by Farrah Paige
Cassie was trying to put me at ease, but all the attention was making me even more nervous. She had to pat me down twice to get off all the sweat. I was freaking out. They weren’t resetting the shot for the other chefs and I was pretty sure Rita was up in the control booth screaming at Steven that I had screwed up everything. Finally, Cassie finished, and the director came back on the P.A.
“Okay, Honey,” he said routinely. “We’re just going to get another shot of you standing there with your assistant. Try to relax. You don’t have to do anything except stand there and look normal and professional.”
“Are you saying I didn’t do that before?” I said nervously.
“No judgments,” he said. “It’s not about you personally, it’s just how you look in the camera. And before you looked nervous, so we’re going to try to get one with you looking less nervous, okay?”
I nodded. I was still too nervous to speak. I tried my best to hold it together.
“Now, there won’t be any sound in this shot, so I’m going to talk you through this, okay? Lights off. Rolling. Okay, lights up. We’re zooming in on you, just hold it. Okay, good. That was much better,” said the director.
I finally relaxed a little. Finally, something was going right!
“But I’d like to get just one more take. Reset the lights and action. Lights up. Honey and Emma hold. Okay, I think we got it. Thanks Honey and Emma,” said the director. “Let’s take a quick five. If anyone has to go to the bathroom, now is the time.”
Now I was afraid to go to the bathroom. If I did, I would look like the crazy mess I was slowly becoming under the hot studio lights. Emma tried to talk me down.
“You okay, boss?” she said grimacing. “You’re okay. No one’s going to hurt you.”
“Why did they make me do this?” I said, panting a little. “I just wanted to make honey buns. I didn’t want to be on TV.”
“I know,” she said sympathetically. “But we’ll get through it. I believe in you.”
“Thanks, Emma,” I said.
“Okay, people,” said Rita. “Are we ready to do this? We’re about to start the baking segment? Everyone, are we ready? Ready?”
On the last “ready”, Rita looked directly at me. The TV crew was used to dealing with amateurs like me, so she didn’t want to actually chew me out. In her brain, she knew that would be counterproductive. But I could sense the vibe and the vibe was, “Stop fucking up my show you dumb bitch.” She didn’t say it, but I could just sense it. That last look on the word “ready” confirmed it more than anything.
But what Rita didn’t know was that I had a backbone. I didn’t give a shit about any of this TV show bullshit, but I was a damned good baker. And once she started the competition, I was going to bake the shit out of some éclairs. I already knew what my recipe was going to be. In fact, I had the entire process already mapped out in my head. It was standing around being looked at by the cameras that made me nervous. When I was baking, I was in my element.
“We’re back and ready to battle.” said Rita into the camera, coming back from commercial. “Our contestants have an hour to wow the judges with their take on a French classic, the éclair. Ready chefs? Let the battle begin.”
A bell went off and we began cooking. Suddenly, not paralyzed by the cameras or lights, I straightened up and gave Emma her marching orders.
“Mix me up some cream filling,” I instructed. “Separate twelve egg yolks into a bowl.”
I started cooking the pastry part, which required more attention and was slightly harder. After Emma had separated the eggs, I continued.
“In a saucepan, combine one and half cups of sugar, half of a cup of flour, half of a teaspoon of salt and three cups of milk. Medium heat for ten minutes and stir it until it thickens,” I instructed.
While Emma did that, I was just about done with the pastry part. By the time the mixture had thickened, I had the shells cooking in the oven.
“Pour a tiny bit of the heated milk mixture in with the eggs and stir them up, then slowly pour the eggs into the mixture, gently stirring them in over medium heat,” I instructed.
As she did that, I made the chocolate part of the éclair. My twist was that I used a hot chili pepper to spice up the chocolate. Rita, who was passing by the chefs and making comments, finally got to us and noticed me grinding the pepper.
“Hot pepper? In an éclair?” she scoffed. “Okay, whatever.”
