The Last Super Chef

by Chris Negron

  Instead I’m stuck in this stupid limo, sitting across from our father. Maybe, deep down, I thought coming here would help me to better understand who Lucas Taylor was. But it hasn’t.

  And now Paige might be needing me more than ever. But here I sit, available to her only through the magic of television. Which is the same as not really being available at all. I know that from my years of watching the Super Chef on the same dumb screen.

  “We have millions with us,” he continues. “I wanted to show them food from a region most haven’t been fully exposed to. To explore new dishes with a fellow chef at my side. I didn’t know you too well before tonight, and I still don’t, but you seemed like the right chef for this particular journey. And you were.”

  It’s probably a compliment. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know my idol since I was small just said a lot of nice things about me. Made me sound like a peer and not an apprentice. But I don’t hear them. Because I’m still consumed with the possibility of Paige feeling bad all those miles away, and even though I have no idea if it’s really happening or not, I resent him even more for it. It’s a resentment that partially deafens me. Only certain words get through to my ears, echoing in my mind again and again as I stare back at him.

  I’m just not sure I know you any better than I did before tonight.

  The limo pulls to a stop. I reach for the door immediately, push it open wide. “You don’t know me?” I ask. “And whose fault is that?” I don’t give the Super Chef a chance to answer. I leap out of the car and race past the reporters for the front door.

  Behind me, I hear my father shout, “Curtis! Wait!”

  A giant security guard barely keeps up with me as I storm into the building. I zoom up to the arena alone in the elevator. Once I hit floor fifty-four, I jump out, heading for the stairs and the dorms. I don’t slow down. And I know Taylor will have a hard time climbing out of the car in his clumsy, awkward way. I know he’ll never catch me if I don’t let him. And I won’t. I can’t. Not tonight, maybe not for the whole rest of my life.

  I race into the dorms and slam the door shut. I should have planned out my entrance like Joey. I should be pretending things went great, do the “Take the L” dance, maybe floss a little bit, but I can’t. All I can do is breathe heavily and push my all my weight against the door, in case the Super Chef does follow me up here, unwilling to let our conversation end on the note it did.

  But there’s no noise on the other side. No one’s stomping up the stairs.

  “How did it go?” Kiko asks.

  Everyone’s staring at me. “I . . .”

  I can’t. I can’t tell them the truth. I can’t lie, either.

  Shaking my head, I make for the boys’ side. I wish I could say I get to sleep fast, that I immediately forget about this night, about the shock and disappointment and bewilderment on the Super Chef’s shadowed face. But no, it’s still there, like a photograph seared onto my forehead. And when our secret Santa rolls the laundered chef’s jackets into our room around two a.m., I hear him loud and clear. Because I’m still wide awake, hiding under my comforter, replaying the entire Colbeh’s dinner in my head over and over again.

  33

  Friday night can’t come fast enough. I spend most of that day finding corners of the common room to be alone in, still in misery over what happened at Colbeh’s. On the way to Colbeh’s. Coming back from Colbeh’s. Still seeing the Super Chef’s shadowed confusion, wondering how much damage I did to my already-shrinking lead. Yearning for another challenge with a chance to re-earn the points I must’ve lost. Desperately wanting to get back to what I do best. Cooking.

  The arena is almost unrecognizable again. Our stations, normally set out in two rows so that we face forward as we work, are turned sideways. We’ll be looking at each other, three of us on one side, two on the other, if we cook in this setup.

  Three elegantly decorated, round dining tables with crisp white tablecloths wait where the Super Chef normally stands. Each one has a colored flag in the center. Red, green, blue.

  There’s no room left for the chefs up on the stage, so Taylor and Wormwood wait near a new serving counter down on our level. There’s been no sight of Graca so far.

  I resist making eye contact with Taylor, focusing instead on the comfort the familiar tools in front of me provide. Pans and spatulas, knobs on burners, lights on the oven, spotless silver mixing bowls. But then he speaks, and I can’t help myself. I look up, straight into his eyes.

