A Taste of Heaven

by penny watson

  He was waiting in the hallway, leaning against the opposite wall in a rehearsed pose. Feigning indifference.

  Sophia didn’t buy that for a second.

  “Let’s go find our favorite bench and have a wee chat, shall we?” He darted his gaze over her attire and smirked. “Sexy. Very sexy. I especially like the pajama pants with the boots.”

  She ignored him and savored her coffee. “What is so important that you had to wake me before the producers? I needed that sleep.”

  “Come on. Let’s go talk in private.”

  She followed him along the brick path outside of the dorm until they reached the sitting area. A worn wooden bench was nestled beneath a massive sugar maple. She sat on the far edge of the bench, expecting Elliott to join her. But instead he began to pace. He was wound up tight this morning.

  “So.” He cleared his throat. “I . . . ah . . . apologize for yesterday. I thought about it, what happened. And maybe serving black pudding to the judges and farmers was not such a brilliant idea.” He licked his lips. “Although I stand behind any and all traditional Scottish fare. And it peeves me off no end—”

  “Stay on track. I’ve heard this before.” Sophia cocked her head. “I find it extremely hard to believe that you came to that conclusion on your own.”

  He pursed his lips. “Yes, well, Helene may have spoken to me yesterday. The woman isn’t shy about offering her opinion.”

  Sophia laughed in delight. “Helene gave you a dressing down! How fabulous. I wish I’d been there to see that.”

  He continued and ignored her comment. “Nevertheless, I’m still in charge. And we will continue to focus on basic Scottish food. Enhanced, perhaps, by your flowery little additions. But I’m still the captain.”

  “Understood. And no more bloody puddings. You will never win over Jenny the Blogger that way. We need her on our side. All of the judges.”

  He nodded. “Yes. You’re right. And . . . I apologize, also, for . . .”

  Sophia sat silently and waited. She had perfected the art of patience in conversation. The waiting . . . so that people who wanted to be interrupted, people who wanted to be let off the hook, had no recourse but to speak their mind. Even if it was uncomfortable and awkward.

  So she waited.

  Elliott stroked his beard and sighed. “I am sorry about your husband. I am sorry about . . . how I spoke to you yesterday. I had no right to speak that way to you.”

  Sophia remained quiet.

  “Don’t you have something to say? I just apologized. I never apologize.”

  “Should I be flattered?”

  Elliott finally sat down on the bench. “When did he . . . pass? Your husband?”

  “Last year.”

  “You loved him?”

  “Of course.”

  “There is no of course, Sophia. Plenty of people are married who do not love their spouse. Plenty.”

  “Did you love your wives?”

  “I always thought so. The beginning was always fresh and exciting, filled with possibilities.” He shrugged. “The end not so cheery. I have a way of making women hate me. I’m sure you find that hard to believe.”

  She wisely said nothing in response.

  Elliott continued, “I apologize. It’s obvious you care very much for your family. And I have no business insulting them. Or you.” He studied the ground at his feet.

  “I do care for my family. Very much. Thank you for apologizing,” she answered softly. Elliott looked more than disgruntled. He looked worn out.

  “Do you have family?”

  “My Uncle Rory. He’s eighty-two. It’s just the two of us. No more wives. No kids. Just two cranky old men trying to keep the restaurant afloat.”

  Sophia nudged his foot with her boot. “What’s going on with Stone Soup?”

  He scrubbed his face with weary hands. “Nothing good, that’s for sure.”

  “Tell me. Is this why you’re here? Why you need to win?”

  “Aye. I might as well be frank with you. Since we appear to be spilling our guts.” He shot her a rueful smile. “I need to win this competition. Not for the accolades and attention and popularity, like Mr. Baldwin. I think he fancies he’ll be the next celebrity chef.”

  “What do you need, Elliott?”

  “Money. Plain and simple. I need the damned prize money. Stone Soup is about to go under like a sinking ship, and I have no more recourse. The bank won’t extend my credit anymore. The investors ran off. Not that I blame them.” He shook his head. “This is it. Either I win this damned contest or I’m done. And I don’t think I have the fucking energy to start all over again. I’ve already done that in the past.” He released a shaky breath. “This is my last chance.”