I ignored her. I was in the zone. I had successfully maneuvered Emma through the rest of the custard process just as the chocolate was starting to come together. The timer went off.
“Get my pastries out, please,” I said to Emma.
I finished the chocolate. We threw the custard into a cooling machine, but we were running short on time. I painted the tops of the shells with chocolate just as the custard cooled. Emma finished painting the shells and I put the custard in a dispenser and squeezed them into the shells. With the extra three minutes left, I put them back in the cooler.
“Okay, chefs. Final minute!” called Rita.
I pulled our éclairs from the cooler. They were nice and chilled now. The chocolate had hardened just a touch, which is what I was going for.
“And time!” called Rita. “Our chef’s creations are ready, but who will win the Baker Battle this week? Find out when we return after this.”
The lights went out again and we went to commercial. We took a quick break and Emma pointed out that I was splashed with various ingredients. I guess I didn’t realize, I was so into the cooking. I washed up and the makeup woman came out and touched everyone up.
The cameras then focused on Ethan and Clark as they tasted everyone’s creations. They did not know who cooked which éclair. Finally, they lined us all up and announced the winners.
“Chefs, we have tasted all your delicious concoctions,” said Ethan playing to the camera. “But there can be only one winner.”
“We enjoyed all four éclairs, and each were professionally prepared and elegantly presented,” said Clark. “But the winner is…the hot pepper éclair.”
I was stunned. Emma screamed so loud next to me, I almost jumped out of my skin. She was jumping up and down and hugging me, but I was just reeling from the noise. Rita make a sour face from beyond where the cameras could see. The other bakers stepped away and then Rita stepped over to interview me.
“Chef Davidson,” she said with her plastic smile. “Tell us a little bit of why you used hot pepper in your éclair.”
“Well, the heat pairs well with chocolate,” I explained. “I figured it would be a nice contrast with the coolness of the custard. My only worry was getting the custard cool enough in such a short period of time. I think cooling it a second time at the end really helped.”
“Congratulations on your win,” said Rita.
Rita then went on to interview the other chefs in separate shots. Clark and Ethan both gave me knowing looks but didn’t see each other doing that. I pretended to be embarrassed (because I mostly was) and looked away. I decided that the best thing to do was just to head back to the hotel as soon as possible. The less interaction I had with Clark and Ethan, the better at this point.
Emma and I walked back to the parking lot and got ready to go back to the hotel. I was looking at my feet and shifting my weight.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I don’t like this,” I said.
“But you won,” she laughed. “How can you make something bad about that?”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “This isn’t about the food and that’s the problem. People work in TV, they say it’s about something, but it’s all about the TV.”
“If you say so,” said Emma. “Life gives you few enough wins like that. I say, take them and be glad.”
Chapter 12
Ethan
Ha. I knew Honey would win. I just knew it. I mean, it wasn’t like I could taste her particular mix of custard or knew about the pepper. It was just good. She had a g
reat flair for this kind of thing. While Philistines like Clark had to go to shit schools to learn culinary, Honey just figured it out.
And what is up with this Rita? I had the distinct impression that she was talking down to Honey. What the hell kind of big league move is that, huh? I got to the studio early and dropped into Steven’s office.
“I must speak with you,” I insisted.
“Sure, babe,” he said checking the time. “Have a seat. What’s on your mind?”
“Why is Rita bothering that contestant?” I asked, purposely not mentioning Honey by name.
“Oh, she was just pissed Honey blew the take,” said Steven. “You know how she is. Anything goes wrong, she’s a bitch on wheels. Almost as bad as Clark. I wish they were all like you, babe.”
“She can’t show favoritism to the other contestants,” I said. “If she treats Honey like a country bumpkin, we’re going to have a problem if she doesn’t win.”
“Yeah, I see your point,” said Steven. “Of course, if she does win, the audience would go nuts. I mean, Rita never tested well with the focus groups. Women hate her because she’s so thin and a lot of the guys perceive her as a snob.”
