by Chris Negron
Finally, when our time is up and the cooking is over and the judging is about to begin, the Super Chef returns to the stage with his two sous chefs by his side. I hope he doesn’t notice my sigh of relief.
Each of us waits at our stations, our now-covered, waiting-to-be-revealed dishes sitting in front of us. Taylor reminds the audience of his announcement the other day: the winner of the finale will be the winner of The Last Super Chef, regardless of the scores accumulated during the challenge round. The slate’s been wiped clean.
There’s no theme this time. It’s just cooking. Just food, and whose dish tastes the best. That’s the idea, anyway.
“All right,” Taylor says, looking at us with sad eyes and no smile. “Bring them up.”
The front row goes first. I follow Pepper and Kiko with my dish in both hands, carefully setting it on the judging table when I get there. Behind us, Bo and Joey are next. Soon all five covered dishes are waiting in front of the three judges. We take a choreographed step back.
“There was some marvelous cooking going on this past hour,” Wormwood assures the Super Chef. “Truly amazing.” She eyes me. “And resilient.”
“Absolutely,” Graca agrees.
“Well then, let’s see these incredible dishes,” Chef Taylor says. And, as we step forward, he adds, “No matter what happens, kids . . . thank you. I’m honored to have met you and watched you cook these last few weeks. We had some ups and downs, for sure, but I think we did what we set out to do. I’m sure these final dishes will once and for all demonstrate the true direction of the culinary world, and the part our final winner can play in it. You’ve done so well and learned so much.”
You can say that again, I think to myself.
“Now, please. If you would.”
Placing our hands on the dish covers, we look down the line at each other—Pepper all the way to the left, Joey all the way to the right, me in the dead center. Nodding, we lift and step back.
The Super Chef looks down at our dishes, scanning from one side to the other, then back again, his head moving faster as his shock grows.
Because all of our plates are the same. Every one of them is empty. The overhead lights reflect off the spotless white ceramic, as if to highlight the missing food.
“Where’s your food, Chefs?” Chef Graca asks. “The dishes you cooked?”
“Yes, what is the meaning of this?” the Super Chef asks in a loud, panicked voice.
The five of us stand stock-still. No one answers yet.
The Super Chef can’t hide his confusion as he states the obvious. “There’s nothing . . . These plates are empty.”
“This isn’t what you prepared out there,” Wormwood agrees. “I watched you.” She looks at Graca. “We both did. Kiko, you had a filet. And, Bo, that beautiful snapper. Where . . . ?”
“Did their dishes go?” It’s Mel, emerging from the sidelines, stepping under the studio lights for the very first time. The Super Chef’s bewilderment switches rapidly between my handler’s unexpected appearance and our empty plates.
Mel points at the big screen behind the Super Chef, the one that before has always been under only the big boss’s control. “Have a look.”
The scene that flashes into view is of a soup kitchen. I didn’t know there was one so close, but Mel did. Two of the other handlers, Renata and Brett, stand in the serving line, helping each guest. I recognize some of the people waiting, including Sam, Chef Taylor’s friend from the food trucks. He holds out his plate. It shakes wildly.
Renata helps him steady his dish so she can serve him. He stares at the food she places there. The camera closes in on his face.
“Thank you, Lucas,” he says, raising his plate to his chin. “You always think of us.”
And if you were one of the millions of viewers at that particular moment, watching on the whatever-inch-your-family-could-afford screen, if you were looking closely as the camera zoomed in, you might see something else besides a Thanksgiving Day slice of turkey and hunk of mashed potatoes. If your screen was whatever-inches big enough, or maybe if you were just paying the right kind of attention, you might have seen the hand-basted red snapper cooked by Chef Bonifacio Agosto, hands down the best kid chef in all of Mexico.
“You gave it away,” the Super Chef says, his voice full of disappointment. He sounds like he’s watching his life go up in smoke. But it’s not his life; it’s just his plan. It had to die so that mine could live.
Man, I hope this works.