  Elliott Adamson looked exhausted. Sophia knew that look well. She’d been living with it every day for the past year. This big bear of a man, with his short temper and fiery defense of Scotland and its cuisine, hung his head in despair, and Sophia felt the heaviness of his plight weigh down her own soul. And now the two of them were thrown together in this crazy contest, both of them exhausted and vulnerable. He hid his despair behind a wall of anger. She hid hers behind a cool exterior, seemingly unflappable.

  What a joke.

  She had no real cooking experience, and her sense-of-taste had just barely returned.

  Could she do this, fight for both of them? Fight for his restaurant and fight for her future?

  Sophia reached for his hand curled around the beat-up wooden slats. “We can do this. We just need to strategize. And be thoughtful about our meals.”

  He stared at their fingers locked together. His gaze found hers, and he shot her a tight smile. “I’ll try.”

  “You can do it, Elliott.”

  He lifted his hand and ran a rough finger down her cheek. Sophia froze, completely unprepared for the sensation of his work-callused fingertip on her face.

  “Look at you. How is it that you look so gorgeous after no sleep, and I look like an old piece of shit? Pretty soon they’ll start calling us Beauty and the Beast.” He cupped her chin. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Forty-seven,” she croaked. Desperately hoping her face wasn’t flaming. “You?”

  “Forty-nine. About to hit the half-century mark. I’d like to get there with my restaurant still intact. You think we can manage to eke out a win today, Sprite?” He released her chin.

  She started to breathe again. He had no idea what his touch did to her. And she was planning to keep it that way. He already had too much power in their partnership. The last thing she needed was for him to get an inkling about his physical effect on her.

  “I think we can manage it. Just remember, Elliott . . .”

  “What?” He stood and held out his hand.

  She braced herself as she took it and stood up next to him. “Just say no to bloody puddings.”

  Elliott Adamson’s booming laugh could be heard over the entire campus square.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Welcome back to A Taste of Heaven! Today’s challenge is all about . . . beef!”

  The contestants cheered as the camera panned to a long banquet table covered with proteins. Sophia saw roasts and short ribs, steaks of all cuts and sizes, ground beef.

  “Loden Farm, which specializes in organic grass fed beef, has been generous enough to share their bounty with us today. Our challenge will take place here at the Vermont Culinary Institute, at our fabulous courtyard kitchen. Our professional-amateur pairs must prepare a dish that utilizes the incredibly fresh and flavorful beef from Loden Farm. They are also welcome to use anything from the pantry or garden. I’m looking forward to tasting some delicious creations at the judging table. What do you think about this challenge, contestants?” Mr. Smith smiled with an overabundance of enthusiasm.

  Short Chubby Guy screamed, “Meat!”

  The rest of the chefs chuckled, but Sophia could feel the tension rising already.

  “Contestants, you have five minutes to discuss you
r ideas with your partner and then three hours to prepare your food. We’ll announce the start time so be ready.”

  Elliott squinted at the table. “I want that minced beef. We’re making cottage pie.”

  This was new. He was actually discussing their menu before the challenge.

  “Elliott, since it’s summer maybe we should—”

  He scribbled on a miniature notebook. “You collect the potatoes and peas. I’ll work on the pie. Maybe we could serve a small salad on the side . . .” He ripped a page from the notebook and handed it to her. “Get these ingredients for me as soon as time starts.”

  “Elliott. Listen to me. It’s summer time. Don’t you think it would be more appropriate to do a lighter dish? Cottage pie is a winter dish. Comfort food on a cold day. Maybe we should grill. How about—”

  “Sophia. Stop. This is what I want to cook.” He wasn’t even looking at her.

  Sophia felt her temper rising. “How about grilled steak with mushrooms and sage? I saw a wonderful recipe for that when I was researching Scottish food.”

  “No.”

  “Think about the seasonality.”