“Whoa-whoa-whoa, back up here,” I said. “Now you sound like you’re going to fire Rita, I never said that.”
“Hey, this is a cut throat business, babe,” said Steven. “But hey, I’m not even talking about this season. Next season, the studio might want to shake things up. It all depends upon the ratings.”
“All right, well,” I said, getting up more confused than when I entered. “I guess I’ll just let you handle it.”
“It’ll be fine,” assured Steven. “I’ve got it all under control. We got a hit show and you’re the star. So relax.”
Leaving Steven’s office, I had more questions than answers. A thought occurred to me as well, if he were so willing to throw Rita under the bus, why not me? Why not anyone? Steven always said he was in my corner, but what proof of that did I have really?
No, that was crazy talk. Steven wouldn’t undermine his own show. To what end would that get him? It wasn’t like Clark and I fought openly on the show driving up the ratings. I mean, then, I could almost see it. Maybe I had to talk to Rita direct. It was risky. She was very full of herself and wasn’t very open to criticism. I once saw her hurl a hot coffee at a makeup girl because she dared to suggest a different shade of eyeliner to her. I would have to make sure there wasn’t any hot coffee around when I talked to her.
***
The next episode continued the competition. The challenge was to make Macaroons. As anyone with any experience making them can tell you, they are not an easy treat to make. Clark and I were kept off to the side of the set, so we couldn’t see what anyone was cooking. But I could see Honey rushing around the kitchen.
God, she was gorgeous. Just thinking about her made me start to get aroused. I couldn’t help but remember what we had done in her bakery. God. I wanted to do again with her so badly and finish what I had started.
“Okay now, we’re over here at Honey’s table,” said Rita on the feed. “So, is this a recipe your mom taught you?”
“Dammit,” I muttered. “That bitch is making Honey look bad. What is her problem?”
“You can’t go out there,” said Clark. “You can’t know what she’s cooking.”
“I’m going,” I said. “You make the call on this one. I’ll keep my pick a secret.”
I marched out onto the set, surprising Rita. That brought her down a few pegs.
“Rita,” I said. “I think Honey is doing tremendous work here. Why don’t you try some of her raspberry-lemon filling for the macaroons before you make snide comments?”
“What the hell are you doing? Cut!” barked Rita. “You’re not supposed to be out here. You’re supposed to be the judge.”
“Taste the filling, Rita,” I insisted.
“I don’t eat sweets and I don’t take orders from you!” she snapped.
“Thanks, Ethan,” whispered Honey, going back to her cooking.
Production ground to a halt for several minutes. I was called into the conference room with Rita and Steven and some of the staff. We argued for several minutes over what was to be done. It was eventually decided that Rita would announce that I “accidentally” saw what Honey was making. Clark would do the judging. My choice would be revealed later, so as to protect the integrity of the show.
We continued with the show, reformatting it as I described. Clark had no idea what Honey was making, but he chooses her macaroons anyway. Rita looked annoyed when he did so. Who cares? That bitch had it coming and after the tasting, I agreed with the call. And honestly, who cares about the staging? This was reality TV, not a court room. These things were done all the time.
After filming was done, there was a lot of tension on the set. Everyone was mad, even the other contestants and crew. Honey stayed to clean up her fake “kitchen” even though we had cleaners to do that. Her assistant had left to go sightseeing. When everyone was gone, I walked over to her, careful not to be seen.
“You should go,” I said. “We have cleaning people for that.”
“I was waiting for you,” she said. “I wanted to thank you again.”
“You’re welcome,” I smiled.
“No, I mean I wanted to really thank you,” she said. “Meet me at my hotel room in about an hour.”
“Oui,” I said. “We should leave separately. You go ahead, and I will leave in a few minutes.”
She smiled and exited. I could barely contain my excitement. To come so close to having sex with her and to not have it was arousing in itself. The pleasure of denial is highly underrated. It made the longing increase. I would get aroused in bed just thinking about her and I had masturbated to my mental images of her for the past two days.