  “Welcome to the fourth challenge of The Last Super Chef competition!” Lucas Taylor declares loudly. Wormwood applauds next to him, joining the crowd above, who are as excited as usual. The Super Five are lined up single file on either side of the centralized stations, Kiko, Pepper, and me on one side, Bo and Joey on the other. We’re waiting for the chefs to tell us what new craziness they’ve cooked up for tonight. Aware it could be . . . well, just about anything.

  “We’re honored to have some very special guests dining in the arena with us this evening.” The Super Chef gestures toward the stage.

  From offstage, a long line of men and women in formal attire pace toward the flagged tables in an unbroken, single-file line. Of course I recognize them immediately, because it’s a who’s who of every hot cooking show host and restaurant owner on the planet. Including Madeline Dalibard, pastry chef extraordinaire. Her appearance reminds me tonight’s prize is an apprenticeship with her. “With a focus on layered pastries and cakes,” I remember the schedule saying. Which makes sense, those are her specialties. Baklava, sfogliatelle, baumkuchen, napoleons, all of them different and time-consuming pastry and cake recipes from all over the world.

  What makes less sense is what that tells me about tonight’s theme. No point worrying about it yet, I warn myself. Let the challenge play out.

  Graca leads the rest of the chefs forward, a total of eighteen of them. They wave at the audience and us. When they step onto the stage, they separate into three groups, six to a table. The crowd goes even crazier, as if at first they were stunned by all this star power collected in one place, and only now are they realizing the magnitude of what they’re witnessing. Even stoic Kiko sucks in a breath, and behind me I hear Joey mutter, “Holy . . .”

  Bo and Pepper are practically swooning, too, Pepper especially. She’s waving both hands, trying to attract some celebrity attention. I can’t tell which one she’s waving at. I’m not even sure she knows.

  They’re all so starry eyed. And me? I avert my eyes from the glittery, attention-grabbing entry, focus on the work we’re about to do. My fingers itch with anticipation, ready to start slicing and stirring, flipping and mixing. Ready to get back to cooking.

  Once all eighteen celebrities are seated and the applause dies down, Wormwood steps forward to explain tonight’s challenge. The Super Five will be working together to deliver a three-course meal to these special guests. In the first challenge we teamed up to cook a single dish, but tonight will be the first time we’ll be operating as one unified kitchen.

  The waitstaff will drop the tickets off at the new serving counter where Chef Wormwood, tonight’s expediter, will coordinate the meal from the spot known in kitchen-speak as “the pass.” She’ll be calling each of us up one at a time to work alongside her. We’ll have to pay close attention to make sure the dishes go out to the customers exactly as ordered.

  “One second, Chef,” Chef Taylor says, interrupting her.

  Wormwood turns quickly, a puzzled expression on her face. “Chef?”

  “No, everything you’ve said is right, precisely as we agreed,” he assures her.

  Chef Wormwood furrows her brow. “Exactly. So if I may continue—”

  “But as I stand here, I realize I want to switch things up.” Some of the guests onstage, watching their exchange closely from their seats, start to whisper to each other. Only a few seconds in, and there’s already an irregularity. It’s peak Super Chef. “How about I expedite, and you work the kitchen?”

&n
bsp; “Chef, I . . . I’m not sure that’s a good—”

  “It’ll be fine,” the Super Chef says, cutting her off. He steps toward the pass and slaps it twice with both hands, like he’s laying claim to it. “The day I started expediting was the day I knew I’d become a real chef. Feels like a good night to get back to it.”

  I suck in a cold breath. Two chefs working together at the pass must remain in lockstep, inches away so they can match each other’s movements. When I’m called, the Super Chef and I will be closer than ever. Closer even than we were in that limo. And it seems the closer I get to him, the more anger I feel, no matter how much I try to push it away. Worse still, the angrier I get, the more mistakes I make. This might be my longest night yet.

  The fake restaurant we’re cooking for doesn’t have a name, but a couple dozen gorgeous menus have been printed for it—curling script, fancy descriptions. As they’re doled out to our famous diners, Chef Wormwood gives us a crash course on the dishes. At the pass, the Super Chef chats up his fellow star chefs, providing entertainment until the kitchen starts churning out food.

