by Kris Bryant
“I don’t know what I should do for an appetizer. You have any suggestions?”
“Well, the lamb is rich so something with bread. Maybe something with crushed olives, oil, and feta or a milder cheese. You don’t want too many flavors at once. Keep it simple and focus on the taste. Be sure to make me a plate on Thursday, too.” She smiles at me and asks me about my menu. When I tell her chicken mole, she looks at me like I’m crazy.
“You can cook anything and you choose that? I mean, not that it’s bad, it’s just hard and that’s kind of your Kryptonite.” Mary was in my class last year when I tried it and obviously remembers my feeble attempts.
“I feel like it’s unsettled between us.”
“I want you to win. Maybe you should cook a nice filet. You did well at Murphy’s,” she says. I shrug. Grilling a piece of meat and watching a clock isn’t hard. I want something that will push me. Either way, I win. If I’m chosen as the winner of the scholarship, I win. If I come in second, I still win. I win Taryn and our time starts the minute class stops. Maybe I’m purposely trying to sabotage myself so that I can spend more time with her. No, I’m too competitive to just give in, even for love. There’s that word again. Maybe it’s just infatuation because we both cook and we have a lot in common. “Other than the difficulty level, your menu sounds delicious. Make sure you save me a plate as well.”
I wish her luck and head back to my station to clean up my mess. I still have twenty minutes until the soufflés are done. Not enough time to start something else, so I grab some chilies from the refrigerator and start dicing them up for tomorrow. Maybe cutting them a day early will help subdue the sting. I put gloves on before I start cutting them. I have a problem of rubbing my eyes a lot. Pepper in your eyes is horrible, even the mild ones.
Staying busy will keep me from checking on the soufflés every two minutes. They look good from the outside, but I know not to bump the oven at all. One tiny tremor and they could fall. I dice the peppers and still have time to kill. For whatever reason, Scott keeps walking by my oven and I start getting nervous. I end up guarding it again like I did last time we baked them. I’m sorely tempted to goad him, knock him off of his game a bit, but I want to win this fair and square. I want to show everybody that I’m better than he is, as a student, a chef, and a competitor.
*
“So you don’t think chicken mole is a good idea? You kind of have a thing against chicken, don’t you?” She laughs. I called Taryn even though I know her mother is there. It’s nine thirty and I know Olivia is asleep.
“Silly girl. I think it’s a good idea and I know you’ll cook it well,” she says.
“Any words of advice? Suggestions?”
“Don’t use anything from a jar.”
“Not even the Mexican vanilla?” I ask.
“Well, that’s okay. I mean for the mole.”
“I’m memorizing the recipe as we speak.” Not really, but I want her to think so.
“There are about twenty to twenty-five ingredients in mole. You can’t forget a single one.”
My confidence is waning. “Trust me. I don’t want to embarrass you or myself. I will have it down by Thursday. Mary’s meal sounds good.” I’m trying to change the subject. Everybody seems to be against this dish.
“It does, and you know I can’t talk about it,” she says. So there is a chef-chef confidentiality agreement that I know nothing about.
“I’m just telling you that we talked and shared menus.”
“I know. I’m very much aware of you in class.”
I perk up. I like this conversation better. Now, I’m nervous. Did I do anything embarrassing? “Why?”
“Why? What do you mean why?”
“Why are you aware of me?”
“Because you are a fantastic chef and I like watching you work,” she says.
“Boo.”
She laughs. “Really? Boo?”
“That was the teacher answer. I wanted the…” I pause before saying the word girlfriend. “…close friend answer.” I draw out the word ‘friend’ to let her know I see us as more than that.
“I watch you because you are sexy and very confident in the kitchen. A woman who goes after what she wants and isn’t afraid to try new things is very sexy.”
“I agree. That’s why I like watching you, too. When are we going to cook together?”
“Let’s get through the final first. Maybe Friday night if you are up for it.”
“That works great for me. Bud gave me Friday and the whole weekend off.”
“Maybe I should just cook for you and you can be my guest,” she says.
“Or maybe I can help you cook a meal for Olivia and your mother whose name I don’t even know yet.”
She laughs. “Evelyn. And she’s going to love you.”
I’m surprised that Taryn will have me around both her mother and her daughter. Now, I’m interested in how she will introduce us. Will I be a friend, a student, or a girlfriend? “From everything I know about her already, I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.” I already have a lot of respect for a mother who stands by her daughter through every decision. “What are we going to cook?” Taryn has a good sized kitchen and it will be nice to see how she cooks outside of the classroom.
“We need to make it Olivia friendly, or cook her something else,” she says.
“Let’s cook her something special. I want to cook adult food for us. Maybe we can cook something from South Africa?”
She laughs. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Let’s wait to do that after my mum leaves. She’s here to eat American style food or food she can’t get back home and I don’t want to disappoint her. But don’t worry about that menu. Just keep your final in mind and stay focused on mole.”
“You know what’s weird? I’m really not nervous. I love that we will have the kitchen to ourselves to cook on Thursday. I’ll just go in thinking I have to cook dinner like it’s my job.”
