“Whatever,” Winslow snorted. “The first team that got judged, from the Italian place on East Thirty-sixth? They came back in here looking like whipped dogs. Come on, I know I’m not the only one here about to wet myself.”
There was a short pause while they all looked at Win, and the way he was sort of dancing in place.
“Dude,” Danny said finally. “Maybe you just need to pee.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but a smooth, cultured voice cut him off. “So sorry, your bodily functions will have to wait.”
Eva Jansen beckoned to them from the door of the kitchen, looking unfairly cool and elegant. The blunt cut of her dark hair swing against her chin as she took in their ragtag little group. Brow winging up like a black bird taking off, she said, “The judges are ready for you now.”
Max hoisted himself up from the floor, his muscles trembling with exhaustion. He held out a hand to help Jules up, pulling just hard enough to ensure that she fell against him as she straightened her legs.
“There,” he said into her ear. “That’ll keep me awake better than any adrenaline.”
She was strung tighter than a wire cheese slicer, her slender shoulders and back vibrating in his embrace. Zen and common sense or not, Jules was clearly terrified.
But when he gave her a smile, she found one for him, too, and before he set her back on her own two feet, she said, “See? Told you I’d get you up.”
That was the moment. Right there.
The moment when Max Lunden realized he was in love.
* * *
Jules focused on the warmth that spread through her midsection every time Max looked at her with that smile, that spark, and did her best to ignore the fact that there were hundreds of eyes on her at that very moment.
The setup was similar to the qualifying round, a big room with bleachers at the back, a banner proclaiming the name of the competition in terrifyingly huge letters, and a raised stage under hideously bright lights.
Somehow, it wasn’t any easier to deal with the second time around.
In some ways, it was far worse. Because instead of facing the opposing team across the expanse of the stage, they were standing directly in front of the judges, who were seated at a long table covered in a white tablecloth. On her feet, in line with her teammates, Jules felt as if she were facing a firing squad.
The next few moments would decide their fate.
“First of all, thank you for a delicious meal,” Claire Durand began briskly. Jules’s heart pounded, but the judges probably said that to every team. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.
“We’d like to hear from each of you, now,” Claire continued, glancing down at her notes. “Explain a little bit about your dish, the inspiration behind it, and so on.”
Crap. This was one thing Jules hadn’t considered when she’d said she’d make the appetizer. All she’d been thinking was that Max had earned the right to make the main course. But now she had to be the first one to talk to the judges.
Swallowing felt like trying to choke down a wad of uncooked bread dough, but she managed it.
“The theme of our menu was ‘I heart New York City,’” she said, proud of the steadiness of her voice. “So that’s really where we took our inspiration—the dishes and the ingredients that make this one of the greatest food cities on earth.”
That got a cheer from the crowd—who were mainly, Jules imagined, other New York chefs, so it wasn’t surprising they liked that. Grinning, she relaxed a little.
“So I had the first course,” she said, “and I wanted to showcase a couple of my favorite ingredients—gorgeous, free-range Hudson Valley duck, and perfectly ripe Wildman Farms plums. I confited the duck legs with cinnamon, nutmeg, star anise, and Chinese five-spice, for a little kick, and I paired it with fresh plums pickled in aged balsamic vinegar and pure maple syrup from Smokey Hollow.”
“There was a round of brioche toast under the duck,” Devon Sparks said, peering at her. “Did you bake the bread yourself, or buy it?”
Jules felt a fine sweat prickle at her hairline. “Ah no, I’m not much of a baker. But Danny, our resident baking expert, helped me out.”
“So it was produced by your team,” Kane Slater clarified, looking pleased.
Jules nodded, shoulders inching up toward her ears as she waited for the verdict. “You deserve high praise for that dish,” Claire said. “I enjoyed it very much. The balance of sweet and savory was masterful. However, the flavor of the maple was, for me, not so good. Too assertive.”
Jules’s heart seized in her chest. All she could hear was that damning French accent saying “not so good.”
