The Last Super Chef

by Chris Negron

  Behind him are several black-shirts. They wear sweatshirts today, decorated with the same Super Chef logo. Chef Graca’s with them, too. They’re handing out other items—I make out socks, hand wipes, first aid kits, toothbrushes, toothpaste.

  Chef Wormwood stays in the kitchen with us, stalking up and down our line. “A little less meat,” she warns Joey. “We have to get through as many people as we can.”

  “Can’t we do something cooler? Elevate these? Is there any cilantro in here? A radish?” He raises his voice. “My kingdom for a radish!”

  Wormwood shakes her head, but she doesn’t scold him. “Save the elevating for the arena. A time comes when cooking becomes just that: cooking. Eating is simply eating. It’s not about winning out here. It’s about survival.” She pauses a moment, and what she says next comes out quieter. “You guys are doing great.”

  “Thanks, kid,” a gray-bearded man says to me as I pass him the next burrito. His frayed hood darkens his face. He can hardly steady his shaking hand long enough to take hold of the free food. When he turns to stumble away, Chef Taylor is right there to intercept him.

  “How’ve you been, Sam?” Lucas Taylor asks the older guy.

  “Had myself a good fall the other day,” Sam answers. “Lucky I didn’t break something.” They talk some more, but it’s only after they wander away. I don’t hear the words, but I do see the Super Chef wrap a blanket around the bearded man’s shoulders. I watch as Sam struggles to unwrap the paper from his burrito. The Super Chef reaches up with his own slightly shaking fingers. They work together to free Sam’s burrito for him. It takes them longer than it should, but when they finally finish, Sam’s able to take a hungry chomp.

  “Curtis.” It’s Wormwood. “Pay attention.”

  The next person in line is staring up at me. I hurry to hand out another burrito, one more water. Then I lean over in Kiko’s direction. She’s in the middle of securing a new burrito inside more paper. “Not so tight.”

  She looks up at me sharply at first, then follows my gaze out the window. People are everywhere, sitting on benches or leaning against trees, standing in huddles to share warmth and, sometimes, half their burrito with someone who arrived late. She watches them work the wrapping off. Most do fine, but a few struggle like Sam had.

  Kiko’s fingers freeze. She nods back at me. “Yes. Okay.”

  The next burrito has an easy flap to grab hold of and unfold.

  27

  “Sundays,” Kari announces from the doorway the next morning, “are for catching up on your homework.”

  We make it to the common room just as she steps through the door. She stops quickly, tucking her clipboard close, to avoid a rushing Ashley—Kiko’s handler, a tanned intern from Florida—and Brett as they carry chairs over to a new card table in the far corner. Actually, I see now all five handers are here, some setting up other tables, others organizing stacks of pages and worksheets.

  Kari navigates around them all so she can deliver a big, flat box to the kitchen island. The curling pink script on the top and sides tells me it’s from Cocoa and Hailey’s Doughnut Shop, which I’ve never heard of, but this is New York, after all, and there are probably a thousand doughnut shops better than anything we have in North Sloan.

  “Homework?” Joey cries. I follow him over to the island. Straight to the box. “What, you think you can soften the blow with free doughnuts? I’m onto you, you know.”

  He flips up the box lid to reveal a kaleidoscope of frosting, glazes, and jellies. He quickly snags a long one with a chocolatey cream filling piped in a zigzag pattern straight down the middle. He eyes it before taking a huge bite. “Oh. Nutella. Wow,” he says through big chews.

  “Good choice,” Kari says. “That’s my favorite, too. And, yes, these doughnuts are most definitely a bribe.” She tugs at the box as the rest of us eye it, trying to make a good choice. “No homework, no doughnuts. So should I take them back?”

  “No!” Joey says, grabbing his side of the box and tugging. “There’s another Nutella in there.”

  Kari lets go of her end. “You can keep them if you share,” she says, her eyes boring into his. “And if you do your work. There isn’t that much, you’ve barely missed a week so far.”

