The Last Super Chef

by Chris Negron

  It may be a mess, but at least it’s a hot mess.

  23

  During the commercial break, the five of us, still breathing heavy after the past thirty minutes, reassemble at our assigned stations. When the red camera lights flare back on, the Super Chef doesn’t allow even a second of dead air time.

  “Well, Chefs, that was certainly exciting, wasn’t it?” He looks down at the new table added to the stage, our clumsy attempt at the popular Japanese dish centered on it, as if he’s surprised a dish for him to taste resulted from what he just witnessed.

  “Okonomiyaki,” he says, tilting his head. Is that admiration in his expression? “Who thought of this?”

  I point to my left, at Kiko, and when I turn my head to check her reaction, I see she’s pointing at me. I look around. The other three chefs cast their eyes downward.

  “It was not an okonomiyaki before Curtis,” Kiko claims.

  “Yeah, but Kiko was the one who told me to do it, and the sauce was already made.”

  The other thing that happened during the commercial is I had time to piece together what must’ve happened while I was in the booth. Kiko decided to make the pancake, and she started with the sauce, because she knew it would need time. We had no ketchup, so she had to make a quick version of that first, using Bo’s tomato. Then she still had to combine it with the Worcestershire and soy to create an actual okonomiyaki sauce. One sauce to build another, really smart. Except all those steps probably stole most of her six minutes.

  After that, the wheels somehow spun off. Either Joey didn’t recognize what she was making or he just went his own way, and then Pepper did the same. By the time Bo got up there he must’ve been so confused he just floundered. Then it was my turn.

  Had Kiko mouthed out “okonomiyaki” to the others? Or just to me? Maybe none of them knew what it was. Maybe she kept suggesting it until someone finally figured it out.

  We lower our arms at the same time.

  “Well, this was someone’s fantastic idea,” the Super Chef says. “How about we taste it?”

  Wormwood and Graca come even with Taylor on the stage. Together they reach out with clean forks to carve out pieces of the savory pancake for themselves. The bonito flakes, one of the best parts of okonomiyaki—you put them on top at the end and the heat makes them dance like they’re at a disco—are missing, but my swirl of mayo is nice and the pancake hasn’t fallen completely apart . . . yet.

  When the chefs have all taken their portion, they raise their forks to eye level and stare at our result, angling the pancake to get a better view of it from all sides. Finally, in unison, they bring their forks to their mouths to do something I only now realize I never had time for.

  They taste what we made. Oh, man, how could I serve something to the Super Chef without tasting it first?

  Wormwood stares up at the balcony, chewing, her face inscrutable. The Super Chef’s head bounces from one side to the other like a confused bobblehead doll.

  Chef Graca swallows first. “I’ll admit, Chefs,” he starts. “I haven’t eaten a lot of okonomiyaki in my time, but this one is absolutely delicious.”

  The Super Chef covers his mouth briefly, swallows, then starts to laugh. “Chef Graca, I do believe I’m going to have to agree with you.”

  Wormwood casts the final vote. “This . . . was a phenomenal idea. One”—she heaves a deep breath—“I’m not sure I would’ve come up with myself. And it was incredibly well executed.”

  My whole body relaxes. So much tension leaves my shoulders and hips I almost fall over.

  “Quite a dish.” The Super Chef gives our pancake plate a quarter turn before looking up at us again. “Okay, Chefs. We warned you this was coming, didn’t we? The time for you to give us your guesses on tonight’s theme has arrived.”

  The Super Chef spreads his arms out wide, like an invitation, and more anonymous black-shirts rush forward again, each with an armful of blue plastic. They snap together the pieces on our stations so fast I can’t tell how they fit, but I recognize the result. It’s a temporary blue desk with walls on either side. Inside waits a black Sharpie and a white index card.

  It’s easy to figure out what we’re supposed to do—write our theme guesses on the card. The little blue walls are just big enough to keep us from seeing each other’s work.