  After Chef Taylor asks Chef Dalibard to stand and raves about her work, the first orders, from the red table, arrive. The Super Chef carries the ticket forward. Taylor takes a deep breath. “Order up! Appetizers for red. Two scallop, two risotto, two ravioli.”

  All five of us respond with a resounding “Yes, Chef!”

  Taylor glances at Pepper. “Chef Carmichael, why don’t you join me up front this round?”

  The rest of us start to cook, calling out ready times, Chef Wormwood coaching us if we seem out of sync. We’re still working red’s appetizers when the green ticket comes flying in.

  The voice calling it this time is much higher-pitched. Pepper’s. “Chefs!” she says, her puffy ponytail jumping against her back. “Pay attention! Order up for the green table: four ravioli, one risotto, one scallop.”

  “Yes, Chef!”

  A new batch of appetizers and timing starts, even as the first are almost on their way to the pass. My head spins. We’re scrambling already.

  I’m on scallops. Blocking out the crowd noise and, honestly, everything else, I manage to sear the first batch to perfection, then carry them toward Kiko. We work together to center them on top of the dollop of carrot cream she’s prepared, along with a drizzle of herb oil made mostly from marjoram leaves. Kiko adds a rolled-up ribbon of pickled carrot soaked in rice vinegar.

  “Go,” she says as soon as she lifts her fingers.

  “Walking scallops!” I yell. As I hurry toward the pass, I hear Joey shout, “Walking ravioli!” at the same time Bo cries, “Walking risotto!” They each stop at Kiko’s station to add the garnish that goes with their dishes, all carrot based.

  With the Super Chef watching her so closely their shoulders brush against each other, Pepper inspects the plates we bring like she’s Mrs. Kadubowski back home, checking whether I’ve paid attention in class that day, done all my homework.

  Chef Taylor, though, doesn’t even glance my way when I slide my scallops onto the counter. He’s all over Pepper, but just a few feet away I’m all but invisible to him. I don’t even bother scolding myself for letting it steal my focus again. I just take a step back and wait. Joey and Bo do the same.

  “What do you see, Chef?” Taylor asks Pepper.

  She repositions the pickled carrot on my plate.

  He smiles at her. “Nice adjustment.”

  Pepper touches the scallop to make sure it’s cooked correctly. With a fresh spoon she tastes the risotto, and the Super Chef does the same. “Is it a little bit salty, Chef?” Pepper asks.

  “A touch, a touch,” Taylor agrees. “But not enough to send back. It’s good work.” He gives the waiter permission to take the dishes to his guests.

  Once he’s away with the dishes, Taylor turns around, meeting Bo in the eyes. “Watch the seasoning on those risottos, Chef Agosto!”

  “Yes, Chef!” Bo agrees. He starts working a new pan of the rice.

  We hurry back to our stations, but not before, behind me, I hear the Super Chef compliment Pepper. “Very good palate, Chef Pepper.”

  Is that the theme? Palate? Strong taste buds? Or does it have something to do with how we’re coordinating on our end of the kitchen? And what do any of those possibly have to do with Chef Dalibard and her fancy desserts?

  Thing is, there’s no time for theme. We’re in the weeds. Tickets are coming in fast and furious. I’m sweating bullets, but it’s actually the perfect challenge for me tonight. If I’d been working alone, I might’ve frozen up. That’s not even an option in this kitchen, though. I’m only one cog in a much bigger wheel, one with way too much momentum to stop rolling along.

  Wormwood begins to rotate us through the stations, giving each of us the opportunity to prove we can handle fish, or meat, garnish, everything. One by one we’re picked to help the Super Chef at the expediting station, too. Once there, each of us looks for imperfections in the arriving dishes, trying to intercept them before they make it to the guests.

  Halfway through service, sweat raining off my brow, Chef Taylor calls on me. “Chef Pith!” I give my sizzling asparagus one last quick flip before looking up. “Please join me.”

  “Pepper,” Chef Wormwood points. “Take over veg from Curtis.”

