A groan escaped every baker’s mouth.
“And finally, the show stopper. Your last chance to wow the judges. Your last chance to be named Star Pie Baker.”
Thank God, I included two recipes for each episode. If I make it through today, I’ll have to call Gran, add a third choice to each category.
“It is my honor to present your judges, two chefs from Miami. Each is a head chef at a five-star restaurant and known for their expertise in the kitchen, for their creativity and the fine taste of their recipes, and known as authors of best-selling cookbooks.”
The two judges sauntered out from the doorway behind Jim—a man and a woman. A few bakers gasped recognizing the woman as an occasional guest on the Food Network—Suzanne Harting, a tall, slim woman with brown waves falling over her shoulders. Star wondered how she could remain so thin. She was known for never seeing a stick of butter she didn’t like. The man, Chef Pierre Rouleau, was older, impeccably dressed in a tan blazer over black trousers, and what looked to Star as expensive black leather loafers with tassels. His salt and pepper hair set off his deep blue eyes and sexy smile—a killer guy with the Miami beauties Star surmised smiling back at him.
“Okay, bakers,” Jim said spreading his arms wide. “Your best pie—you have two hours.
“Let the baking begin.”
Chapter 20
────
CUTTING THE BUTTER, measuring and sifting the flour, crumbing the flour with the butter—Star worked quickly, methodically, adding the ingredients to the red mixer fitted with a flat blade. When the dough looked like crumbled cornmeal she slowly added cold water, pulsing the mixer just until the dough began to form a ball. She was in her element, blocking out everything and everyone around her. Everything except Jim’s words, must be baked to perfection’ kept running through her mind.
She heard her Gran, when Star was only eleven, telling her the dough had to be chilled making it easier to roll out.
Forming a rough ball, Star strode to the red refrigerator, sliding in the bowl holding the dough. While the dough chilled, she sliced the apples for the filling.
Checking her watch, she realized she was not keeping pace with her timetable.
“Grab the dough. Grab the dough,” she muttered under her breath, urging herself to hurry. She must roll out the dough before it warmed, before it got too sticky to handle. And, she had the extra step, Gran’s trick to prevent a soggy bottom—blind baking Gran called it. Bake the bottom crust separately.
Star positioned a portion of dough in the bottom of the fluted pie plate, laid a piece of silicon paper over it, and then poured dry baking beans to cover the paper. She popped the plate in the oven, setting the timer for ten minutes. It could take up to twenty so she had to watch it carefully, darting back and forth from the oven to the apple mixture for the filling.
Jim’s voice cut through her focus. “Bakers, this is your one hour call. You have one hour left.”
“Oh, no, no. I’m behind.” Quickly surveying the other bakers, she only saw one pie plate with a piece of silicon paper hanging over the edge. Maybe, just maybe she had a chance to win this first test. Of course, the real test will come when the judges taste her pie, inspect the pie to determine if there is a soggy bottom.
Removing the plate from the oven, folding the paper into a packet, discarding the beans, she added the final ingredients to the sliced apples.
“Forty-five minutes remaining,” Jim called out.
The air in the hall was filled with the aroma of baking pie crusts, of sweet filings. A mixture of apple, cherry and peach dominated.
Her heart was thumping as she tasted the mixture, adding a pinch more nutmeg. Scraping her apple mixture from the bowl, carefully laying the top layer of crust, cutting small slits in a flower petal pattern to vent the steam as the apples baked, she slid her pie into the oven.
Nothing more she could do but to watch it turn a golden brown, watch that it didn’t burn, and pray that it would not have a soggy bottom. Sitting cross legged on the floor in front of the oven window, oven light on, she kept her vigil.
The room fell silent. Many of the other bakers were also sitting on the floor in front of their ovens.
Glancing at her watch, instinct told her it was time to remove her pie.
“Two minutes, bakers.”
“One minute, bakers. Place your pie on the end of your station.”
Doing as they were told, the bakers stood at attention behind their pies.
One after the other, the bakers took their pie to the judges to taste, to inspect.