“I disagree, I liked the maple. Liked the whole thing, actually. Definitely whetted my appetite for the rest of the dishes,” Kane said. “In the sense that I would’ve been happier with about twice as much of the duck and plums.”
Jules felt as if her brain were the last horse in a race, totally unable to keep up. Before she knew what was happening, the judges had moved on to Winslow’s soup.
The moment the intense glare of the limelight faded a bit, Jules found herself able to breathe again. Although still completely unaware of what it might all mean for the team.
She couldn’t help feeling that she’d let them down, let them all down—but no, the judges had comments on Winslow’s matzo ball soup, too, some good and some “not so good,” and Jules had tasted his dish herself. It was superb, a lovely homage to one of the homeliest, most comforting traditional dishes in the world, but refined. Delicate.
And speaking of delicate. It was Beck’s turn to talk about his fish course.
“As I’m sure you guessed,” he said, “my dish was a play on my favorite New York City staple—a bagel with lox and cream cheese. Only I baked fresh bialys, my salmon was gravlax that I cured in salt, sugar, lemon peel, and Pernod, and I used crème fraîche in place of cream cheese.”
Jules licked her lips, remembering her one bite of the dish. It had been so pretty. The curing process darkened the salmon to a deep coral pink, the thin slices artfully arranged across the miniature bialy, a cousin of the bagel with the same dense, chewy texture but a softer crust.
“I never had a bialy before,” Kane Slater said, causing both of the other judges to raise their eyebrows at him. “What? I’m from Austin!”
“I’m from Paris,” Claire Durand said, sounding scandalized. “And I’ve had bialys. Enough of them”—she turned back to Beck—“to know that yours was a supremely well executed version, Chef Beck. And you were clever to use them—the caramelized onion and poppy seed mixture in the center of the bialy was an intelligent way to replace the onions on the traditional lox bagel. There were, perhaps, too many poppy seeds.”
“I agree,” Devon Sparks said. “I’m going to have to floss twice tonight. But I enjoyed how well you’d clearly conceptualized the dish, and the way the combination of flavors was familiar, but you brought it to a whole new level.”
“Thank you.” Beck nodded his head once, impassive as always, but Jules caught a flicker of satisfaction in his dark gaze.
The judges weren’t going easy on them—they were coming up with a lot of nitpicky details—but overall, it seemed to be going well. Well enough to beat the other teams? Jules had no way of knowing, and the uncertainty was like ants under her skin.
The fear of being judged, and found lacking—jeez, it was like the worst parts of her childhood in a single, harrowing half hour, only this time, played out in public for the amusement of an audience. And she’d signed up for this voluntarily?
As the judges turned their attention to Max and his miso-glazed tenderloin, Jules squinted into the bright lights, searching the audience for Nina Lunden’s kind, familiar face.
There, six rows back … and wait, was that Gus beside her? Everything in Jules’s body and brain went supernova from joy and relief that he was well enough to leave the hospital.
Jules squeezed her eyes shut, just to make sure she wasn’t having a
stress-induced hallucination, and when she opened them again and blinked against the spots dancing through her vision, she caught sight of the woman sitting on Gus’s other side, and her brain stopped working at all.
The woman wearing a low-cut, figure-hugging dress that threatened to spill boobs all over the recovering heart attack survivor next to her was Jules’s mother.
Chapter 29
Max faced the judges with his head held high. They weren’t giving anything away with their expressions, but the fact that they’d paused so long between their raptures over Beck’s gravlax—well deserved, Max had tasted that ethereally scrumptious fish—and his tenderloin wasn’t promising.
Fuck it. Even if they didn’t get it, he knew he’d put out an excellent dish.
“Who came up with the theme for this menu?” Devon Sparks asked.
Blinking, Max said, “I did, actually, with the help of my father, who’s been coaching us.”
“Interesting. All of the dishes so far have very clearly fit in with the I Love New York motif, and of course, it’s easy to see where your brother’s cheesecake idea came from—but I have to say, your dish confused me.”