  We’ve moved from appetizers to entrées. When the slow march of my feet finally carries me to the service pass, the team is seconds away from delivering new dishes for the blue table. Chef Taylor repositions the tickets in front of him. “Pay close attention to what your friends bring,” he warns me. “Our guests should receive exactly what they ordered.”

  He still doesn’t look at me. “Yes, Chef,” I say in a voice that sounds like a faraway echo. I raise my chin, gazing up at him, waiting hopefully for him to turn his attention to me. Instead he continues hurriedly organizing his tickets.

  “Walking three New York strips,” Joey shouts, and the rest mimic his call, bringing forward the other entrées for blue at the same time.

  “Chef?” Taylor asks me as soon as the food lands on the pass. He’s actually looking at me now, clearly concerned with my silence. Work, Curtis. It’s food. This is what you do.

  I start by touching each steak, comparing them against the orders on the tickets. The first two guests requested medium rare, and Joey’s cook matches up. But the third steak is supposed to be medium well, and it isn’t. It’s barely medium. “This one is under, Chef.”

  The Super Chef squints at me, as if maybe he doesn’t believe me. I grit my teeth and point at the ticket, sticking to my guns. “Order was for medium well, Chef.”

  Lucas Taylor touches the steak’s surface. “You sure?”

  I touch my middle finger to my thumb, then poke at the puff of skin at the base. Next I jab the steak again. “That’s a medium steak.” It’s a trick I use. Well, not just me, a lot of chefs. The spot at the base of your thumb can tell you how done a steak is, if you know how to position your fingers just right to make the comparison.

  “Very good,” he says. The doubt shadow disappears from his gaze. It was a test. In the end, everything here is.

  Taylor calls for Joey to refire. “On the fly,” he shouts.

  Seconds later, the red table’s dessert ticket shows up. I walk with the chef toward the stations. He glances at the orders, then drops his arm to his side, calling out from memory like he’s been doing all night. “Order up! Red. Desserts. One lava cake, two crump . . . two . . . the sorb—” The Super Chef raises the ticket again, makes a second attempt at reading it. “One lava crumble, two . . .” He shakes his head hard, like the words are stuck there.

  “Sorry, Chef,” Pepper says quietly. “Not heard.”

  Clenching his teeth, the Super Chef sends a pained expression toward the ceiling. His hand forms a fist, crumpling the ticket. He realizes what he’s doing, straightens it again, and thrusts it toward me. “Curtis. Please.” His voice sounds thicker than it should, heavy with . . . something
.

  I take the ticket and stare down at it. I’ve never done this before. When I lift my head and open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out. I catch Wormwood’s eye. She stares at me, a new glower. But not an all-the-way glower. There’s a pleading hidden in this version. Her expression, those wide eyes, seems to implore me. Help him, Curtis. Please, just help him.

  There’s a second where I wonder if I should. Who is this stammering man next to me? Is he the Super Chef, the hero I’ve idolized for years? Or the guy who suddenly can’t speak right, walk right, whose hand is always shaking?

  Is he Lucas Taylor, my father who never learned or tried to be a father? And what does that make him, anyway? Not a hero, for sure. And I guess if you’re not a hero, then you must be a villain. But somehow that doesn’t seem right, either.

  I glance at the ticket again, lift my head, and speak as clearly as possible. “Order up! Desserts. Red table. One lava cake, two crumble, three sorbet.”

  “Yes, Chef!” the other chefs yell back.

  I return to the pass and slide the ticket in front of the Super Chef, who’s leaning with both hands out straight, his head bowed low. He doesn’t look at me again, but through my side view of his expression, all I see is another pained grimace. It’s like he just sliced his finger or burned himself.

  But he isn’t hurt. Not anywhere that I can see, anyway.

  34

  The Super Chef sends me back to help the others finish the final entrées, then the desserts. We pick up speed, probably because we’re all on the same page as we work. No, not just the same page. We’re different words in the same sentence. Five, working together as one.

  Joey says, “Not yet,” when Pepper’s about to flip a piece of salmon too early. Kiko says, “Wipe the rim,” as she notices me forgetting to clean my plate before walking it. There are “Careful, hot” warnings left and right.

  It’s amazing. For the first time in my life, I have a freakin’ squad.