Deep Dish

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “But I thought you said they were ready for us,” Gina said, blotting her lips on the tissue D’John offered her.

  “That’s what they told me,” he said. “Barry’s exact words were, ‘Get ’em ready and get ’em on the set.’”

  “Yeah,” Lisa said. “I’m supposed to take you back over there now.”

  “Lisa! Why didn’t you say so?” Gina asked, unfastening the plastic cape D’John had placed around her neck.

  “You didn’t ask. Anyway, I still don’t think there’s any hurry.”

  Zeke was standing outside the door to the ballroom when they pulled up in the golf carts.

  “All set?” he asked.

  “I’m good,” Tate said.

  “Me too,” Gina said. “Where do you want us?”

  “Actually, we’re not quite ready for you yet,” Zeke said, glancing down at the clipboard he held in his right hand. “We’re changing the lights around, and Barry decided to give the crew a dinner break so we don’t go into overtime.”

  “So, what now?” Tate asked.

  “You could get dinner—it’s set up in the lodge—”

  “No,” Gina said quickly. “I can’t eat.”

  “Or you could hang out in the production trailer. I think that’s where Val and Scott are.” Zeke walked around to the side of the ballroom and gestured toward a big white mobile home that had the TCC Network logo painted in red and black on the side.

  “Where’d that come from?” Gina asked.

  “Barry had it brought over this morning,” Zeke explained. “He wants to go ahead and do some of the postproduction work here before we all head back to the mainland.” Zeke opened the trailer door and motioned them inside. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he promised. “Can I get anybody anything?”

  Lisa giggled and whispered something in his ear, and his fair skin flushed a vivid pink.

  The inside of the trailer was nothing like a mobile home. One whole wall was taken up with television monitors and a control board with what looked like more switches, dials, and buttons than a NASA cockpit.

  Opposite the electronic gear, four leather swivel chairs were bolted to the floor, surrounding a small table littered with coffee cups, water bottles, and paper.

  Scott Zaleski sat in one chair, Val Foster in the one opposite him. They were both madly typing away on their BlackBerrys.

  “Hi,” Scott said, looking up from his PDA. “Is it time?”

  “Nope,” Lisa said, stepping inside right behind her sister and Tate. “The crew’s taking a break.”

  “Sit here,” Scott said, getting up and gesturing toward his chair.

  “Thanks,” Tate said, dropping down.

  Scott glared. “I meant Gina.”

  “Let him be,” Gina said. “I’m too nervous to sit.”

  “I’m not,” Lisa said, sitting beside Val.

  “This is cozy,” Val said, looking around the room before going back to her BlackBerry.

  “I thought you couldn’t get service over here,” Gina said, peering over Scott’s shoulder.

  “You can in this thing,” Scott said, tapping away. “Did you see the size of that antenna?”

  Gina sat down at a chair in front of the control panel. “It looks like they’re still arguing,” she said, tapping at a monitor that showed the judge’s table.

  Tate got up to look for himself. The three judges did indeed seem involved in some kind of heated debate.

  “They’ve been at it for two hours now,” Scott commented, not looking up.

  “We figure it’s a stalemate,” Val added. “Deidre hates Tate. Seems like Beau’s got it in for Gina. Toni Bailey’s the wild card, but she can’t seem to get either one of them to budge.”

  “Wait! That’s totally unfair. Does Barry know about this?” Lisa wanted to know.

  “We told him. He thinks it’s great. Says it adds ‘intrigue’ to the food fight,” Val said.

  “Prick,” Scott muttered.

  Tate spun around in his chair. “So what do we do now?”

  “We wait,” Val said. “But at least I can get some work done on the shows we start taping once we go home.” She went back to her BlackBerry. Scott did the same.

  Time passed. Tate found a deck of cards and dealt a hand of solitaire. Gina and Lisa shared a two-year-old back issue of People magazine Lisa found in the trailer’s postage-stamp-size bathroom.

  “I’m bored!” Lisa announced after an hour.

  “Can’t dance, and it’s too wet to plow,” Gina said mildly.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Scott asked, finally putting aside his BlackBerry.

  “I don’t really know,” Gina admitted. “Our granny used to say it when we were visiting her and we didn’t have anything to do.”