  The Super Chef and his sous chefs retreat to the back of the stage, forming a loose huddle, while a loud ticking starts playing on the speakers around the arena, accompanied by game-show-like music. I pick up the Sharpie. They didn’t say exactly how long we have to answer, but I’m guessing it’s not much time at all.

  I run through my earlier thoughts. Flexibility, trust, a bunch of others. They’re all possible answers, but when I think about Kiko telling me what to do when she didn’t have to, how easy it would’ve been to let me crash and burn, I’m almost positive the theme was something else.

  I hurry to scribble the word down on my card.

  “Before we get to our theme guesses,” the Super Chef says, rubbing his hands together. “I want to remind our viewing audience of tomorrow night’s special episode—‘Evening with the Super Chef’—and announce who the first contestant to meet with me will be.”

  He hikes up the suspense for a few seconds by staring around at all five of us. I gulp. Tomorrow night, alone with the Super Chef. Alone for the first time with . . . my father.

  Well, if you can call me, him, and millions of viewers “alone.”

  “This contestant and I will be heading to one of my favorite Italian restaurants in the city, Il Diletto, literally, ‘The Delight.’ And it certainly is that!” Chef Taylor inhales. “And that first chef will be”—again he scans the room with his gaze—“Chef Joey Modestino.”

  I turn around to see Joey beaming like he’s already been named the actual Last Super Chef instead of just being picked for the first private meeting. And I can’t help it, I’m a little jealous. Why does he get to go first? Then I realize I’m not remotely ready to be alone with Lucas Taylor yet anyway, and my jealousy fades into relief.

  “Why don’t we start with Joey’s theme guess as well?” the Super Chef, pointing to the second row, suggests. “Please lift up your card and let us see what you thought.”

  Joey follows the instruction. His card says, “Grace Under Pressure.”

  Chef Taylor shakes his head. “While I’m sure each of you had to have plenty of that tonight, I’m afraid that wasn’t the target theme of this episode. Let’s stay in the back row.” He shifts his eyes to Bo, who raises his card. “Leadership.”

  “Also incorrect,” the Super Chef says. “Good guess, though. Leadership’s always important. Front row. Ms. Pepper?”

  Pepper bites her lip before holding her card out for the chefs to read. “Flexibility.”

  The Super Chef tilts his head but makes an oh-so-close face. “We certainly made you bend just about backward, didn’t we? But I’m sorry . . . no.”

  “I’m getting a little concerned, Chef,” Wormwood chimes in.

  Graca shakes his head and smiles at Kiko and me. “Now hold on, friends. We have two more chefs,” he reminds them. “There’s still hope.”

  “We’ll see,” the Super Chef says. “Let’s give Chef Tanaka her chance next. I really enjoyed your sauce, by the way, Kiko.”

  Smiling, Kiko raises her card high over her head. “Listening.”

  “That is a very interesting answer,” Lucas Taylor says with a smile. “An underrated quality, for sure. Not just in the kitchen, but in life. I am sorry, though. Tonight, it’s not what we were looking for.”

  Kiko’s smile fades.

  Four chefs, four different answers. It’s amazing how we could all be challenged in the same way but interpret the exercise so differently.

  The Super Chef turns to me. “Our final chance lies with Chef Pith here. Our okonomiyaki hero.”

  I don’t want to raise my card. I don’t want to feel the sting of that same look of disappointment he’s sent
the other four. But I’ve got no choice. I show him my guess.

  “Teamwork.”

  “Well.” The Super Chef looks to one side then the other, at his sous chefs. All three of them are smiling at each other, even Wormwood. I feel my face reddening more and more, right up until the point he speaks again.

  “It seems we have a winner.”

  The episode ends with another quick huddle of the chefs, then a reveal of the scoring. After being last in the first episode, when the bells ding and the lights settle into place, I’m actually at the top this time.

  Curtis Pith

  90

  Kiko Tanaka

  75

  Bonifacio Agosto

  70

  Pepper Carmichael

  65

  Joey Modestino

  55

  The next few moments are filled with a whirlwind of cheering. I feel so buoyed by the enthusiasm of the audience, I hardly notice the envelope brought out to me, not until my fingers actually close around it.