  “I’ll trade this jelly for that Nutella one,” Joey says to Kiko, and I’m guessing the fact that he’s stopped arguing is about as close to an agreement to work on homework as our producer is going to get out of him.

  “After breakfast,” she continues, pointing around to the five pop-up stations around the room. “Find your handler. They each have the assignments your schools have sent along so you can keep up. They’ll help you with them as much as they can.”

  Mel’s waiting at one table with a little stack of papers in front of him. He waves and smiles just as, behind me, Bo says, “Hey, a passionfruit one. Muy bueno.”

  An hour later, Mel and I are just finishing up my work. All that’s left are a few math problems. I’m stuck on one. I scratch my temple and sigh, sinking my chin down into the hand at the end of one bent-elbowed arm.

  “Math not your subject?” Mel asks me.

  “I usually have help,” I say, my words slurred because I’m too lazy to lift my head.

  “Your sister?” he asks.

  That makes me sit up. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “Because the other day, in front of your building, in the ten minutes it took you to say goodbye to your mom, Paige asked me what the temperature was like where we were going, and when I told her it hadn’t gotten above forty-eight degrees in the last month, she told me that was eight-point-something-something in Celsius, and that that was seven-point-something-something higher than the average December temperature in . . . hold on, I’ll remember it—”

  “Reykjavik. She wants to spend Christmas in Iceland someday. Apparently they have this tradition where they give each other books on Christmas Eve? And then spend all night reading them? In Paige’s version there’s hot chocolate. And my Mexican spiced popcorn. Reading all night is pretty much peak Paige.” I point at the half-finished math. “This is about the only thing she’d think was cooler.”

  “There cayenne in that popcorn?”

  I nod. “And chili powder. It only works with both.”

  “Interesting. I’ve only made it with cayenne.”

  I look up at him, surprised again to remember that he’s probably an excellent cook. I keep forgetting he’s in culinary school.

  Mel gives my shoulder a little nudge with his. “Let’s hurry up. If we finish fast, maybe you can tell me more about how the chili powder plays off the cayenne.”

  That evening, Pepper comes out of her room wearing a flower-patterned dress, all ready for her meeting with the Super Chef. Her hair is back to the way I first saw it on TV, curls everywhere. It jumps around on top of her head like it has a life of its own.

  She may not have gone over the deep end like Joey, but she definitely spent a lot of time dressing up and getting her hair just right. I start to panic. What am I going to wear to my dinner? I don’t own these kinds of clothes.

  Pepper fidgets while she waits for Kari to pick her up and take her to meet with the Super Chef. We wish her luck as she walks out the door. She turns and waves at us, finally smiling.

  As soon as the door shuts, though, Joey stands up and faces the rest of us, like he’s been asked to do some kind of presentation. “She didn’t name any friends.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kiko asks.

  “Back in the press conference. Friday. I keep thinking about it. She totally dodged the question about friends.”

  “That’s crazy,” I say, even though I kind of know it’s not. It’s just . . . it’s not any of his business, that’s all. “Those questions were being thrown at us so fast. Like you didn’t get confused or hesitate?”

  “Not about having friends, dude,” Joey says dismissively. “You either have friends or you don’t. It’s not exactly multiple choice.”

&nb
sp; 28

  Monday morning, I’m the first one awake on the boys’ side. I slip out quietly into the common room to find both Kiko and Pepper already there. Kiko’s on the couch, still in pajamas, flipping through a notebook that looks kind of like my own recipe journal. Fully dressed, Pepper is sitting at the stool on the island, sipping an espresso and making a list.

  “What’s that?” I ask her.

  “Nothing.”

  She brings up an arm to cover her pad, but not before I make out the first bullet. “Teamwork.” She’s probably trying to work out the next theme. I’ve spent some brain cells on it myself. The NBA is to teamwork as the Louvre is to . . . ?

  Yeah, I have no idea, and Pepper’s clearly not sharing, so I wander over to the pantry, scouring the shelves for a good breakfast option.

