Rest in Split Peas

by Hillary Avis

  “See you at the meeting,” Bethany said, and hefted her pot onto a kitchen cart. She pushed it out the back door into the narrow alley, and then, holding the lid with one hand, crossed the street to Newbridge Station.

  A scaffolding had been built around the ornate marble facade for the upcoming restoration, and swaths of plastic sheeting prevented tools and debris from falling on pedestrians below. Though she knew the entrance would look amazing once the restoration was finished, right now it looked more like it wore a shroud. Bethany felt like she was in mourning, too. The station restoration meant her little kiosk had to close while the work took place—which could take a month or more!

  Probably more. She sighed and pushed open the door, pulling the cart through it behind her.

  Olive spotted her right away. “Hi, honey! Can you believe this mess?” She gestured around at the drop cloths and barriers that marked work areas inside the station. “They’ve totally dismantled Souperb, too.”

  Bethany looked over where her kiosk usually stood and was shocked to see the area vacant. It seemed impossible that the station could be put back in order in only a few weeks. Her stomach twisted.

  How in the world am I going to pay the bills this month?

  She couldn’t think about that now, though. “Where’s the meeting?”

  “Concourse,” Olive said briskly. “Let me grab my stuff and I’ll come with you.” She hustled back into the Honor Roll Bakery and emerged with a basket nearly overflowing with golden-brown breadsticks that were studded with roasted garlic cloves and rosemary. It took all of Bethany’s willpower not to grab one right then and there.

  Olive leaned toward her as they headed for the rows of antique benches that made up the station waiting area. “Watch out for the TV guy. He keeps getting all up in my face with that camera.”

  “TV guy?” Bethany asked, but Olive didn’t have time to answer before a burly man in a tight suit approached and stuck out his hand.

  “Chuck. Chuck Bolton. You can call me Chuck, although my friends call me ‘The Tenderizer.’ Mind if we shoot a candid? Ned, move around here so you can see her face.”

  A thin guy with a ponytail and glasses maneuvered a TV camera on a dolly around Chuck and pointed it at Bethany. Chuck turned so he stood beside Bethany, and before she could respond, he launched into a monologue.

  “I’m Chuck ‘The Tenderizer’ Bolton”—he slammed his fist into his palm—“and we are here in Newbridge, Connecticut, to watch local chefs throw down their chili-making skills in another episode of the Ultimate Freakin’ Cook-off.”

  “Smile,” Ned mouthed to Bethany from behind the camera, and she pasted on what she hoped was a convincing expression.

  “I’ve got one of the contestants here.” Chuck turned to her. “Give us a little intro and tell us how you’re going to deliver a beat-down to your competition!”

  “Um, ah...” Bethany stuttered. “I’m Bethany Bradstreet? And, um...”

  Chuck rolled his eyes and motioned to the camera. “Cut it. Cut it. Let’s try that again. You ready?” He stared at Bethany with a mixture of skepticism and disappointment.

  She took a deep breath to calm her jangling nerves. “Can we do this later? I need to set up the food table.”

  “Sure,” Ned said, adjusting his glasses. “We can work around your schedule.”

  Chuck grinned. “Lettin’ a little lady push you around, huh, Ned?”

  “I’m not—” Ned began, and Bethany took the opportunity to hurry after Olive, who was already setting out her breadsticks on a table near the benches.

  She moved her soup from the cart to the warmer and placed a stack of bowls near the pot. “What a nightmare,” she muttered.

  “Right?” Olive said. “He already waylaid Garrett at the bakery this morning. You can imagine how that went over.” Olive’s husband Garrett had always been something of a curmudgeon, but he’d become even crabbier as his health problems had increased.

  “How’s he feeling?” Bethany looked at Olive sympathetically. “Has he started treatment yet?”

  Olive shook her head, lips pressed into a thin line, as she set out the cutlery and napkins. “Not yet.” It was clear she didn’t want to talk more about it, so Bethany didn’t ask.

  Bethany pushed the empty cart around to the back of the table. An orange ball of fluff yowled and streaked from under the table across the concourse and hid behind a trash can.

  “Sorry, Caboose!” Bethany called, wincing. “Didn’t mean to get your tail!”

