The Last Super Chef

by Chris Negron

  Most of the time I use my journal for recipes, but I keep other kinds of lists in there, too. In the back pages, like this one, summarizing the fallout of the epic fail Paige and I now refer to as Cupcakegate:

  The Money. After all that work, we nearly lost every penny. Principal Ramirez tried to claim “no permit, no profits” and ordered Paige to start handing over all those crumpled bills. But then a few of those honor students staged a sit-in, chanting We! Relate! To a great cupcake! over and over. Tre’s brother Josh, still in his sweaty uniform, came out and joined in. That held up the whole game. The Eagles’ coach stomped into the hall after him and said if Josh didn’t get back to the court, he’d have to forfeit, which convinced the principal and even Pettynose to relent. At home, our cash went straight into Mom’s purse. And from there to the rent, which meant Pettynose would end up stuffing our money into his grimy pockets anyway. Life’s pretty unfair when you’re in fifth grade and completely powerless.

  The Game. So North Sloan’s previously unstoppable basketball team didn’t forfeit, but they still ended up losing. Maybe because Josh only scored six points after halftime, which was a total bummer.

  Mom’s schedule. This happened almost every time I got in trouble, and it was always the worst part. Mom had no room in her daily agenda for parent-teacher meetings, but this “incident” was serious enough—and involved both her children—that the school wanted her to come in for an after-hours conference. Suspension was on the table.

  “I don’t have time for this.” Mom whisks by, snatching Paige’s coat off the carpet. She was supposed to leave ten minutes ago. “I do not have time for this,” she repeats, hanging the coat near the door now. You can make it across our living room to the apartment’s “foyer”—a two-by-two square of linoleum inside our front door, super fancy—in just a few big steps.

  Paige is in front of the television, mesmerized by Teen Titans Go! There’s about an hour every day, right after school, when she goes nearly comatose in front of cartoons. It’s fine, though, part of our deal, especially on Wednesday nights. My sister takes control of the TV right after school so I can have it later. Eight p.m., to be precise. Because on Wednesdays at eight, Super Chef is on.

  And DVR or not, commercials or not, I watch Super Chef live.

  Paige once said I’d probably have a seizure if I missed even one second of my favorite show, but that’s bonkers. I’d just faint a little or whatever.

  “Your zipper again,” I say, pointing at Mom’s jacket. Its zipper is undone at the bottom, beginning to separate upward. Does it every time she wears it, but new jackets just aren’t in the budget right now. She works in North Sloan’s big post office plant, a behind-the-scenes mail-sorting job. At least she doesn’t have to wear those awful powder-blue post office uniforms, the ones with the shorts and the dorky socks.

  Mom frowns and tugs at the zipper. “Thanks, Curtis.”

  “Mom, I’m really sorry,” I say. “I was only trying to—”

  She cuts me off, meeting my eyes. “I know. Just . . . no more big ideas, though, understand?”

  I nod. My gut’s a giant flapjack flipped over too quickly, the same way Mom’s schedule has been turned upside down by my most recent big idea.

  Last night, when she thought I was sleeping, Mom got on the phone with one of her close friends from work. She sounded worried. Out came words I’ve heard before, when she had other jobs. When she’d lost other jobs. Layoff. Cutback. Downsize. “I have to go to the school tomorrow,” Mom whispered. “And it’s definitely gonna make me late. Cover for me, okay?”

  She hung up, and I snuck back into bed, pretending I’d been asleep the whole time.

  “You kids take care of each other,” she says now as she opens the door in a rush. “Curtis, make your sister some dinner, but—”

  “Be careful,” Paige and I finish for her in a chorus. Yeah, we know the drill.

  3

  I’m staring hard into the cupboard. All I see are three tins of tuna. No linguine, only spaghetti. But the fridge does have a half a bottle of clam juice, and I think I can make out one little anchovy filet suspended in congealed oil.

  “Your linguine and clam sauce is going to be more like spaghetti in tuna sauce, with clam juice,” I tell Paige. “It’ll be good, promise.”