  Elliott glanced up and found her gaze. His jaw clenched. “Sophia, let me explain something to you. Cottage pie is a traditional Scottish dish. It was good enough for my mum. Good enough for Da. It’s good enough for Uncle Rory. It’s been good enough for Scots for hundreds of years. It’s good enough for us. And I don’t care if it’s sunny out or blustery or there’s a goddamned tsunami.”

  Sophia stared into those unblinking indigo eyes and felt her temper ease. “Is this a special family recipe?”

  He turned away from her and continued to jot down notes. “Learned it from my mum. The first thing she taught me to cook. It’s a staple on my menu. All. Year. Long.”

  Sophia nodded. This was important to him. “I understand.”

  “What are you going to make? You said we have to seamlessly complement each other. Right? How will you do this?” He glared at her. His fingers clutched the pencil so tightly she was afraid it would snap.

  He wouldn’t back down on the cottage pie, but he was trying to compromise. In his own limited way. Dear Lord.

  “I guess I’ll do a side salad with greens. How about if we put the peas in the salad, instead of the pie?”

  “Deconstruct the cottage pie?” He stared at her for a moment and frowned. “I’ll keep carrots, mushrooms, onions in the pie. You can add peas and any other seasonal green vegetable to your salad. Fair enough?”

  That was all the compromise she’d be getting today. And she could see that it cost him.

  “Fair enough.”

  “I’ll have to rush to the minced beef. I’m sure Baldwin will be wanting to make his classic burrrr . . . gers.” He sneered.

  Sophia wondered how much of this contest was about showcasing the beef, and how much was about outshining Michael Baldwin.

  Mr. Smith addressed the chefs. “All right, it’s time to collect your ingredients. Who’s ready to cook?” Mr. Smith’s power tie had red and navy stripes today. “Your time . . . starts . . . now!” He whipped the flag through the air.

  Elliott raced to get the minced beef. All of the professional chefs jockeyed for position at the protein table, and the amateurs scattered to the pantry, the refrigerator, and the garden. Sophia grabbed a canvas basket at the door as she ran to the courtyard. By the time she’d returned with fresh tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, and herbs, Elliott was already heating oil on the stovetop.

  “I got everything from the pantry. Let’s start roasting those tomatoes for my puree.”

  Elliott grabbed the vegetables from her basket and began to dice them at an astonishing speed. Sophia would not have been surprised to see a finger fly through the air. But he was wholly confident with his knife skills.

  She took the mushrooms out of the basket and began to prep them for the pie.

  “No, like this. It’s quicker, more efficient.” He took the mushroom from her hand and snapped off the stem so that only the cap remained. Then quickly sliced the mushroom into thin pieces. “See? Faster.” He lifted Sophia’s right hand, covered it with his own, and popped off the stem. “Got it?”

  She stared at his hand touching her own. Elliott’s hand, heavy and callused. But no longer so rough and impatient. Gentle, helping her to learn. Finally.

  “Thank you,” she whispered and pulled another mushroom out of the basket. She snapped off the stem.

  He nodded. “Good girl. Can you make some rolls? To go with the pie?”

  “Yes, how about rosemary rolls?”

  “Excellent. That will go nicely with Vermont butter. I must say I’m impressed with the dairy products in this state.”

  “My daughter Cady used to sneak spoonfuls of the sweet butter when she was little. We still get heavy cream in the glass bottles from Marshall’s Dairy.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I’ve stayed in North Berwick instead of heading into the city. I love dealing directly with local growers and dairies and fishermen. It makes you feel connected to what you’re cooking.”

  Sophia placed a bowl of mushrooms in front Elliott’s workstation. “And I guess it adds to the continuity of creating traditional dishes, when generations of the same families are still fishing or farming for the ingredients, right?”

  Elliott glanced up. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and nodded. “Yes, exactly. You can taste that in the food. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  “Two hours and twenty-eight minutes!” Short Chubby Guy announced with glee.

  Sophia grabbed a stainless steel bowl. “I’m off to the make the dough. Do you need anything else before I leave?”

  “No, I’m good.” He huffed out a breath. “Um, thank you.”

  Sophia bit her lip. “That hurt, didn’t it?”