  “Well, we won’t be needing any races into the pantry tonight, will we?” the Super Chef says from the stage that evening.

  I sneak a glance to my side, at Kiko. She looks as bewildered as I feel.

  “All the supplies you should require for this challenge are already right in front of you!” Chef Taylor explains with a shout, extending both hands out at the same time for extra emphasis.

  The typical whirlwind of cheering and flashing lights and zooming cameras kicked off this episode, but now the commotion dies down. Our stations are back where they belong. Any evidence of the huge press conference just a few days ago has disappeared. The three chefs—Taylor, Wormwood, Graca—are standing in the same stage spots they’re always in, as if red Xs marked their spots.

  “Welcome to Challenge #2. Home cooks all over the country, all over the world, really, cook with the simplest ingredients every day. For them, cooking isn’t about making something fancy. It’s about feeding their families. Tonight, it’s your turn.” The Super Chef looks eagerly at us, as if he expects us to understand what to do next from his expression alone. When we all just stare back, he waves his hands and says, “Well, go on, those boxes aren’t going to open themselves.”

  Ten hands reach out to flip open the box lids in front of us. We start pulling out ingredients. They’re stacked on top of each other in a way that really only lets you remove them one at a time. The Super Chef narrates as each item is revealed.

  “A box of spaghetti. Jarred olives and pickles. Canned tuna. In fact, cans galore! Corn, peaches, green beans. Oh, and a box of instant rice!” His excitement picks up. “Dried lentils. English muffins. Pizza sauce. A loaf of plain sliced white bread. Cheese slices. Butter. Eggs. Milk. Sugar, both regular and confectioners’.”

  One after another the ingredients are set out on our stations. Everyday stuff, most of it canned or boxed or jarred. Nothing fresh, except the most basic of staples, like eggs and milk. It’s the type of food you’d buy if you were on a strict budget. You can trust me on that—because it’s the same stuff you’d find on any random day in the Pith pantry, too. On a lot of days, the only things you’d find in our pantry.

  Behind me, Joey groans. I wonder if he’s ever cooked without an expensive protein, at least a fancy cheese. I know he hasn’t since we got to New York.

  The Super Chef claps his hands to get our attention. I hadn’t realized how hard I was staring at the groceries, already fixating on a plan. “These ingredients are the driving force behind the nightly meals in a huge number of homes throughout the nation. No filets or racks of lamb, no scallops or never-frozen fish, sometimes not even a fresh vegetable. Tonight, we want to see you take up the reins of the everyday hero of food everywhere: the home cook on a budget. You’ll have only these ingredients and the basics at your stations to do your part.”

  I glance up to remind myself of those basics again: olive oil and vinegars and essential spices. My mind works even harder.

  “You have forty minutes to make us an entrée and a dessert,” the Super Chef continues.

  “Dessert?” Joey mutters under his breath. Another thing I’ve never seen him cook: anything sweet. His dream of trading the Louvre tickets for my NBA weekend might already be evaporating into the rafters like hot steam.

  “You’re not obligated to use all these ingredients, but the more you employ in your dishes, the better. And remember tonight’s big prize: Paris! The Louvre!” The big TV behind him shows images of the Eiffel Tower and the masterworks all throughout its famous Louvre museum. It lingers longest, of course, on the Mona Lisa. “Get ready, Chefs.” He stares up at the clock, waits a few quick seconds. “Your time starts . . . now!”

  I see the tuna and the olives and the spaghetti, and I already know what I’m making for an entrée. I’ve cooked it before for Paige; it isn’t that different from that time not so long ago I had to make her clam sauce but with tuna instead of clams.

  That night, my sister told me, “I trust your creativity, Chef.”

  I remember the first time I made Mom a casserole using almost all canned ingredients. She’d been skeptical at first, but after eating it, she told me it was delicious. She told me something else that night, too. “Well, you certainly don’t get all this creativity from me, that’s for sure.”