  My eyes widen with understanding. I finished first in the challenge. The prize is mine. I stared at that schedule tons, the long list of rewards, but I still have to fight to recall which one I won. I remember when I picture Joey’s face.

  That’s right. NBA.

  I rip the envelope open and pull two oversized, sparkling tickets out. The sparkling words “All-Star” and “Weekend” glint back at me under the brilliant studio lights.

  But I can’t revel in my excitement too long, because the big screen flashes again, this time to show the updated totals after two episodes.

  Kiko Tanaka

  125

  Curtis Pith

  124

  Bonifacio Agosto

  105

  Pepper Carmichael

  103

  Joey Modestino

  100

  In the blink of an eye, I’ve gone from very last to almost first. The show ends when the Super Chef says again, “Don’t forget to join us tomorrow night for the first of our five episodes of ‘Evening with the Super Chef.’ Then be back Monday night for”—this time the crowd joins in without any prompting—“The Last! Super! Chef!”

  As quickly as the lights fade, the chefs and the audience disappear. Kari pops out of some secret side door. She and her clipboard lead us back up the stairs into our dorms, where we crash around the big sectional sofa, exhausted. Tonight it’s Renata, Pepper’s handler from Italy, staying in the back room, hanging around us as silently as Mel did, supervising.

  “Joey,” Kari calls from the door. “In the morning we’ll get you some more details about your dinner with Chef Taylor. It won’t happen until the evening.”

  “The Super Chef said the next real episode will be Monday. So what’s happening over the weekend?” Pepper asks her. “All the schedule says for the next three days is ‘Open/Training.’ You must know more by now.”

  Kari stops, a bemused expression crossing her face. She tucks her clipboard to her chest. “In fact I do,” she says. “We’ve put you through quite a lot these first few days. Tomorrow will be easier. Only thing on the schedule is a chance to talk with the media a bit about your experience so far.”

  “Media?” Bo says, sounding worried.

  Immediately after, Kiko starts to ask, “What do you mean by media?”

  But it seems that’s all the detail we’re getting. “You’ll find out more in the morning,” Kari says. “Meanwhile, please get as much rest as possible. You guys have earned it.”

  24

  The next morning I wake to the sound of Bo muttering in his sleep. It’s hard to tell with his accent, but I’m pretty sure I hear him blurt out “Artichokes!” and maybe “Shrimp!” too. The slight panic in his voice makes it sound like he could be running from some life-size versions of the ingredients.

  I blink my eyes open. When I glance at the bunk above Bo’s, I notice Joey’s sheets are bunched up, his bed empty.

  I’m thirsty, so I get up and wander out to the common room for some juice. As soon as I open our door, I see Joey’s sitting alone at the island with his schedule again.

  I yank open the fridge. “Morning.”

  He grunts in my direction.

  “Any news about the media thing?”

  Joey furrows his brow. “How should I know?”

  I don’t answer that, just pour juice into a tall glass.

  “Hey, who’re you gonna take?” he asks me as I’m returning the jug to the fridge.

  I don’t get his question at first. I look over my shoulder at him.

  “To the game. All-Star Weekend. Who are you taking? Your dad?”

  “No.” Doesn’t he know about my family already? I bet he does. I know about his. He’s just poking me, like he’s done since we met.

  “Listen,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “Would you be willing to swap?”

  “Swap what?

  “The tickets.”

  “Yeah, I know. I mean swap them for what?”

  Joey looks around, as if he owns something valuable in this room he can offer me. “What if I win the next challenge? Paris, right? The Louvre? Bet you’d rather have that. You don’t really seem like you’re . . . you know. Into sports.”

  What’s that supposed to mean? If he wanted me to say yes, maybe he should stop jabbing me about not having a father, about not being into stuff he clearly considers cool.