  My sister, out of her cartoon trance, sits at the kitchen table doing homework. She shrugs and, without looking up, says, “I trust your creativity, Chef.”

  I pour what’s left of the clam juice into my measuring cup, shaking out every last drop. Barely half a cup. I need a full cup normally. This is gonna be interesting.

  “Last time on Super Chef,” the disembodied, deep-voiced TV announcer begins. On the screen, this season’s contestants rush around the kitchen, highlights from last week’s episode. “The chefs were lost at sea as they teamed up in an all-seafood battle.”

  The theme music’s starting, a low thrum that picks up pace as old black-and-white pictures of the Super Chef—first as a boy, then a teen in his earliest kitchens, always surrounded by food, clearly intrigued by every ingredient—descend toward a table, sliding over one another as they land.

  The announcer pipes up again, repeating the same intro he gives us every week. “Growing up, his family moved all around the world. Japan, Paris, Dubai, London, New York. He’s studied under masters, opened countless restaurants, inspired millions.”

  More images flash. Close-ups. The bottom of a pant leg, a spotless dress shoe. Hands straightening the cuffs of a crisp white shirt sneaking out the arms of an immaculate suit jacket. Next a wide shot: a figure standing alone in a glass elevator speeding up the side of a building that shines bright against the dark city night.

  The screen changes again, the camera positioned at one end of a long hallway. The elevator doors open and the distant but familiar image of the Super Chef in his blue suit and tie appears. He strides down the hallway, also gleaming glass, lined with glinting knives and white chef’s jackets. Directly toward the camera, the focus on his features sharpening with each step.

  “Now, he is the master.”

  My pulse quickens. The Super Chef grows closer. His haphazard sandy-blond hair, spiked just a little up front, comes into view. Those hazel eyes, that signature smile. He unbuttons his suit jacket and hangs it on a passing hook without breaking stride.

  “He is Lucas Taylor.”

  Now the star of the best show on the planet walks directly into the camera. Right before his chest is about to hit it, his hands shoot up. They rip open his white shirt, a button skipping away, tie flying off to one side. Underneath, his signature black-and-white chef’s coat is revealed, the one with the diamond-shaped logo that hasn’t changed since season one.

  “He is . . . THE SUPER CHEF.”

  And he is . . . Curtis Pith’s father.

  Okay, that last one comes out in my head only, and it stays there, because I don’t dare utter my big secret out loud in front of my little sister. If Mom wanted Paige to know who her dad is, she would’ve told her by now.

  Like she told me.

  It happened back in second grade, and it’s still the only time Mom’s ever mentioned it. Nothing before, and not a hint at this particular truth since, either. Sometimes I’m not even sure she remembers telling me at all.

  I’d come home crying because Mrs. Moonworthy asked the class what we wanted to be when we grew up. Career day. I folded my arms across my chest, not completely sure why I was so opposed to participating, only knowing that I was. I was positive most of the class would join me in my silent protest, but instead kid after kid shouted out their answers like they’d actually been hoping someone would come along to ask them this very question.

  “Police offer!” Kenny Simpson. “Computer Programmer!” Nate Evans. “Engineer!” Violet Johnson. “Dental hygienist!” Amy Stills.

  Me: nothing. Complete freeze-up.

  I knew most of them were just robotically saying whatever their parents did. Except Amy. Apparently
she really liked going to the dentist. But for me, well . . . Mom was out of work at the time. Again. Besides, she’d had so many jobs before I didn’t know which one to pick—waitress or janitor or bartender or—

  What about my father, you ask? Good question, what about him? Up until then I’d kind of assumed he didn’t exist.

  That year was the same year the new Super Chef show debuted. Season one. Mom turned on the first episode but quickly lost interest, even started criticizing it. I couldn’t understand why; everything about it was awesome. Contestants running around like crazy, trying things they weren’t sure would work, forced to use foods they’d never even tasted, all under the watchful eyes of the Super Chef, who seemed to have done and tasted everything, traveled everywhere.