  “I don’t get it,” Scott said.

  “My grandma used to always say, ‘All dressed up and no place to go,’” Tate volunteered.

  Val sighed deeply and exchanged a sympathetic look with Scott. “Don’t you just love all these folksy southern sayings?”

  The door swung open, and Zeke stuck his head inside. “The crew’s back, and we’re ready for you.”

  Val and Scott were out the door like a shot, and Lisa was right behind them. Gina hung back for a second, reluctant, it seemed, to face the music.

  Tate held the door open for her, and she went slowly down the folding stairs. She turned to thank him, and he stuck out his hand. “Good luck. And I really mean it.”

  “Thanks. I’d say the same to you, but for this first round, anyway, I don’t think you’re going to need it.”

  “Gina!” Scott called. “Get in here, will you? D’John needs you again.”

  Val was waiting for him just outside the trailer, her arms folded across her chest. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “Why are you sucking up to her? I almost died when you trotted off set in the middle of the shoot to fetch that sherry. Are you deliberately trying to sabotage our chances to win?”

  “I’m just being a nice guy,” he protested. “Is that a crime?”

  “This is television,” she shot back. “As far as I’m concerned, nice is a felony.”

  Barry Adelman put an arm around each of the contestant’s shoulders.

  “Okay, you guys, you both did great. Sorry about the wait, but you know chefs.” He shrugged. “Talk about a bunch of prima donnas. Anyway, we’re all set now. So here’s how it’s gonna go. You two are each gonna be in your kitchen. The judges will be at their table. They’ll give us their opinions on the dishes, and then their scores. Then the camera will cut over to each of you, in turn, to catch your reactions.”

  “Oh, no—” Gina started.

  “Now, don’t worry about a thing,” he reassured her. “I want you to just be yourself, no matter what happens. Show your emotions. If you’re disappointed, lemme see that. Pissed off, excited, whatever. I’m looking for honest, gut reaction. Got that?”

  “Yeah,” Tate said. “Honest.”

  “Of course,” Barry added, “it goes without saying, no profanity. No high fives, no gloating. No hysteria.”

  “Just honesty,” Tate said, rolling his eyes.

  “Our judges have tasted, they’ve talked, they’ve argued, and they’ve debated,” Barry said, speaking smoothly in front of the camera. “Now it’s time to see how they scored the first round of the Food Fight. So, judges, how did you like the dishes submitted by contestant one?”

  Deidre Delaney flipped her long blond hair over one shoulder and smiled wanly. “Contestant one’s food left me cold, to be honest. I’ll give the chef credit for managing to kill a wild pig, but really, aside from that, I was disappointed.”

  Beau Stapleton groaned dramatically.

  “Let me continue, please,” Deidre said, glaring at Stapleton. “The chef had a whole pig to work with, right? A pork tenderloin…I mean…please. If it were me, I would have done pork belly braised in wild greens. Spare ribs. I would have done pork cheeks. They are wo
nderful, moist—”

  “But it’s not you,” Toni Bailey pointed out. “Just judge what the chef did, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Fine,” Deidre said, flipping her hair again. She held up a card with a “2” scrawled on it. “The dishes were generic. And I’m being generous even giving a two.”

  “I disagree,” Stapleton blurted. “Deidre, what does it take to impress you? This chef basically killed a wild boar with his bare hands, butchered it, and prepared an amazing meal. I’m giving him a five.” He held the card up over his head, then pointed at Tate. “You rock, dude!”

  Toni Bailey smiled serenely. “As much as I hate to agree with Beau, I have to say that he’s right. The pork was outstanding. The fig and pepper glaze was a playful and inventive way to work indigenous ingredients into the menu, and the sweet potato fritters were a nice surprise. For me, the only thing keeping the meal from being perfect was the need for a more assertive vegetable. That said, I’m scoring it a four.”

  Tate nodded thoughtfully but gave no other reaction.

  The camera switched over to Barry Adelman. “All right. It seems the judges have correctly divined that chef one is Tate Moody with his wild hog supper, and given him a combined score of eleven out of fifteen. Now, let’s see how Regina Foxworth’s seafood sampler fared with the judges.”