Each judge pushed a fork in the entry, tasted, lifted the edge checking for a soggy bottom, made a few remarks.
The baker removed the pie, and the next baker advanced to the table holding the pie in oven mitts, placing the pie in front of the judges. And so it went.
Chef Suzanne complimented Star on the filling, perhaps a bit more cinnamon would be nice, and Chef Pierre complimented her on the crust—no soggy bottom.
The judges gave praise along with a mixture of harsh words. Only two pies received no feedback one way or the other.
Star felt she was in the running.
Jim and Stephanie huddled with the judges.
The verdict was agreed upon.
Jim, a dramatic pause, announced the decision of the judges.
Star came in first for her apple pie, receiving praise that the pie did not have a soggy bottom.
Jim asked the judges to retire to the back room as he handed out the recipe for the technical bake challenge.
A long table was set up on the stage with a framed picture of each baker standing in a row. The back of the pictures faced the judges when they returned. As they tasted, inspected each entry, they would not know who baked the pie they were judging.
Star was startled at the recipe Jim handed her. It was a pie. A meat pie. The ingredients were listed all right, but with only a few instructions. She felt like she had half a recipe, a hot water crust pastry. If only she could call Gran.
She remembered once her grandmother making a pork pie with diced carrots and celery. Think, think, think, Star. The ingredients are here. But, how do I put them together. Hot water … no, use boiling water to melt the shortening. Roll it out between wax paper. She worked feverishly as did the other bakers. She could hear Gran whispering instructions in her ear.
Time was called.
The bakers placed their pies on the long table behind their picture then stood back in a line as the judges entered.
Star knew her crust was too thick, pale not golden, and, oh my God, the crust had a soggy bottom. The only saving grace was the vegetables were cooked evenly.
She came in seventh.
The table was removed and they were given a thirty-minute break after which Jim again faced the bakers.
“Now the third and final pie bake—the show stopper. Your challenge is to bake thirty-six sweet tartlets. You have two and a half hours.”
Star jerked strands of her blond hair under her visor’s tabs, and set to work. She prepared and baked the crusts in mini-cupcake pans—three pans, twelve tartlets each.
The scent of melting chocolate, crystallized ginger, strawberry and other fruit mixtures circulated through the air.
Star was running out of time.
She began whipping together a delicate strawberry filling.
Concentrating, focused, she piped three small dollops of whipped cream on the top of each tartlet.
Chagrined, she looked at her product. The mini-crusts were not evenly filled with the strawberry delicacy, and there were larger dollops of cream on some and not so much on others.
Out of time, she had to go with what she had.
Time was called.
The judges made their choices.
One baker was sent home.
One was crowned Star Pie Baker, Episode One.
It was not Star.
Other than the one eliminated and the winner, she wasn’t sure where she s
tood in the scheme of things, but she did know she would be back the day after tomorrow, Episode Two.
Jim made a final announcement. “There is a rule change. I am announcing the category for episode two … Cakes.
“Jim,” Stephanie whispered. “We have to talk.”
Jim said goodbye to the bakers, praising them for their efforts, and reminding them they had the day off tomorrow but to return Wednesday, 6:30 sharp. He waved to the judges, and the cameramen, thanking them for their participation.
Closing the door, he turned, bumping into his co-producer. “Sorry, Steph. Why the frown? Everything went well today. Fantastic actually. We have tomorrow to resupply the stations, to prep the studio—”
“I had a call from Lewis.”
“Lewis, like in our financial backer?”
“Come on, Jim. This is serious. Lewis is having trouble nailing down the contract with the cable company for our amateur baker series.”
“I thought they had signed.”
“Apparently not!”
Chapter 21
────
A FEW DROPS of rain hit Tyler’s windshield as he waited in the parking lot for Star. With the threat of rain he had pulled closer to the entrance. He watched as the front door swung open, groups of two or three stumbling out, one laughing, but most looked like they had been drawn through a ringer. One girl was crying.