“You have no reason to be nervous. Your cooking is superb and I have complete faith in you,” she says.
“Do you know how it’s going to be graded? Like by course or just overall?”
“This isn’t Top Chef. We’ll do it by complete meal. We won’t know who will win the scholarship until Friday. They need to analyze all of your work throughout the three year program and then discuss the meal in detail including overall taste, appearance, technique, and anything else they can come up with. I’m excited to be a part of it even though I don’t have the history on the three of you that the other judges do.”
“Did you read our records when we started the semester?”
“Sure. I studied everybody’s file, but focused on yours, Scott’s, and Mary’s.”
I’m intrigued. “Anything you can share with me?”
She laughs. “Absolutely not. It was mostly good stuff.”
“Mostly good? Mostly? That’s awful. Now I’m going to be worried.” She knows I’m joking. My record is perfect.
Chapter Twenty-three
I was twenty-three years old and in Las Vegas when I first tasted champagne salad dressing. We were blowing off steam after a very difficult first year in law school so several of us decided to go to the city of sin for a long weekend. While my gay friends were hitting the strip clubs, and my straight friends were gambling, I was eating. I had lunch at a restaurant inside the Bellagio casino and ordered a salad that would forever change my life. I wanted to find out the ingredients, but was unable to get into the kitchen because I was just a customer. I wasn’t a chef and I couldn’t name drop because I didn’t know anybody yet. Instead, I Googled all the different champagne salad dressing recipes and pulled together all of the possible ingredients and took notes on my phone. I asked the waiter for another salad with the dressing on the side and began my dissection.
When I got home, it took several tries before I was able to recreate it. Now, I have it down to a science. The right amount of cilantro and lime will take time so while the rest
of the class is working on their final, I’m trying to tweak my perfect salad dressing. The first batch is horrific and I can’t get the taste out of my mouth fast enough. If cilantro isn’t presented in the right amount, it will leave a perfume taste. Apparently, I have too much in the dressing. I cut the amount of cilantro by half, add the lime juice and mix it again. It’s better, but still strong. I don’t want it to overpower the sweet crispness of the champagne, so I cut it back again. After cutting it again, I finally get the right mixture. I pull the ingredients together for my salad and poach the pears, toast the walnuts, and pour the dressing over it. It’s too warm still and wilts the lettuce. Mental note, let the dressing cool first.
“Please make sure you give me a list of the ingredients you need, and I will make sure you have everything tomorrow,” Taryn says.
My chicken mole recipe is quite lengthy and I know that we have several items here already. I’m sure Taryn will lock up the items we need so that others within the institution don’t accidentally use them. Several people in the class have come up to wish me luck. Scott might be a favorite with some of the instructors, but he doesn’t have the respect of his colleagues. Mary comes over with her list and asks me to review it. I love that she has such faith in me. I show her my menu and she shakes her head.
“God, Ki. You are one brave girl.”
“I’m just glad we get the entire class to make the final. I’m sure Scott will be done in less than an hour. I bet he stays for all of it,” I say.
“I hope that Taryn doesn’t let him stay. It’s her decision. I’m sure if he’s a distraction, she will ask him to leave.”
I nod. “He won’t bother me though.”
“Chef,” Mary says. I think she’s talking to me, but she’s calling Taryn over to us.
“Yes, chefs?” Taryn asks.
“Are we allowed to stay for the whole class even if we get done before the time is up?”
“I hadn’t thought about that yet. I guess as long as you aren’t disruptive to the other students, it shouldn’t be a problem.” She seems surprised that students would want to support one another. Apparently, that isn’t common in this industry. We hand her our lists and she starts gathering the ingredients until some students start plating for her. It’s hard in this industry to not pass at this level. I know the students well enough to know that they all will do fine. I’m pretty much done so I clean up my station and decide to leave early. I wait until Taryn is done tasting and head over to her.
“Chef, I’m done prepping for the final. Is there anything you need from me before I leave for the day?” My back is to the class and I wink at her. She clears her throat to cover up her smile.
“No, you’re good. Get some rest tonight. You have a very important day tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I grab my bag and head out. I can feel her watching me and it takes all of my energy not to turn around.
*
The knock on my door doesn’t surprise me. I kind of expect it. I have two glasses of wine poured and ready.
“Are you expecting someone?” Taryn asks as she enters the living room.
“You. I hope you like Pinot.”
“How did you know I would stop by?”
I close the door behind her and lock it. When she turns to face me, I greet her with a kiss. It starts out sweet, but escalates quickly and I have to pull away from her. I don’t want her to think that I only want sex.
“Because you’re sweet like that.” I take her hand and we sit on the couch.
“I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
I hand her the glass of wine. “I feel pretty confident about tomorrow.” I’m still very calm. This is what I’ve been training to do for the last three years professionally and several years before that on my own. Taryn starts talking about her education and what her final was like. I think she’s nervous for me. Not because she thinks I’ll do badly, but because she thinks I’ll do well. She plays with my fingers and I smile as she studies my hands.