  Deidre Delaney tossed her hair again and beamed in Gina’s direction. “Gina, your menu struck all the right chords with me. I loved the crab-corn chowder with that lovely little chive blossom garnish. It was simple but creative. I did want more heat to the soup, but that’s a personal preference. The fresh-vegetable chopped salad was perfect, and I adored the little deviled crabs, which were the essence of low-country southern cuisine. The dewberry cobbler was a lovely end note to a perfectly balanced symphony of flavors.” She flipped her card up triumphantly. “Five!”

  The cameras switched to Gina and caught her letting her breath out slowly, and finally giving a tentative smile.

  “Beau?” Barry prompted. “What’s your take?

  Stapleton grimaced. “Well, Barry, I don’t know what dishes our esteemed chef Deidre was tasting, but it can’t have been the same meal I sampled.”

  “Oh, please,” Deidre said, giving him a dismissive wave.

  “This chef had all the right ingredients, and yet she managed to do all the wrong things. As I said before, the chowder wasn’t a proper chowder at all—in fact, it’s an insult to honest chowders to call it that.”

  Barry Adelman laughed. “Hey, Beau! I didn’t know you could insult a soup.”

  “She seems to have a special knack,” Stapleton quipped. “Or should I say, lack. Whatever. Those vegetables Deidre loved? Tired. Dull. In short, forgettable.”

  The camera cut quickly to Gina, who had her hands clasped in her lap and her teeth clenched behind a pasted-on smile.

  “He’s a dickhead,” Tate whispered without moving his lips.

  “And now we get to those deviled crabs Deidre so ‘adored,’” Stapleton said, his voice mocking. “One word. Gimmicky. All in all, I’d have to say the entire menu was a huge disappointment.”

  Toni Bailey leaned forward. “But what about that cobbler? Are you just ignoring that?”

  “Again,” Stapleton said, “no surprises there. I want a fresh fruit cobbler with some zing to it, some spark. A hint of ginger, some lemon zest or orange liqueur, some little something that makes my tongue tingle.”

  “I’ll make his tongue tingle,” Tate muttered. For a fleeting moment, Gina’s smile took on an authentic warmth.

  Stapleton yawned widely, not bothering to cover his mouth. “The cobbler was forgettable. Amateurish. As was the entire meal.” He offhandedly flashed his scorecard, and the entire crew gasped.

  “Only a one!” Barry crowed. “Ow! That’s gotta hurt.”

  Gina felt tears welling in her eyes. Her jaws ached from pseudo-smiling, but the camera, unrelenting, was aimed right at her.

  “Shake it off,” Tate whispered. “You knew he was gonna screw you over.”

  “So, Toni Bailey,” Barry said. All eyes on the set were focused on the third judge. “It all comes down to you now. Our other two judges were at extreme odds in their scores of Gina Foxton. What did you think, Toni?”

  The petite black woman’s hoop earrings jangled as she shook her head in dismay at Stapleton’s harsh comments.

  “Honey, don’t you fret,” Toni soothed, looking directly at Gina. “You are a fine young cook. And that meal was so good, it made me wanna slap my mama.”

  Gina laughed ruefully.

  “See?” Tate whispered.

  “I agree completely with Deidre about your chowder. Some folks,” she said, inclining her head toward Stapleton, “like a gloppy, floury mess in a chowder. Not me. No, sir. Me, I just want honest flavors. Over in L.A.”—she glanced at Stapleton—“that’s Lower Alabama to you, you add that other mess when you don’t have the real thing, say if you were using frozen corn, or canned crabmeat. But when you got the honest-to-goodness thing—fresh-picked corn, crabs right out of the creek—you don’t need that other junk. Same thing with those chopped vegetables, and that wonderful dewberry cobbler of yours. They were real nice. I don’t hold with people who wanna mess around with the conventions of southern cooking.”

  She gave Stapleton a look that Gina’s grandmother would have called the skunk-eye. “And that is what we’re supposed to be looking for here on Eutaw Island. The best southern cook.”

  Gina felt her spirits rise.