  “I don’t know,” I say, taking a gulp of juice. “Maybe. Let’s talk if you win.”

  “When,” Joey says. “When I win. Listen, I need those tickets, man. My dad—”

  Just then, the door opens. Kari, fully dressed and already wearing her headset, storms in, reading silently from her clipboard. When she looks up and sees only the two of us, her eyes go wide. “Are you the only two up? Oh no. No, no, no. People are already lining up for this press conference downstairs.”

  She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the same style whistle that Graca’s been using. She blows into it so hard my ears feel like they’re actually splitting.

  And while I cover them and close my eyes, I keep hearing two words.

  “Press” and “conference.”

  The buzzing in Super Chef Arena is constant and low, as if it were a swarm of bees out there waiting for us instead of a gaggle of reporters. From the waiting room, we take turns peeking inside.

  The whole studio’s been transformed—the cooking stations are gone, replaced by rows upon rows of seats for reporters and photographers. There’s a long table set up on the stage where the Super Chef normally stands, with five chairs behind it, facing a mass of press, most of them murmuring while they wait.

  Five microphones sit ready on top of the table, one for each of us. I pull at my collar. Our freshly laundered chef’s jackets are so starched they’re crisp, and my neck is super itchy. The coats crackle with every nervous twitch of our shoulders.

  Kari runs up and down our line, repeating the instructions she’d given us a few minutes ago. “Remember, only answer the questions they ask. They know to stay away from certain subjects. If they cross any lines, trust me, I’ll step in.”

  Someone must talk in her ear again, because her eyes seem far away. When whatever instruction she hears ends, Kari returns. She nods at us. “Okay, they’re ready. Remember, stay behind each other. Even spacing.” She steps out of the way and waves us on. “Go, go, go!”

  Our training kicking in, we enter the arena in a straight, unbroken line. Shutters click as photographers snap what sound like thousands of photos of us.

  For the first time I notice Chef Wormwood is waiting at the far end of the stage. She’s holding a microphone. “Please welcome . . . the Super Five!” she announces.

  A smattering of applause wanders toward us. We reach our assigned chairs, where a pyramid-shaped glass display in front of each microphone spells out our names.

  “We’re so glad so many of you have taken advantage of this special opportunity to officially meet them,” Wormwood cont
inues. “But, as you can imagine, our young competitors are very busy, so there isn’t time for too many questions. Please keep yours brief and to the point. The chefs promise to do the same with their answers.” For the first time she directs her gaze at us, and her smile disappears. We’ve been on the receiving end of so many of her glowers the past couple of days, I can actually tell them apart now. This one says, Do NOT yammer on like idiots.

  A bunch of shouting starts, a hundred questions at once, and it’s impossible to separate what anyone’s saying. Finally, the high-pitched voice of one short, dark-haired guy sitting in the front row rises above the din. “Question for all the chefs!” he says. “Do you miss home?”

  By the way Bo had nearly fainted up in the dorms when Kari described the press conference, I expected him to be the last of us to jump in and answer the first question. But he scooches to the edge of his seat and leans into his microphone. “Sí . . . yes. Yes, very much.”

  “What about Kiko?” a woman in the back yells. “She’s come the farthest.”

  I notice the reporter is Asian. Then I see that there’s a gathering of Asian reporters back there with her. I know in baseball when a Japanese player comes to play in the major leagues a huge group of their media follows him from city to city for the first few months. I guess Kiko’s getting the same treatment.

  She clears her throat. “Yes, New York is a long way from Kyoto. And mise en place in Super Chef Arena is an even longer way from making soba with my grandmother in our small apartment kitchen.”

  That makes the reporters chuckle. As Joey and Pepper give similar answers, I wonder what Mom and Paige are talking about, watching this from our couch. Are they snacking? Please, not those veggie chips Mom insists on buying, when house-made chips are so easy to—

  “Curtis?” Chef Wormwood says into the microphone at the same time Pepper elbows me in the ribs. I realize one of the reporters must have asked me something, and I just assume it’s the same subject.