  Olive waved her hand. “Don’t worry about him. He’s just all wound up over the renovation. Ben’s not doing the rounds since the trains aren’t stopping here, so the cat’s not getting his exercise. He’s going a little crazy.”

  Bethany grimaced. “I wonder how he’s going to take it when the construction noise starts.”

  “I guess we’ll find out.” Olive shrugged, and then her face lit up as she spied someone over Bethany’s shoulder. “Kimmy! Finally!”

  Bethany turned to see her friend and roommate approaching. Kimmy held a huge salad bowl out in front of her, and had a dour French chef following behind her.

  Monsieur Adrian. He doesn’t look too happy—but does he ever?

  Kimmy set the salad down on the table and took a moment to fluff the greens with the serving tongs.

  “Looks beautiful,” Bethany said, and Monsieur Adrian snorted. “You disagree?”

  He pursed his lips and sniffed. “So simplistic.”

  “Sometimes simple is the best,” Bethany said, glancing at Kimmy to gauge her reaction. Kimmy subtly shook her head.

  “Simplicity is for beginners,” Monsieur Adrian said in his thick French accent. He looked disdainfully at Bethany’s pot of minestrone, and then back at her. “Obviously.”

  Kimmy nudged Bethany with her elbow and Bethany bit her tongue before she said something she’d regret. They both stared at the floor.

  “Why don’t I introduce you to the television host, Chef?” Olive asked, breaking the awkward silence. Monsieur Adrian nodded and followed her over to where Chuck Bolton had Garrett cornered.

  “Why is Chuck bothering Garrett so much?” Bethany asked Kimmy. “Olive said he already talked to him this morning.”

  “Garrett’s one of the contestants. Didn’t Olive tell you?” Kimmy looked at her curiously. “They’re hoping the prize money will help them afford Garrett’s treatment.”

  “I didn’t even know there was prize money—and I didn’t know Garrett could cook!” Bethany reeled with the new information. “Isn’t their insurance paying for the chemo?”

  Kimmy shook her head. “It only covers half the cost. And chemo ain’t cheap. Hey, the meeting’s getting started, so you should sit down. I’m going to split.”

  Bethany saw she was right—the rest of the people there were drifting toward the concourse benches, which had been set up in a semicircle. “You meeting up with Charley?”

  Kimmy shook her head. “I have to do the lunch service at the café, and then she has softball practice tonight. There’s a big game on Monday.”

  Bethany smiled. Charley, Kimmy’s girlfriend and one of Newbridge’s sharpest police detectives, had become a good friend over the last year. She visited the cottage so often, it was almost like she lived there. But as much as Bethany liked Charley, and as much as she enjoyed seeing Kimmy so happy, sometimes she missed the closeness they’d once shared when they were both single. “Guess I’ll have you to myself, then! I’ll see you after work. We can make cocktails.”

  “Just like old times.” Kimmy grinned and waved Bethany toward the benches. “Good luck. You got this, girl.”

  Maybe she misses me, too. The thought buoyed Bethany’s confidence as she took a seat on a bench by Olive and Garrett. And maybe I can win this thing—especially if there’s prize money attached!

  “Welcome!” Ben Kovac, the stationmaster, stood and clasped his hands as Ned scurried around handing out bottles of water to the assembled group. “
We’re going to get started here in a minute. Then after we run through the rules, we’ll have some refreshments provided by the Honor Roll, Souperb, and Café Sabine, three of our local eateries.”

  Everyone knows who we are—why is Ben being so weird? Bethany followed his gaze and realized exactly why—he was talking directly to Chuck Bolton.

  “I swear, people will do anything to be on TV,” Bethany said to Olive under her breath.

  “The show is putting up the prize money,” Olive said in a low voice. “A big pot, too—a hundred grand.”

  “A hundred grand?!” Bethany blurted out. She realized her voice was too loud when several people turned their heads toward her, so she lowered her voice. “A hundred grand?! That’s so much.”

  Olive nodded. “It’s a national show—they can afford it. Have you seen an episode? The prize money makes some competitors really cutthroat.”

  Bethany shook her head and was about to comment when Ben cleared his throat.