  “Like a bitch.”

  They both laughed.

  Two and one half hours later, they had bubbling cottage pies ready in crockery ramekins. Sophia’s garden-inspired salad was dressed, and the rosemary rolls were golden brown from the oven. Their dish smelled delicious. The other contestants had burgers and sliced sirloin and ribs and stews. It looked like Kevin Holt and Chef Baldwin had prepared some barbecue, although Sophia thought their platter was too heavy with protein, not enough sides.

  Only time would tell what the judges thought.

  All of the contestants lined up after the judges had their tasting. Sophia noticed that Elliott refused to make eye contact with her, but he stood close enough to brush elbows every few seconds. He needed the physical connection, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

  He was obviously nervous as hell.

  Tarquin stepped forward and took a low theatrical bow. “Time for the moment of truth. What a fantastic challenge this was for everyone. We had quite a variety of dishes—Asian-inspired, some traditional, some cutting-edge. Some worked wonders with these particular cuts of beef, and unfortunately some failed.”

  He called two pairs forward, and proceeded to enumerate their deficiencies. It was brutal. Meat overcooked, too tough, too stringy. No flavor. And the kiss of death—no seasoning. The losing pair looked stricken, but left the set without any drama.

  Jonathan Rutgers cleared his throat. “Now for the fun part. The dishes that worked. These were all quite different. Lin Lin and Tammy created ginger beef with crisp garden vegetables that showcased some distinctive, bright flavors. I adored this dish.”

  Sophia smiled as Lin Lin and Tammy stepped forward. Her roommate looked completely shocked and continued to hide behind a fringe of bangs.

  “Go, Shaggy!” Chef Johnson, the hipster from Maine, cheered for his colleague.

  Everyone laughed, and even Lin Lin permitted herself a small grin. The two women discussed their inspiration and preparation techniques.

  Jenny shook their hands. “I agree with Jonathan. I loved that Asian dish. I also loved the meal that paired perfectly grilled tenderloin with buttery charred lobster. Oh my God! Now t
hat is just the way surf-n-turf should be prepared. Heavenly! And the fresh herb salad with flowers made it such a pretty picture. Congratulations to Brian Johnson and Herman Vergara.”

  Brian jumped up and down and hugged his sidekick. The two gangly men moved to the front of the room and fist pumped into the air. Sophia envied their youthful exuberance. It was sweet. And now poor Elliott crushed her hand as the final pair was called. She wanted to whisper into his ear and promise him everything would be okay. Why did she care so much about his anxiety? She had no idea.

  Tarquin laughed at the hipsters. “Our final favorite meal today took minced beef and turned it into satisfying comfort food. My colleagues thought this dish was too heavy for a sunny August day, but I’m British. We eat meat pie all year long.”

  Tarquin winked for the camera, and the remaining contestants laughed nervously.

  Sophia heard Elliott release a hiss. She laughed out loud and squeezed his hand in solidarity. Thank God!

  Chef Baldwin whispered “Fuck” under his breath.

  “Congrats to Elliott and Sophia, our last pair. They took a traditional Scottish meat pie, and made a luscious meal that really sang with the fresh vegetables from our Vermont garden. Well done.”

  Elliott pulled Sophia to the line of finalists and nodded to Tarquin as he passed, “Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” Tarquin answered. “I haven’t had a proper meat pie in months.”

  Mr. Smith stepped forward, cradling a bottle of wine in his arms. “I’m pleased to offer this spectacular wine from Loden’s Vineyard to our winning pair. They’ll be able to toast their success tonight! So, Jenny, who are the lucky winners?”

  Jenny twisted her head so that the fat blond sausage curls swung into place. Sophia had to fight the urge to roll her eyes.

  “Well, Mr. Smith, all the finalists cooked wonderful meals. But Tarquin thought the ginger beef was a little too basic. He’s pretty picky about his Asian food, you know?”

  Mr. Smith chuckled. “Yes, of course, we know.”

  Jenny continued. “And the meat pie was tasty, but too heavy for this time of year. Although I’m gonna keep that recipe in mind for next Christmas.”