  Sure, I was only seven, but I glued my eyes to that program every week. In fact, Super Chef was on again in the background when, through heavy sobs, I pleaded with my mother to tell me who my father was, what kind of work he did.

  Mom bit her lip. I knew she was about to change the subject again, like she always did. Only this time, I wasn’t going to let her. “Please tell me,” I begged. “Please.”

  She averted her eyes. But she wasn’t just looking away. Her focus moved to the television. To Lucas Taylor. A wistful smile crossed her expression, some memory passing in front of her like a fast-moving cloud. “Your father’s a great cook. Super talented.” Her eyes glistened, and she wiped one tear away.

  I looked from Mom to the TV, then back again to her. A bunch of times, so my vision almost blurred. Super talented. Meaning . . . Super Chef? All at once, a bunch of stuff started to make sense.

  How much I loved the show, how I hung on even the smallest movement of the Super Chef’s hands. The excitement I felt watching him cook, the connection we seemed to have with each other, like I’d known him my whole life.

  Mom stood suddenly, heading for the kitchen. Shoulders slumped, trying to hold it together in front of me. But I had heard enough, and, finally, I could see my own future. Finally, I knew what I would tell Mrs. Moonworthy.

  Chef. I’m going to be a chef when I grow up.

  As each episode aired, I started recognizing new resemblances between me and Lucas Taylor. Identical sandy-blond hair, even down to the little spike up front. Same hazel eyes. Sometimes I even think we stand alike.

  Other stuff became clearer, too. Like why Mom didn’t like his show, always tried to turn the volume down. It must’ve been because of whatever happened between them. But me? I only wanted to watch Super Chef more. Not just watch, either. I wanted to cook all the time. And suddenly I believed I could.

  Mom had cried after she told me the truth four years ago. I never want to upset her like that again, so I don’t talk about the Super Chef—not the he’s my father part, anyway—and neither does she. It’s our silent pact.

  I’ve never told anyone else my secret truth, either. It just doesn’t feel right, and it might get back to Paige if I spilled the frijoles to some friend like Tre. That’s why my sister doesn’t understand where my cooking talent comes from. My father is the most famous chef in the world. Of course I can make a crème brûlée cupcake. Of course I can create a passable clam sauce even though I’m missing a ton of ingredients. Of course I’m going to be a chef when I grow up.

  Without a doubt, I know that Lucas Taylor is amazing. I’m reminded of that fact every Wednesday at eight. But at the same time, I don’t remember him. Like, not at all. I mean, he must’ve stuck around for some part of those eleven months between Mom having me and Paige being born, right?

  What was baby Curtis thinking? How could he—I—not pay more attention? Lucas Taylor was right there.

  Mom hasn’t told me what happened between her and Chef Taylor, what caused their breakup, and now we have our silent pact, so I have no idea why they’re not together, why we’re not all together. Sometimes, when he’s teaching me how to properly sauté a pork chop or poach an egg to perfection, I find myself trying to guess why. But that’s pointless. And distracting. When I miss some important step and have to rewind, I remember what I’m supposed to do—skim the top. Discard the unnecessary scum.

  Because it’s kind of like making a perfect broth, isn’t it? As it boils, the impurities become foam on the surface, and you have to be quick about skimming them off. If you don’t get rid of that froth fast enough, it’ll pollute your soup forever. So that’s how I treat those thoughts, all that guessing and wondering about what happened. They’re just unnecessary scum.

  Let’s face it, we’ve never received a single card from Lucas Taylor, not one letter or phone call. No mention on his big TV show of the two kids he has in snowy North Sloan. And Mom struggles to make rent every month while he sits on top of the biggest pile of money in the whole cooking universe. The Super Chef probably takes baths in hundred-dollar bills.

  I thought there were laws and stuff about that, that dads had to give money to moms to help them take care of their kids, but for some reason Mom doesn’t seem interested in chasing him down. Whatever happened must’ve been really bad.

  In the end, there’s no reason to wish the Super Chef will one day send us some magical financial parachute. If it hasn’t happened by now, it never will. We’re on our own. So I try really hard not to worry about who he is or what he has. Instead I focus on learning every single thing I can from watching him. If these distant TV lessons are all I’m ever going to get from my father, I might as well make the most of them.