  “I just got a call that two of our judges, Mayor Strauss and Judge Gallagher, won’t be joining us today. They’re having a debate for the upcoming mayoral election, so we won’t wait on them to arrive. For the purposes of this meeting, I’ll stand in for Mayor Strauss and act as the master of ceremonies, and Ned here”—he pointed at Ned, who raised a hand—“will stand in for Judge Gallagher and explain the rules. The Tenderizer will provide the culinary expertise and color commentary.”

  “And a smackdown to anyone who needs it!” Chuck added, and the group chuckled politely. Bethany winced—she hoped he didn’t decide that she was one of the people who needed a smackdown.

  Ben grinned. “So, a little bit about the format of the competition. You will cook your best chili and present it to the judges in Waterfront Park on Sunday morning. The three judges will taste and score each chili to determine a winner, who will receive the generous prize put up by the Ultimate Freakin’ Cook-off. This contest is a fundraiser for the historic restoration, so we’re selling tickets to the public. They’ll taste and score your chili as well! The winner of the popular vote will also receive a prize—a food feature in the Newbridge Community Observer.”

  He motioned to the back of the room. Bethany turned and saw Milo Armstrong stand and give the room a wave. Milo was the food critic for the local paper and his food features had launched more than one local culinary career. He made eye contact with Bethany and grinned. She blushed—she’d promised him a date after he wrote a very complimentary feature about her soup kiosk a few weeks ago, but they still hadn’t made plans.

  Olive raised her hand. “What if the people vote for the same chili that the judges pick?”

  Bethany raised her eyebrows. Olive must be pretty confident about Garrett’s cooking ability.

  “Good question.” Ben nodded. “If the judges and the public agree, one chef will win both prizes. Chuck, how often does that happen on your show?”

  “I don’t know—I’m not the freakin’ accountant!” Chuck laughed loudly and clapped Ned on the back. “Ask this little guy. He keeps track of that stuff.”

  “It happens about half the time,” Ned said quietly, adjusting his glasses.

  Ben motioned him to the front. “Why don’t you come on up and fill us in on the rules now? Pretend he’s Judge Gallagher, folks.”

  Ned uncapped his bottle of water and took a swig, and then fumbled through his pile of belongings to find a stack of papers. He walked swiftly around the circle of benches, handing a sheet to each contestant. Then, clutching the last copy, he stood before them, staring at the sheet of paper.

  Poor guy—he’s nervous.

  “Um...as you can see in the first paragraph...”

  “Boo!” Chuck heckled. “Boring! Liven it up!”

  Ned flushed and set his jaw. “As you can see in the first paragraph, this cook-off isn’t too heavy on the rules. We just ask that you prepare the chili yourself, using the ingredients of your choice. You’ll have time at the event for some finishing touches. No side dishes are permitted.”

  Bethany raised her hand, and Ned nodded to her. “Are there any rules about beans versus meat or whatever? I know some people have strong feelings about that.”

  Olive chuckled beside her, and a few other people did, too.

  Ned shook his head. “Nope. If it looks like chili, smells like chili, and tastes like chili, we’re calling it chili. We want you to make your version of this classic dish with as much personality and originality as possible. Really try to set yourself apart from the other chefs.” His eyes gleamed, and for the first time, Bethany got a sense that he wasn’t just a production assistant—he had a real interest in food.

  “Any other questions?”

  Chuck raised his hand. “Yeah, Teach. When are we getting to the fun part?”

  Ned rolled his eyes. “Anyone else?”

  No one raised their hand, and he shrugged. “Everything’s on the sheet. If you think of anything that’s not covered there, I have the rule book. I can look up any fine details you have questions about. Oh yeah—punctuality is a must for TV production. Come early, stay until the end, and don’t wear loud prints!”

  He sat back down, and everyone clapped politely. Ben stood and resumed his place, smiling benevolently at the group.

  “He’s sure in a good mood,” Bethany murmured to Olive.

  Olive nodded. “This renovation has been his dream for a long time. I’m glad it’s happening now, before he retires.”

  Ben waved Milo up to the front. “We’re going to have a round robin now. Milo will ask some questions for the feature he’s writing up in the Sunday morning paper about the cook-off. This is what’s going to get people to come out and buy tickets, folks! So give it all you got.”