“You have such soft, delicate hands,” she says. I like how gentle she is as she runs her fingertips over my fingers. “And these hands create such magic.” She’s completely relaxed and I feel my heart flutter inside and race around my chest as I look at her. This is what I want. Us.
“You inspire me. I’m a good chef, but you make me want to be the best I can be.”
“Your hands aren’t just magical in the kitchen.”
“Again, you inspire me.”
She blushes. “Whatever happens tomorrow and Friday, just know that I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you. I know as an instructor, what I did was inexcusable—”
I cut her off. “It was my suggestion and it’s not as if we’re children. We’re adults. I’m completely capable of making my own decisions. What we have here is not a bad thing at all and you shouldn’t feel bad about us. I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.”
“It’s just totally unprofessional and I do feel guilty about it.” I cup her face in my hands and shake my head.
“Don’t. Don’t do this to yourself or us. This has been incredible. Where else would we have met? A restaurant? Same situation. No dating at work. Maybe this was our destiny. Please don’t feel bad about this. I need this. I need you.” I lean over and kiss her gently. I put as much emotion into that kiss as I possibly can without crying or confessing my love for her. She is hesitant, but she is still here, still in my arms so I know she still believes in us. When I pull away and look into her eyes, she gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I kiss her again and again until I feel her smile against my lips and I know her mood has improved.
“See? You always know what to say or do to make me forget about my worries.” She strokes my cheek.
We spend the rest of our time talking about simple stuff like what her mother and Olivia are doing the rest of the week and Sophia’s life story. Sophia has a habit of curling up in Taryn’s lap whenever she comes over. She’s not even this lovable with Jessie. I know we’re keeping the conversation light for Taryn’s sake. I know she doesn’t want to talk about our relationship until we find out what happens in two days. When she leaves, it takes five minutes before I actually let her walk out my door. At least she’s smiling this time.
Chapter Twenty-four
The room is brimming with energy. The judges are getting set up and the three of us are getting ready to start.
“Students, you have five hours to prepare a three course meal for the five of us. You will be judged on the preparation, the taste, and presentation of your meal. You will not be allowed to use any notes or use your phones. Show us what you’ve learned over the past three years and impress us. You may begin,” Taryn says.
I have to fight the urge to run to my station. I immediately gather up the twenty-two ingredients for the mole because it will require the most time and attention. It will take hours for the sauce to thicken and cook for the best flavor. When I made it the other night, it was delicious. I just need to do the exact same thing, no pressure. Taryn bought the best chicken possible and I smile when I pull it from the refrigerator. I see that Scott is making something with lobster. He should make his lobster bisque, but he’s not touching them yet so apparently they are his main course. I think that’s a mistake. Mary is in the zone. I’m so proud of her. She really stepped it up the last month. It’s too bad she’s not my toughest competition.
I look up after about an hour and a half and notice that both Mary and Scott have delivered their first plates and are working on entrées. I don’t want to wait several hours between my plates. I want it to be restaurant style where I serve the salad, entrée, and dessert all within an hour’s time. Taryn looks worried so I shoot her a quick smile. I know what I’m doing. I’m going to use all of my time wisely.
The champagne dressing is spot on and I let it cool down before I pour it. I’m trying not to let the stress of the competition get to me. The chicken mole still has to braise for another thirt
y minutes so I start cooking sticky white rice. I will plate the salad in twenty minutes, then twenty minutes after that, plate the chicken mole, white rice, and crisp vegetable medley. Thirty minutes after that, I’ll serve dessert. Scott is serving his main course which looks like lobster pot pie. I’ve never tasted it, but I know it can be tricky like most seafood. The judges inspect the dish, smell it, gently break open the top and eat it. Even though I don’t want to care, I can’t stop watching them. Their reactions are hidden so I have no idea. I start on the soufflés and get them ready until I have to beat the egg whites. I’ve found that the fresher the soufflé, the fluffier the soufflé.
“Here’s a plate for you.” Mary slides a plate of lamb and ginger potatoes onto my station. I look it over, smell it, and catch myself doing exactly what the judges are doing. We aren’t really supposed to talk so I dig into it instead of giving her my opinion. I don’t love lamb, but it’s perfectly cooked according to the institution’s guidelines. The ginger potatoes have a slight sweetness that is nice and unexpected. She did a great job. I give her a thumbs up and get back to my meal.
It’s time to plate the salad. I take my time and ensure that each dish is beautiful. The pears are perfectly poached and I have just enough blue cheese on the salad. I taste the dressing before I put it on the salad just in case it settled wrong. It’s fantastic. I catch myself from doing a little happy dance. I’m about ready to blow their minds and their palates. I slide a plate over to Mary and take a tray to the judges. I explain my salad and dressing to them.
“Ki, why the long wait for a salad?” Dr. Wright can be a true asshole sometimes.
“I want to serve the meal as if you’re in a restaurant. The salad first, then the entrée in twenty minutes, then dessert. My entrée takes longer to make than the others. I plan on using most of the time allotted for the final. I apologize for the wait.” I nod and leave before they ask any more questions.