  On the screen, the latest episode continues. This season’s Super Chef contestants line up at their stations with nervous smiles. They’re waiting for the master to appear. The camera shifts to the front of the room, and the two huge doors featuring that same diamond-shaped logo separate to reveal three shadows. Out they march—the Super Chef and his two sous chefs.

  To Taylor’s right, Chef Claire Wormwood. Born in the United States, but she studied in Italy forever. She’s been with the Super Chef almost her entire career, and she seems to be a calming influence in his kitchens. Whenever his temper flames up like an out-of-control flambé, Chef Claire is there with a lid to cover the fire.

  To his left, jovial Chef Gabriel Graca from Portugal, lately just the comic relief of the show. I’m not sure I’ve seen him cook anything real since season two.

  The intro music finally dies down, and the Super Chef steps forward. Something’s weird, though, and it takes me a minute to figure out what. It’s his chef’s coat. Normally perfect, he’s somehow messed up the buttons, making it look off-kilter.

  Chef Taylor comes to a stop and surveys the contestants. I can’t take my eyes off his messed-up jacket. “Welcome to the final five. We’re going to get straight to the point. After all, a chef must always come to the kitchen prepared. Are you ready for your next challenge?”

  The contestants shout in unison, “Yes, Chef!”

  “Who can tell me what remains the most popular protein in America?”

  “Chicken!” I yell along with the contestants.

  The Super Chef points at the nervous cooks with one finger. “That’s right, chicken. A whole chicken can yield more portions than the average cook at home realizes, making it a very cost-effective option for families. It’s critical to know how to get the most out of it.”

  My heart starts to pound. No matter how many times I’ve seen Lucas Taylor break down a chicken, I always learn something new. And he always works with such speed and precision, a true master.

  He steps forward and lifts the silver lid waiting at the display table. There it is, a gorgeous whole chicken resting on a cutting board, skin dimpled and fresh-looking, a knife and knife sharpener with it, all just waiting for his expert hand to separate the wings, the legs—

  But Chef Taylor seems perplexed by the bird. He steps to one side. “Chef Claire, would you be so kind?”

  Claire Wormwood’s mouth drops open, but her jaw couldn’t possibly be down as far as mine is. Even Paige notices the change. “Doesn’t he usually cut the chi
cken?” she asks me.

  “He always breaks it down,” I correct her. “Yeah,” I say even more slowly.

  First his off-buttoned chef’s coat, now letting his sous chef take over in this type of demo for the first time ever? The Super Chef has never acted like this before.

  Something’s definitely wrong.

  4

  Jenny from Seattle ends up getting eliminated at the end of this season’s chicken episode. She actually forgets to separate the oysters from the thighs. I mean, seriously. Total brain fart.

  I get so worked up I shoot off the couch, pointing and screaming, “The oysters! They’re the best part!” This forces Paige to grab her furry blue earmuffs and slap them over her ears. She keeps them on the end table next to the couch for when I get too excited during Super Chef. So, basically every Wednesday at some point.

  Poor Jenny’s sobbing when Chef Taylor gives her the bad news. A lot of people cry when they get kicked off the show, which I always find unprofessional. Everybody knows you gotta have a strong backbone to make it as a chef. There’s no crying in kitchens, unless maybe you’re chopping onions. Even then, blink a few times if you have to. Sheesh.

  The last part of the best show on the planet is always a preview of next week’s episode, but I’m not too surprised when, instead of going to a commercial, the screen falls silent for a few seconds. Then a big, white “IN ONE WEEK” appears in the direct center of the black background, and the announcer says something brand new.

  “Be sure to return next week for the most shocking reveal ever made on Super Chef. Chef Taylor plans to change the landscape of the cooking world forever.”

  After a few seconds, the dancing show that everyone but me seems to watch, Feats of Feet, replaces the white letters on the screen. I turn the TV off and fall back into my seat.