Star emerged, shuffled toward the car. Tyler sprang out, running around to hold the door for her. No smile, she collapsed on the front seat. Back behind the wheel, he glanced out of the corner of his eye. Was she eliminated?
The rain picked up, the windshield wipers swishing the drops away.
Staring out the side window, Star sighed. “I’m still in.”
“Hey, good news. Was it brutal?”
“Very. They film us every other day.” She spoke slowly, exhausted monotone. “We have time to recoup our strength while the producers prep for the next episode—bring in fresh supplies, whatever we bakers need for the category. Today it was pies. Next—cakes.”
“I thought they weren’t going to tell you beforehand … what category.”
“Yeah … well … it’s cakes.”
“You, okay?”
Star nodded.
End of conversation.
Tyler pulled up to her apartment building and was about to turn the key off in the ignition. She turned to him. “I’m okay. Don’t get out. Thanks for the lift … see you tomorrow at the diner, one o’clock.”
• • •
STAR FLOPPED ON her blowup-mattress, shoes and all. Closing her eyes, images of the bake-off flashed in and out of her mind.
She woke with a start. Heart pumping. What time is it? I’m late. I’ll be sent home.
She glanced at the clock. Eight. She’d passed out for two hours. Rolling off the mattress, she padded to the bathroom for a quick shower and then she had to call Gran.
Popping a frozen pizza in the oven, she opened a bottle of cheap red wine. Cheap or not, she wanted a drink. Great, now I’m an alcoholic. Finding the thought amusing, she began to feel her body gain some strength.
A couple of bites of the cheese pizza, a sip of wine, she reached for her cell.
“Gran, hi. It’s me.”
“Oh, sweetheart. I was about to call you. Talk to me.”
“It was rough, Gran, but I lived to bake another day.” Star laughed to herself. Now she was cracking jokes.
“Good for you. What’s next?”
“Cakes. Gran, each episode is broken into three segments, three bake-offs in the same category. Today it was pies … by the way I came in first … with the apple pie thanks to your trick. But the next two segments weren’t so good. Good enough, however, so I wasn’t sent home. Anyway, I need your thoughts—pineapple upside-down cake or your yummy German chocolate. What do you think?”
“The pineapple upside down can be tricky. You’ve made the German chocolate a lot. You could put a ribbon of butter cream in the center, or better yet a filling of the cooked custard and coconut you make so well … a surprise for the judges when they cut into it. What about ganache frosting—a nice creamy chocolate? And pecans?”
“Our baking stations are setup with all the main ingredients we need, like flour, sugar. We even have a refrigerator. Gran, it’s red. I’ll take a picture with my phone. There’s a large cupboard along the back wall of the studio with all kinds of stuff. I wrote down a quick inventory before I left today. I already thought about the German chocolate and I checked to be sure everything was available. Yes, they had pecans and semisweet chocolate bits. Heavy cream in the fridge.”
“Then that’s it. You’re ready. Day after tomorrow. Call me. I love you, Star.”
“Love you too, Gran. Thanks for the help.”
Jotting a few notes, sipping her wine, her phone vibrated—a text message from Ash.
“Miss you. A.”
“Made it through 1st round. S.”
“OK 2 write story U in contest? A.”
“Story OK. S.”
“Wait for U tomorrow, 12:30? A.”
“Perfect. Miss U 2. S.”
• • •
TUESDAY
ASH MET HER at the usual spot—top of her block, the corner on Atlantic Avenue. Handing her a cup of strong coffee, no hot chocolate today, they began the short walk to the diner. They made plans for the evening. He’d be at the diner when her shift ended, and then he wanted to hear the details of the first filming, not just the quick synopsis she related as they walked. But he had enough for a short article he’d submit to the paper before the end of the day for tomorrow’s edition. He read her the lead paragraph:
An amateur baking contest is being held on the outskirts of Daytona Beach. A local woman, Star Bloom, a short-order cook at Charlie’s Diner, made it through the first round. The contest is being filmed for an upcoming reality TV series …
Chuckling over his intro paragraph, she entered the diner. Wanda and Charlie immediately quizzed her for information on the bake-off. Was there anything they could put on the diner’s menu?