“Whose idea was this?” Taylor demands, anger overtaking some of his surprise now.
“Yours,” answers Joey right away. “We learned it from you. Food-truck Saturdays.”
Wormwood looks away from the screen, down at the empty plates, then at the five of us. Her shock starts to fade. A smile creeps across her expression. “You swapped them,” she says, glancing at the anonymous black-shirts, the ones who had such quick hands during that last commercial break.
It was too risky to include her in our scheme, but since I’d uncovered why she felt the way she did about this competition from the very beginning, I’d hoped she’d be smart enough to recognize her opening when it arrived. “You cooked for the challenge,” she continues slowly, working things out as she talks, “to make it look like you were competing, but what you made is gone. And you’re presenting . . . this? Nothing?”
Graca seems to catch on quickly too. “Clever,” he mutters.
“What do you mean, swap?” the Super Chef asks, still confused. “Clever? How are we supposed to judge this?” He gestures wildly at the plates again. “What is this?”
“It’s teamwork,” I say.
“Creativity,” Kiko adds.
Joey glances at his dad and uncle, then says, “Attention to detail.”
“Multitasking,” Bo, starting to laugh, adds.
“All the things you taught them, Lucas,” Wormwood says, fully on board now. “In only a few weeks.” She takes in our straight, perfectly spaced Super Chef–compliant row, a far cry from the haphazard organization of that first night, when she wondered aloud if we could do anything right. “Seems they learn faster than any of us gave them credit for.”
Taylor shakes his head. “You can’t . . . You’re ruining . . . Do you have any idea what kind of mistake this is? You signed a contract . . . and the grand prize . . .”
“We knew you’d be mad,” Pepper says. “But it’s okay. You taught us to handle criticism, too. Remember?”
The audience murmurs, and the Super Chef notices. His left hand starts to tremor. “How in the world . . . ?”
“We had help,” I say, nodding in Mel’s direction. “Sometimes you need it.”
“Then,” Taylor huffs, shaking some more. “Then . . . then none of you will win. We’ll have to have another competition. Different kids.”
“We’re hoping you won’t,” I tell him. “We’re hoping you’ll take a second to rethink this whole thing.”
“We’re hoping if you think about it, you’ll see the same thing we do,” Pepper agrees.
“And what,” the Super Chef asks, “is that, exactly?”
“You wanted to hold a final Super Chef competition,” I say. “Why? So you could pick a last winner, show everyone a bright future. As if the future is something you can control.”
“But,” Pepper says, “well . . . it worked, actually. This contest has shown us the future. A different one, one where you’re the only Super Chef the world needs.”
Lucas Taylor opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.
“They’re right, Lucas,” Wormwood issues a surprised half whisper to Taylor. “If you let us help you more . . .” She squeezes his shoulder hesitantly.
“You were the first Super Chef,” Joey says.
Without missing a beat, Bo picks up his sentence. “And if you’re the only one—”
“Then you should be the last one, too,” Kiko finishes.
Chef Taylor exhales, and it seems like it’s not just
air that releases from his body. The way his shoulders tighten up, then droop, it’s like everything else he’s been holding in comes out, too. Fear and stress and exhaustion.
He and Graca exchange a glance. Graca nods meaningfully at his boss.
Still, the Super Chef shakes his head. “I don’t know . . . I’m not sure I can . . . not anymore.”
“You said there’s no recipe for what you have,” I call out. “But isn’t that when chefs like us are at their best?”
Chefs like us. Because I’m a great chef, too. Nothing from the past two weeks has changed that. Nothing ever could’ve. Winning this contest, not winning it. Who my father is, who he isn’t. None of that decides who and what I am now. Or what I’ll become later. I’m the one who gets to do that. Me.
I hold his gaze for a moment. “The best chefs blaze new trails. We figure stuff out that hasn’t been figured out before. You wanted to see the future, but . . .” I hesitate and shrug, unsure I have the right words to finish.