  Milo stood with his notebook in front of the crowd for a moment, then spotted a stool nearby and dragged it over and perched on it with his feet on the bottom rungs. “Here we go! I’d love to get a sense of your personalities for this piece. Why don’t we go around and introduce ourselves and maybe talk a little bit about our culinary points of view? Mr. Bolton, you, too, since you’re also a chef. Go ahead and grab some refreshments while you wait your turn.”

  “I’ll go first, then!” Chuck said. “Ned, are you getting this?”

  Ned picked up the camera and circled around behind Milo so he could film Chuck. “Ready.”

  Chuck slammed his fist into his palm in what Bethany could only assume was his signature move. “I’m Chuck ‘The Tenderizer’ Bolton. I cracked heads when I was a pro wrestler, but now I crack eggs as a chef on America’s favorite food program, the Ultimate Freakin’ Cook-off. I travel around the nation watching you pound your opponents into the ground in the meanest, the nastiest, the bloodiest cooking battles this country has ever seen!”

  He stood there, breathing hard until Ned lowered the camera, and then relaxed and plopped back down on his bench.

  “Wow.” Milo scribbled some notes, wearing an expression that was equally bewildered and bemused. “You’re giving me a lot to work with.”

  Bethany snorted, and Milo looked up at her. “Why don’t you go next?”

  Busted.

  “I’m Bethany,” she began, but stopped short when Ned waved at her frantically.

  “Stand up, stand up!” he said, sweat glistening on his forehead. “You’re on camera. Look alive!”

  Bethany grudgingly got to her feet, glad that Chuck’s earlier ambush had made her think a little bit about what she wanted to say. “I’m Bethany Bradstreet. I run the soup kiosk here in Newbridge Station, and I love using in-season ingredients to make my soups du jour. I entered the contest because chili is a soup—it’s a natural fit!”

  “No it’s not,” Garrett said dourly from the bench beside her.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere!” Chuck said, slapping his hands together. “A little competition in the house! Are you getting this, Ned?”

  Ned moved closer to their bench and aimed his camera lens at Garrett. “What’d you say,
Mr. Underwood?”

  “I said,” Garrett enunciated, “that chili is not a soup.”

  “Well, what’s a soup?” Bethany shrugged. “Liquid with stuff in it that you eat with a spoon. So chili really is a type of soup. I serve it at Souperb, and nobody complains.”

  “No accounting for taste.”

  Olive frowned at him. “No need to be severe, dear.”

  “Why don’t we move on to another contestant?” Milo suggested. “Mr. Vadecki?”

  “Alex Vadecki.” Alex stood up and Bethany couldn’t help rolling her eyes. Her ex-boss was dressed like an extra in a mobster movie, with his hair greased back and a black leather trench coat swallowing his frame. His eyes bulged out as though his loud necktie were tied a little too tight. “I’m the owner and head chef of a chain of seafood restaurants called the Seafood Grotto. Stop by sometime and have yourself the best fish and chips on the eastern seaboard!”

  “Stop, stop.” Ned leaned to the side of the camera so he could see Alex. “You can’t plug your restaurant on the show. We’ll mention it in your bio reel, but don’t talk about it in the interviews. People don’t want to watch an hour-long commercial.”

  Alex pointed indignantly at Bethany. “She did, though! She talked about her soup kiosk!”

  “She didn’t mention the name or tell viewers to visit. Let’s shoot that again.” Ned wiped his brow and put his eye back to the camera’s viewfinder.

  And I didn’t lie about my kiosk being a chain, either. Bethany wanted to call him out on the exaggeration, but with a newspaper reporter and a TV camera in the room, she decided not to risk the bad press.

  Alex leaned toward the camera lens and stared straight at it. “I said what I meant, and I’m not changing it for you. Edit it out if you don’t like it.” He sat back down on the bench and crossed his arms.

  “This is getting good!” Chuck crowed from the food table. He ladled himself a bowl of soup and stuck a couple of breadsticks in the top. “Keep that camera rolling!”

  “Whose turn is next?” Milo asked, tapping his notebook with his pen.