Well, crap. Max tried to smile. “Confusion wasn’t exactly what I was going for.”
“I would imagine not,” Claire Durand put in. “Nevertheless, I enjoyed the flavors very much—again, the play of dark, intense miso and spicy ginger, with that hint of sour from the yuzu, was quite harmonious and lovely. But I agree with Devon, it was difficult to see where it fit in.”
“Yeah, I was expecting, like, an updated corned beef and pastrami on rye, or something,” Devon said. “Maybe something with a pizza or a hot dog. Not that the steak wasn’t good, it was. And the green bean salad wasn’t just pretty, it packed a punch of its own.”
Crapcrapcrap.
“Uh, guys? Maybe we can give the chef a chance to tell us what he was thinking?”
Max shot Kane Slater a grateful glance. Double crap, this probably meant he’d have to revise his opinion of the guy.
“Look, you all know my parents’ restaurant, Lunden’s Tavern. It set the standard of the Manhattan restaurant scene as far back as the forties, and my family has cooked for everyone from Old Blue Eyes to ex-presidents. We’ve been doing steaks there the exact same way for decades, and there’s a reason for that—they’re damn good. And as much as Chicago is steak central, New York City has a pretty fierce steakhouse rep of its own.” Clearing his throat, he forced himself to keep it steady. “It was important to me to honor that.”
“Well, sure,” Devon said skeptically. “But the Asian influence…”
“It’s not the usual pairing, I’ll admit,” Max said, talking quickly. “But one of the things I love most about New York City is that it’s not about ‘usual.’ There’s a place for innovation in the culinary community here, an openness to new techniques, new flavors, that is unrivaled anywhere. New York may not be the birthplace of fusion cuisine, but we certainly embrace it here. And that’s something else that’s important to me.”
Claire was nodding thoughtfully, which gave Max hope.
“I’ve traveled a bit in Asia,” he continued, “which is where I came across the philosophy that the only way to properly honor your culinary tradition is to never let it stagnate. To take what you know from the way a dish has been prepared in the past, and build on that, expand on it, take risks with it, try to perfect it.”
He glanced down the line at Jules, who was watching him with wide, unblinking eyes. “Knowing all the while that perfection is not only unattainable, it might not turn out to be what you think it is, anyway,” he finished softly.
“Bravo, Chef Lunden,” Claire Durand said. “You’ve convinced me that your very excellent dish belonged as part of this menu.”
“Ditto,” said Devon, sitting back in his chair.
“You know what?” Kane said, grinning up at him. “It was so damn tasty, I didn’t even really care why you made it. I’m just glad I got to eat it.”
Okay, fine. So maybe the guy was a little likable.
Or maybe Max was just giddy that he’d been able to make his case, to finally articulate his thought process behind the dish. It felt as if he’d been carrying those ideas around like a sack of rocks on his back, and unloading them here on this stage left him floating a few feet above the floor.
He barely registered the judges’ unrestrained adoration for Danny’s bittersweet chocolate cheesecake—Max had tasted it, so he hadn’t been worried about how it was going to go over—and then they were trooping off the stage to wait for the other teams to finish cooking and be judged.
Eva Jansen’s assistant, a young guy with spiky extra-black hair, pale skin, and chunky glasses that reminded Max of Elvis Costello, ushered them out of the hotel ballroom they were using for judging and asked if they wanted to go back to the competition kitchen, or to wait for their families in one of the hotel suites reserved by the competition.
Max looked around, noticing his surroundings for the first time all day. He knew, intellectually, that the Gala Hotel had donated the use of its facilities in exchange for RSC publicity. And that they were somewhere in midtown. What he hadn’t realized before was how gorgeous the place was, in an old-world, gilt-encrusted opulence kind of way.
Curious to see what one of the suites would look like—and if, perchance, said suite would come complete with a bed on which to crash—Max was about to enthusiastically accept for all of them when he caught the stricken look on Jules’s face.
Shit. He hadn’t even noticed if Tori Cavanaugh, or whatever the hell she called herself, had managed to show up. Was it better if she had, or if she hadn’t? Max couldn’t begin to sort it out.