The Super Chef comes to my rescue. Now he’s the one working through his thoughts as they come out. “It’s . . . not . . . possible to know the future. You . . . just . . . adjust as you go. When the world takes away the ingredients you expected to have . . .”
“You figure out a way to make okonomiyaki anyway,” I agree.
“Or when you have only sucky ingredients,” Joey starts.
“Inexpensive,” Kiko corrects him, but it’s with a smile.
“You make the best kind of bread pudding you can,” Wormwood finishes. “Even if it’s out of English muffins and plain white bread.”
“And when you need a little help from your friends,” Graca says.
“All you have to do is ask,” Wormwood finishes again. This time, when she’s done, she and Graca both hug the Super Chef, sandwiching him between them. He shrugs at first, resisting them slightly, but they press against him harder, refusing to let him escape.
Finally, the Super Chef relaxes. He lifts he arms around each of his sous chefs’ shoulders. This time it’s him who pulls them close. “You’re sure?” he whispers.
Both Graca and Wormwood nod emphatically. Then all three of them start to laugh in celebration, and soon the Super Five join in. Maybe I learned just this morning that it was okay to cry in kitchens, but it’s definitely a whole lot better than okay to laugh in them.
The arena had been quiet, the confused onlookers attempting to process our back and forth, to make sense of all the unexpected surprises. They’re still confused. Of course, they don’t know about the Super Chef’s Parkinson’s. But I suspect they’ll find out soon enough.
Finally Lucas Taylor looks up, noticing their silence for the first time. He pulls his arms from his friends and steps forward alone, shouts toward the unsure crowd at the top of his lungs.
“Well? You heard them! We’re not done after all. I’m not done. So make sure you come back for the NEXT Super Chef!”
Though they might not completely understand why yet, once the crowd comprehends the news that their beloved show won’t end after all, they erupt into the wildest cheering yet. The applause and hoots fill the entire arena, growing louder and louder and louder.
I’m not sure how long it lasts, but there’s a lot of laughing and clapping and high-fiving, between the Super Five on the floor, and the chefs up on the stage, too. In the crowd, on the sidelines. Everywhere.
Eventually, the whole arena still thundering with activity, the red camera lights wink off.
Kari jogs out from her secret side door so she can hug us one by one. Mel and the handlers are right behind her.
The studio lights dim.
The crowd makes its way to the exits.
The Last Super Chef ends, but only so the next one can begin.
47
Two Days Later
Tre’s waiting in Josh’s car, exhaust floating into the air, when the limo pulls up to our apartment building and drops us off. After we help Mom carry the suitcases upstairs, Paige, Tre, and I go for a walk up the street, even though it’s kind of freezing outside. After all the excitement of the past few weeks, it feels awesome to be back home. So good, I start noticing all the things that make North Sloan a much better place than just about anywhere else I can think of. Even New York.
That piece of sidewalk jutting into the air. The corner market. Even the high school basketball team everyone seems to care so much about.
My best friend. And my sister, too.
Tre spends the first half of the walk telling us about all the people who paid for autographs, and how cool watching the competition on TV was. “There’s one thing I don’t get, though,” he says. “If you thought the Super Chef was your father all those years, why didn’t you say something?” He sounds a little hurt.
I glance at Paige. “I was protecting my little sister. She didn’t know about it, and I thought it would bother her if she did.”
“I’ve known who our father is for years,” Paige says matter-of-factly.
We all stop walking. I gawk at her. “What?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I found some old photos and letters in Mom’s closet. Figured it out pretty quick.” She counts off her discoveries on one hand. “They worked together at Murphy’s. It was a burger joint. Doesn’t even exist anymore. There’s a taco place there now. You know, Seven Burritos? Anyway, when it was Murphy’s, our dad was the cook. His name was Terry. Timmy? Something like that. Mommy was a waitress.” She pauses, and her next words are whispered. “I don’t think he’s coming back any time soon, though. And, personally, I don’t think it matters, either.”