I knew in the end, she would pick me. Clark was handsome, but in the end, he was just another boorish American. He knew nothing of the art of seduction that the French had known for centuries. She would be mine.
Arriving at the hotel, I walked briskly through the lobby. I was half expecting to run into the Clark. As he had done so before with the sightseeing. I wanted to get myself alone with Honey behind a closed and locked door. If he arrived after that, he would be out of luck.
She opened the door and for a second, we stared. Then she leapt into my arms, passionately kissing me. Her lips were like the outside of a soft warm roll and she tasted like sweet raspberry. She had no doubt been eating some of her own delicious macaroons.
I did not know what I liked better about Honey, the way she looked or that her cuisine was so good. This was an important thing for a chef. I could not love someone I could not respect. And with chefs, the only true measure of respect is how delicious your cuisine can be. Honey found new and interesting ways and tastes. I hoped this would be true in the bedroom as well.
We closed the door and clawed at each other’s clothes like wild animals. She threw me down on the bed and tore open my shirt. Her dress was already hanging open and I could see it draped around the sensual curves of her form. Her cleavage was exposed, full and pert, and I wanted to see more. I reached up with both hands and tore open her dress, as she had done with my shirt. Quickly getting undressed, we threw our clothes and underwear around the room.
“I want to taste you, my perfect entrée,” I said.
“And I want you to eat me,” she said in return.
She climbed into the bed backwards and positioned her pussy above me, while going down on my cock from above. We started sucking and licking each other. Her juices flowed down on me like a raging river of sexual desire. And despite her practiced lips on my ever-growing cock, I held back the full range of my orgasm. I wanted to penetrate her this time and many times after.
The 69 continued with moans and smacking. I drove my tongue as deep as I could into her wet love hole. I could feel my dick balls-deep in her mouth and throat. Her lips were at the base of my shaft, right against my balls. She pull
ed back and then licked my balls, her tongue danced over them. I returned the favor by concentrating my tongue flicks on her clit.
“Oooooh,” she squealed. “Oh, God. Don’t stop. Oh, please. Yes.”
My tongue rolled over that spot over and over again increasing her flow of juices. Her moaning was like a sobbing, but she was sobbing in pleasure. It stopped her from tickling my balls with her mouth for a while, allowing me to hold back what I felt was a huge load. But she again started work on my shaft and this time, there would be no holding back.
“My--- my--- oh, God!” I shouted incoherently.
I came like a volcano, erupting a load of my cum into her mouth and throat. I could feel my balls empty into her and her mouth eager sucking it all up. It flowed into her and I could feel every cell in my body release its stress. My orgasm left me spent and both of us were covered in sweat and bodily fluid. When it was done, we lied there a moment catching our breath. She turned around and then started kissing me.
It was so sensual, the kisses. This was truly making love with someone who understood her body and that of a man. Our kissing lasted for tens of minutes or more. We could not stop or get enough of each other’s body.
After only a short while, I found myself aroused again. Quickly obtaining the condom from my wallet, I slipped it on. She prepared to receive my gift of pleasure, opening her legs and lifting her knees a little.
“Take me, Ethan,” she whispered. “Make love to me.”
I gently climbed on top of her and entered her soft, moist walls. She radiated such heat from her pussy. I could imagine the condom melting right off me. I started fucking her and she wrapped her legs around me, encouraging me to go deeper. She grabbed my ass and pulled me closer as I pumped her sweet pussy.
“Yes. That’s it. Ooooh. Oooh,” she cried.
Fucking like a man possessed, I could feel the flowing juices erupting more and more with each stroke. I pushed in deep, feeling my balls slap against the bottom of her vagina. We were drenched in sweat, soaked from the effort. Finally, I came again. This orgasm was more spiritual than physical. I shook and quivered, falling further over the edge than I ever did before.