  Outside the high school gym, just before Pettynose showed up, I heard some goth kids in the front of the cupcake line saying, “This is mega creative for high school concessions, isn’t it?”

  Then there’s the Louvre, Wormwood’s hint that the prizes are connected to the themes. Because, like Pepper says, for sure there’s lots of history in that museum, but there’s art there, too. A ton of art. A ton of . . . creativity.

  And I know tonight’s theme without having to consult Pepper’s list of possibilities. Everything points straight to creativity, as if there’s a lit sign above the Super Chef’s head. The same Super Chef who’s partially responsible for my having to be so creative all these years. But that doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is cooking this entrée and dessert as perfectly as I can. All that matters is winning another challenge.

  My hands start to move faster than they ever have.

  By the time I walk my spaghetti and tuna up with my cinnamon rolls, my station is a disaster. But I’ve used as many of the ingredients as I could. The tuna and the olives, the spaghetti, a bit of the pizza sauce, the white bread and butter and powdered sugar.

  The chefs take turns tasting my food. Wormwood takes a bite of one of my cinnamon rolls. “And how did you make these again?”

  “With the white bread. You just cut the crusts off, thin out the slices with a rolling pin, brush both sides with melted butter, then make up some cinnamon sugar to sprinkle on top. Roll them up, bake them, and prep a glaze with the powdered sugar and butter. My sister loves them.”

  Wormwood chews her roll some more. She turns and shares a look with the other chefs. Then she meets my eyes again before saying, “Your sister’s a smart young lady.”

  I almost faint.

  Even though the other chefs bring forward some interesting dishes, like an everyday white-bread pudding and a tuna casserole somehow made with cheese singles and bread crumbs that started out as toasted English muffins, I know I did well. When the blue desks come out, I don’t hesitate to write CREATIVITY on the white card in bold letters.

  I guess the theme was easy for the others, too, because three of us get it right. Kiko, Bo, and I grin when Chef Graca confirms our guess is correct while Pepper (DEALING WITH ADVERSITY) and Joey (COOKING WITH BAD INGREDIENTS) sulk some more. Then, like all the other nights, the scores flash. First for the challenge:

  Curtis Pith

  91

  Bonifacio Agosto

  88

  Kiko Tanaka

  84

  Pepper Carmichael

  79

  Joey Modestino

  70

  I swear, I have to really stop myself from pumping my fist into the air. Stay cool, Curtis.

  The envelope I’m handed for winning again is super thin. Still, I have to accept it with both hands because my nerves are jumping up my whole arm, wrist to shoulder. I might’ve started i
n last, but now I’ve won both Challenge #1: Teamwork, and Challenge #2: Creativity. My dreams aren’t so far away anymore. They’re not even right in front of me. They’re actually in my grasp now.

  During the moment I spend marveling at this latest prize, the running grand totals update on the scoreboard.

  Curtis Pith

  215

  Kiko Tanaka

  209

  Bonifacio Agosto

  193

  Pepper Carmichael

  182

  Joey Modestino

  170

  I didn’t have time to do the math, didn’t think about it, actually. But now I try to channel Paige’s powers to run the numbers in my head, in case what I’m seeing ends up being some kind of mistake.

  First place. Not just for one challenge. Overall first place. Wait. Can I win? Will I really be able to buy Mom a house? I don’t know how to floss or do the “Take the L,” but my feet feel so light, I rush up the steps two at a time into the dorm, the rest of the Five not far behind.

  In the common room, Joey tosses his chef’s jacket at the sectional but misses. It hits the floor with a fluttering rustle. “Can’t believe even he’s ahead of me,” he grumbles, gesturing toward Bo.

  “Why don’t you shut it, Joey?” Pepper says.

  “Hey.” It’s Kari. We’d been led up to the dorms by Ashley. I didn’t realize the producer had followed behind us, too. “There are three more challenges before the final. If you’re mad about your current standing, do better next time.”

  Pepper and Joey sulk off to opposite ends of the sectional. Bo looks like he’s about to cry. Kiko puts an arm around his shoulders.