Before Max could force his tired brain to decide, one way or the other, Winslow piped up. “We’ll take Door Number Two, the suite. I don’t know about these jokers, but some minibar action is sounding pretty baller to me, right about now. Lead me to it, baby.”
And that was that. Win looped one long arm over the shoulder of their spiky-haired guide, and the rest of them followed after.
Jules dropped back to walk with Max. “Your father was in the audience,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if you knew.”
Suddenly, it was as if all the nerves he’d denied himself in front of the judges came swarming into his stomach at once, shortening his breath and drying out his mouth. “Yeah?”
Weird that he cared more about what his father thought than all three illustrious judges combined.
She nodded, not looking at him. “My mom, too. Thanks for that, by the way.”
“Hey, I’m not taking the rap for that one,” he protested. “She asked me, I told her. I’m not feeling too high on the keeping of secrets, these days—besides, it’s been advertised all over the place. Don’t you think it’s kind of, I don’t know, nice that she wanted to come?”
Jules pressed her lips together, clearly struggling with something. “It is,” she finally said. “And part of me is ecstatic that she was there, that she got to see me in my element, doing what I love.”
“So what’s holding you back from just being happy about it?”
“It’s complicated,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes. “You don’t know the whole story, which, I realize—that’s on me, because I haven’t told you. But trust me, it’s not as simple as it seems.”
Max thought it kind of was, but he kept quiet, contenting himself with saying, “Well, if it sucks to deal with her, you’ve always got my family to back you up.” He paused. “Wait. That’s a cop-out.”
With a glance at the rest of the team getting farther ahead of them, Jules stopped walking, too. Max didn’t understand why she suddenly looked afraid, but he hoped what he had to say would make her feel better.
“I mean, yeah, you’ve got my family,” he said, impatient with himself. “But Jules. You’ve got me. And I swear, I’ll try my hardest to make sure nothing bad happens to you.”
The fear in her eyes transformed to a look
of wonder, and she lifted a hand to brush his cheek. It was a tentative touch, but it still managed to set Max on fire.
“It’s been a long time since I needed a protector,” Jules said, her voice as gentle as her fingertips on his skin. “But just knowing you’re here right now, that you’re on my side—it means a lot, Max.”
They had to walk quickly to catch up to the others, but Max couldn’t help thinking about the way she phrased that—“on her side,” as if Jules’s whole life were a battle of some kind.
Max had never been much of a fighter. He preferred to go with the flow, change people’s minds by wearing them down over time rather than with his fists.
But when he thought about anyone hurting Jules—he suddenly understood the urge to fight.
* * *
Max and Danny both looked like they were about to keel over. If Jules hadn’t already been feeling like a total shit for oversleeping and nearly missing prep the day before, the way they fell onto the sofa in the hotel suite would’ve clinched it.
“What a day,” Danny moaned.
“What a week,” Max agreed, tilting over sideways until his face smushed into the pillow at the arm of the sofa.
Danny reached around him for the pillow, snatching it out from under him and making Max’s head bounce off the hard cushions. Max squawked, Danny laughed, and the brothers fell off the sofa, wrestling and pushing at each other.
“No shit,” Winslow said, letting himself into the room from where he’d been saying good-bye to their erstwhile guide, Drew, in the hallway. Jules studied him for a moment, enjoying the slight glaze over his sea-green gaze. “What a ride! You must be stoked your stint here’s almost up, Max. Bet peppering pork for pancetta in some tiny Italian village will be like a total vacation.”
Danny’s chortling laughter cut off as abruptly as if someone had put a hand over his mouth. Max paused with one arm bent around his brother’s neck, the smile dropping from his flushed face. His eyes darted to Jules, who couldn’t conceal her flinch.
There it was. The tiny little piece of information she’d been trying her damnedest not to let herself think about while she and Max fumbled their way past the fact that she’d kept his father’s secrets.
Too Hot to Touch Page 25