But it was Tyler she huddled with every chance they could squeeze in—any lull, or a quick back and forth at the order window. He pumped her for every detail on how the baking played out, then helped her with a strategy for the next bake-off.
Her spirits lifted.
She was ready for cakes.
Chapter 22
────
BRIGHT SUNNY SKIES suddenly turned dark, shadowy, as storm clouds rolled over Volusia County. Intermittent thunderclaps were heard in the distance … moving in rapidly. It was almost closing time when Ash ambled in taking his usual seat at the end of counter. He smiled at Star when she looked up from behind the order window, flashing him a wave.
Ty finished his sketch of the remaining two guests, as Star liked to call them. Scowling when he saw Ash, nonetheless, he set his drawing tablet down and offered Ash a cup of coffee. “Only the dregs left but you’re welcome to it.”
“No, thanks, Tyler. I’ll just wait for Star.”
“Suit yourself.” Ty set the pot down, dumped the grounds, and commenced drawing a cartoon of Ash perched on the vinyl stool. He added a couple of horns, and a snarly look on his face. With a smirk, he tore the sheet from the pad, wadded it into a tight ball, tossed it in the trash can along with the coffee grounds.
Only two hours ago the silver diner was filled with sunshine and chatter from tourists new to the area, making plans for a weekend stroll on the beaches, browsing souvenir and T-shirt shops. Two by two they filled the booths, then the counter perching on the brown and white cowhide-patterned stools. Now, the last group staggered out, exhausted from a day of play.
The dinner guests had left.
Only Ash remained.
Charlie leaned against the wall, eyes closed, waiting to lock up. Wanda, her brows drawn together, caught the bent shoulders weighing on her husband. She leaned against the wall facing him, touched his arm. They spoke in
hushed tones.
“Charlie, you can’t keep taking the morning shift, waiting for Star to relieve you. We have to hire another cook and another waitress while we’re at it. Business is picking up—seems like more tourists than ever. There are more families. The new menu items, along with Tyler’s cartoons, are bringing them in. Lots more kids. We can’t keep up this pace. Lucky we have Star and Tyler … but we need help. If Star isn’t eliminated soon, and I pray she isn’t, the double shifts will kill you.”
Charlie slowly drew in a breath, releasing it with a long sigh. He was tired and didn’t have the heart to tell Wanda he wasn’t feeling so good. “Yeah. You’re right. Tomorrow, we can put a sign in the window. I don’t want to hire just anybody. I couldn’t take another cook like we had before Star came through the door.”
A bolt of lightning struck nearby, turning night to day. Rolling thunder rocked the diner. The lights flickered but stayed on. A quick succession of lightning bolts flashed. Then came the driving rain.
Tyler looked up as a man entered the diner, his sweat suit soaked, a tattoo of a snake curling up his neck to chin. Flicking the rain off his arms, he stamped his feet. He walked up to the register, looked at the two leaning against the wall, looked at the girl behind the order window, then smirked at the goofball holding a pad next to the coffee station.
“Hey, you. Can I get a cup of coffee?” snake-man asked his eyes square on Tyler.
“Sorry,” Tyler said. “We’re just closing up. Come back in the morning, I’ll give you a fresh cup … on the house.”
“Well, that’s very hospitable of you, but you see I want it now. So I guess instead, if you would be so kind as to empty the register.” As he muttered the words, he pulled out a pistol waving it at Tyler, then at Star stepping from behind the order window.
In a quick, smooth move snake-man grabbed her arm, spun her around in front of him, jabbing the gun to her temple.
“Hold on man, I’m going.” Tyler quickly stepped to the register, tapped a key. The cash draw popped open. He picked up a handful of bills shoved them into the man’s open hand around Star’s neck, flexing his fingers.
One Summer: ...at Charlie's Diner (The Baker Girl Book 1) Page 9