  But Toni sighed. “Baby, the only thing keeping me from giving you a perfect five was this.” She held up the index finger of her left hand. A tiny fragment of white gleamed against the mocha color of her skin.

  “Yeah,” she said sorrowfully. “A little bitty old piece of crabshell no bigger than a pea. That’s how come I had to give you this.” She held up her scorecard, with a bold “4” scrawled on it.

  Gina felt a tear working its way down her cheek. She swiped at it, blinked, then turned to Tate.

  “Congratulations,” she said, her voice shaky.

  Chapter 48

  Well, that’s it for round one of The Cooking Channel’s Food Fight!” Barry said, reading from the teleprompter. “Our esteemed panel of experts awarded round one to Tate Moody for his unique take on a wild hog supper, but only by a slim one-point margin. Don’t forget to tune in tomorrow night for round two of our Food Fight, when Regina Foxton has vowed to come out of her kitchen hotter than hot!”

  The number-two camera flashed on Tate, who nodded politely, and then at Regina, who, at Barry’s direction, brandished a giant cast-iron skillet in what he assured her would be a menacing gesture.

  “Okay, let’s take a break,” Barry called. The lights switched off, and the cameramen trotted off to the craft table.

  Gina exhaled slowly. She closed her eyes and rolled her neck clockwise and then counterclockwise, trying to diminish the tension knots in her upper body. When she opened her eyes, she saw Zeke escorting Beau, Deidre, and Toni off the set.

  She noticed with grim satisfaction that the three judges looked just as bedraggled as she felt. Deidre Delaney’s mascara seemed to have melted off, and Toni Bailey’s perky demeanor had finally faded. Beau Stapleton’s shirt was dark with perspiration, and even his ponytail looked waterlogged.

  “Christ, the humidity here must be two hundred percent,” he griped. “It’s like a damned steam bath in here.”

  Zeke handed Beau a cold bottle of water and murmured something reassuring about the air-conditioning in the production trailer, and then they were all gone.

  She was about to leave herself when she felt a large hand clamp her shoulder.

  “Great show, you two,” Barry exclaimed, clamping his other hand on Tate’s shoulder. “No kidding, guys, this one had it all. It had drama, it had comedy, it had suspense—”

  “And tragedy,” Gina said wryly. “At least from my point of view.”

  “Will you stop?” Barry said. “Forg
et about the crab shell thing. It was nothing. Coulda happened to anybody.”

  “That’s what I told her,” Tate said, gently easing his shoulder out from under Barry’s grip.

  “It shouldn’t have happened to a pro,” Gina said.

  “That’s the point of this show,” Barry said. “Don’t you get it? The audience at home will love that about you. You think Sally Subdivision in Horseplop, Arkansas, hasn’t dropped a hunk of eggshell in a birthday cake? Of course she has. Everybody has! And that’s why they’ll love you. You let them see that even a pro messes up sometimes. People are gonna relate to you, Gina. They’ll relate to both of you. Because you’re real. And that’s what we’re looking for. Real cooks with real personalities. We’re not looking for polish and perfection.”

  “Tell that to Beau Stapleton,” Scott said, striding onto the set with a cold Diet Coke for Gina. “What a jerk! Barry, are you aware of how biased he is against Gina? It’s so blatant. I can’t believe you let him get away with that crap.”

  “But what about Deidre?” Valerie chimed in. She uncapped a bottle of Heineken and handed it to Tate. “She crucified him—and why? Because he politely declined her offer of a free fuck!”

  “Val!” Tate exclaimed, slamming the bottle down on the countertop, “For God’s sake—”

  “People, people, people,” Barry said soothingly. “Yes, I am aware that there are some undercurrents. Some creative tension. But as I told you before, conflict makes for drama. And that’s what entertainment is about, right?”

  He looked from Val to Scott to Tate to Gina for affirmation.

  “It’s still not fair,” Scott grumped. He tugged on Gina’s hand. “Come on, Geen. It’s after ten.”

  Gina nodded and yawned. “I gotta get some sleep. Good night, everybody.” She trailed dutifully behind her producer. On the way out of the ballroom she stopped at the craft table, where Lisa was laughing and joking noisily with the crew, cutting her eyes every so often at Zeke, who pretended not to notice.