ladies wearing pineapples on their heads.”
Leon walks around as a series of cameras move about, getting the action from multiple angles. He checks in with Trey, who says he’d rather bake the sweet potatoes but needs to chop them for boiling and faster cooking due to the time constraints. Vera laments about how she’d rather cream softened butter into her mix but has to melt it in the microwave to beat the clock. Sherry simply tells Leon she doesn’t have time to talk if she’s going to get her biscuits in the oven with enough time for them to bake before the buzzer goes off.
It’s interesting to have a ring-side seat to all this frantic culinary commotion. Sherry finishes grating the cheese, quickly slaps a piece of ham on the cutting board, and begins chopping it into small pieces. While Trey hastily separates egg whites from the yolk, dumps them into a bowl, and starts to beat them with a hand mixer, Vera pulls slices of bacon from a package and places them in a frying pan. For the next several minutes all three of them are on the move—pots are boiling, mixers are spinning, ovens are preheating... and then it happens. Vera, who has just removed her crisp bacon from the pan, chopped her avocados, and mixed her waffle batter, walks over to Sherry’s station, where she is busy dropping small mounds of biscuit dough infused with ham and cheese onto a cookie sheet.
You’re done with the baking powder?” Vera asks, lifting the can of baking powder from the counter.
“It’s all yours,” Sherry replies.
“Thanks. Can I get my share of the cheese too?”
Sherry gasps, and her face drops. “Oh my God! I forgot!”
“Forgot what?” Vera asks.
“The cheese. I added all of it to my biscuit mix. I just wasn’t thinking.”
“What?!”
“I was in such a rush. I grated the cheese and just dumped it all into the batter.”
“Well, dump some of it out!”
A second cameraman moves in, and two cameras are now on the ladies.
“I don’t see how I can. It’s all mixed in. I’m about to put the biscuits in the oven.”
Vera looks at Sherry in silence, but there is rage boiling in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry. It was an accident. I swear!”
“How am I supposed to make a grilled cheese with no cheese?!” Vera shouts at Sherry. Then she turns toward Cynthia, who’s off camera. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You’ll have to make do with what you have.”
Vera returns her gaze to Sherry and that old Heart song from the eighties, “If Looks Could Kill,” starts playing in my head as the drama unfolds before my eyes.
“I really am sorry. It was a mistake.”
Without saying a word, Vera continues to stare daggers at Sherry for another moment or two before turning on her heels and heading back to her station where she picks up a spoon and gives her waffle batter a stir. “So now I get to figure out how to make a grilled cheese with no freaken cheese,” she says to the camera with a look of desperation and defeat on her face. It’s hard to know if her eyes are swollen and her nose is red from the allergies she’s been complaining about all day or if they are just a result of her culinary plans going by the wayside. Her eyes hold firm on the camera in front of her while her stirring morphs into more of a heavy whipping motion. “No cheese,” she says, her expression becoming more vacant. “The grilled cheese that was going to be my ticket to an executive chef position and a fifty-thousand-dollar cash prize is not going to have any cheese in it.” At this point, she is literally stabbing the bowl with the long wooden spoon. “While I’m at it, maybe I can whip up some cheese puffs with no cheese... and some macaroni and cheese with no cheese... and hey, why not an apple pie with no apples or a . . .” Vera’s voice goes silent as something over at Trey’s station seems to grab her attention. She lifts her eyes, from whatever she was looking at on Trey’s counter, toward the ceiling, as if something of significance has just occurred to her. “An apple pie with no apples,” she says again, with a completely different tone than when those words came out of her mouth a few seconds ago. Her vacant, bemused look has been replaced with a more hopeful expression—an expression that says, “Maybe... just maybe, I’m not quite out of the game yet.”
Chapter 18
The next thirty minutes are full of hurry and bustle. All three chefs are racing around preparing their entries. My cohorts and I at the judging table watch as Sherry minces pineapple and red peppers in a food processor, and Trey pours his fluffy orange batter into ramekins for baking. But, truth be told, all of us seem to be mostly focusing on the whole “no-cheese grilled cheese” saga as we keep our eyes on Vera, trying to figure out what she has up her sleeve.
Murder with Honey Ham Biscuits Page 10