“You’re right,” I agree. “It doesn’t matter. But I don’t get it. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was protecting my big brother. I mean, had I known you thought the Super Chef was our father, I probably would’ve said something.” She shakes her head, exhales. “I just figured Mom would tell you eventually.”
“That’s what I thought about you.”
We grin at each other.
Tre gags. “Okay,” he says, marching ahead. “I don’t care what you say, Curtis. I need to hire one of those sous lawyer people. You guys are breaking about four hundred and seventeen brother-sister laws right now.” He breaks into a run for a nearby swing set, one of our favorites going back years.
When he’s far enough away not to hear us, I turn to Paige. “Is that why you didn’t come up when I ran off on Thanksgiving?”
“With the Super Five?” I nod. “I guess. I felt so bad. It . . . Listen, Curtis. I had no idea that you thought all that. For all that time. If I had just told you what I knew—” Tears pool in the corners of her eyes.
“Paige, stop. It’s okay.” I step in front of her and face her. Pulling my sleeve over one hand, I wipe her eyes dry. “Seriously. Totally not your fault. You have no idea how much I missed you.”
She leaps into me, hugging me hard. With her face still pressed into my chest, she whispers, “Curtis?”
“Yeah?”
Paige pushes away and looks up at me. The admiration I thought I’d lost, it’s right there. Back, like it never left. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was just my imagination. Seems like a lot of things were. “Did you really think you had to become a chef just because the Super Chef was your father?”
I look down at my feet. “Guess so.”
“Must’ve been a lot of pressure to put on yourself.”
I shrug. “Sort of.”
“Isn’t it great, then?”
“What?”
“That you don’t have to worry about being the Last Super Chef, or the Next Super Chef, or any Super Chef at all.” She kicks my foot with hers. “For once you can just concentrate on being the First Curtis Pith.”
48
Seven Months Later
“Welcome, students, to the first annual Super Chef Culinary School for Kids,” Chef Taylor announces. It’s summer. We’re standing in a gleaming kitchen in New York. Not Super Chef Arena, a new building. The school th
e Super Chef opened shortly after we left in November.
Because why would the Super Chef think the future of cooking has to be all wrapped up in just one person, kid or not? Even if you can’t control the future, if you want to shine a light on its potential, why not use a whole army of helpers to make the bulb as bright as possible?
I didn’t do an actual head count before we lined up, but there must be twenty-five eager kids here. The Super Five plus a couple dozen others. We, the veterans, make up the entire first row. After all, we’re the only ones in this bunch to survive the actual show.
Taylor surveys the class, taking a deep breath before turning his attention to us—me and Joey, Pepper, Kiko, and Bo, right in front of him.
“Well, Chefs? Any suggestions for our first lesson?”
We turn our heads, looking at each other, grinning at each other. And we don’t use any secret signals, and we didn’t plan this at all, but I guess someone must’ve taught us teamwork somewhere along the way.
Because we straighten and speak at the same time. And we all say the same thing.
“Mise en place.”
Acknowledgments
There’s no one, single test to tell you that you have Parkinson’s disease. Instead, the way the doctors figure it out is by first eliminating all the other possibilities. Which means getting tested for everything else, and when all those tests—some of which are a little bit scary—come back negative, you’re left with Parkinson’s as the answer to the weird things you’ve been noticing about the way you’re walking or how much harder it is to suddenly find the sleeve of your shirt with your arm.
When I first accepted that I had Parkinson’s disease, I probably spent too much time thinking about all the things I loved that I might have to stop doing. Trying to figure out a way to control my own future. I struggled with the idea that what I thought I was destined to do and be had suddenly shifted, taken a sharp left.
Eventually, though, I righted the ship. I found out that I’m pretty stubborn, so I ended up working really hard to keep that list of stuff the disease forced me to give up or change as small as possible. I refused to let it control my life in the way I feared it might. I mean, it’s true that a lot of things have gotten much harder to do with Parkinson’s, but just because something is more difficult doesn’t mean you have to quit doing it. What I do next is up to me, not Parkinson’s, I realized.
