A Bird in the Hand (25 page)

"My point is, you and Shepler are still rolling along at the hot-and-bothered relationship level. I'm sure multiple sources of energy for both of you can come in handy. You need some natural sugar, carbs, and protein to go with the caffeine." Amy handed money to the smiling cashier behind the Nature's Nuggets table. She plucked a bag of the homemade energy bites from the display and tucked them into Carla's tomato-red tote bag. "Between your work hours and hanging out with him, you must be running with your energy tanks on empty all the time."

"Thank you." Carla hopped out of the path of an old woman zooming down the aisle in an electric wheelchair. "I've been working extra hours so I can take a few days off in a couple weeks. Bruce and I are planning a little romantic getaway."

Amy flinched as another red tote bag slammed into her hip. The reusable shopping bags were being passed out at the entrance to the Eat Local Expo. It seemed that every person roaming the civic arena floor was carrying one. Judging from the impact, apparently a vendor was selling barbells instead of barware. She rubbed the tender spot and asked, "Where are you going, and why haven't I heard about this until now? If you're leaving soon, there are all kinds of things you need to do to prepare for a romantic getaway, starting with buying more energy snacks here."

Carla ran her fingers through her short, cognac-colored hair. Now that it was fall, she had opted for darker walnut streaks instead of the honey highlights she wore in the summer. "We're thinking about going to Petoskey or maybe Grand Rapids. If the weather looks bad, we may even just stay somewhere nice in downtown Detroit. I didn't tell you until now because I don't need to prepare that much for two nights away. I'll just throw a few things in the overnight bag you gave me for my birthday, and I'll be good."

"No you won't! That little bag will not hold enough supplies for a romantic getaway." Amy twisted her straw-blonde ponytail into a bun and tucked the ends underneath to secure the temporary updo. It was time to get serious with her best friend, so she needed a serious hairdo. The Vera Bradley bag was quite large, and very cute, but even if Carla and Shepler spent most of the weekend in bed, they'd need more stuff. "You have to at least pack a cooler and garment bag with a nice dress."

Carla grimaced and shook her head. She wasn't convinced that more than two minutes of planning was in order, so Amy soldiered on with the reasons why. "You can pack snacks and drinks in the cooler, then you won't have to waste money on room service. When you two actually get out of bed, I bet your hunky sweetie pie will want to take you out to dinner…that's why you need a dress."

"We'll manage." Carla held up a square of muffaletta sandwich, which was skewered by a blue tassel-topped toothpick. She swiped the stratified sandwich sample back and forth like a miniature sword. "We may not be as organized as you and Alex, but we are adults. I promise we won't starve or go schlepping around town in dirty clothes. We'll be fine."

"But if you take the time to plan, maybe make a batch of cheesecake-filled, chocolate-covered strawberries, your weekend could go from fine to outstanding." Amy's mind filled with all of the decadent treats that would be perfect for a romantic getaway—gooey caramel-filled chocolate truffles, buttery shortbread cookies to dip into thick fudge sauce, and some champagne Jell-O shots to add some whimsy to the spread of snacks they could feed each other with their fingers. No utensils or napkins needed. Carla obviously didn't have the time or inclination to make the sexy treats, but Amy didn't mind helping out her formerly commitment-phobic friend.

Carla rolled her eyes. "I don't do things like fill strawberries. How do you even do that? Fussy foods are in your arena. Maybe Bruce and I will get some strawberry cheesecake ice cream cones."

Would she actually consider making them if they were simple? It wasn't like she was suggesting Carla prepare a four-course buffet for aliens. Scoop, fill, dip. Three easy steps. "You get giant strawberries and scoop out their cores, pipe in sweetened cream cheese, then dip in melted chocolate. I'm sure I can find a melon-ball tool for you here before you leave."

"No, thank you. I'm fine with my ice cream version of your foodie fantasy. Handing a cashier money is the most work I want to do outside of the hotel room."

The aisle ahead was blocked. Amy stopped to figure out how to get past the logjam of people clustered in front of the Cornerstone restaurant booth. The display area was about four times larger than any of the other booths, but apparently the added space still couldn't accommodate the crowd scrambling for the gourmet restaurant's food. Worker-bee chefs in starched white jackets and tall, ribbed paper hats scrambled to fill sample plates. Amy couldn't see the menu board, but it didn't matter. While she didn't mind chatting and sampling Chef Jake's food, she had no interest in anything from Chet Britton's restaurant. That would be like munching on the terrine of evil concocted by the wicked warlock of the Chicken Soup Showdown. During the preliminary competition meetings, he hadn't been quite able to hide his disdain for being pitted against mere mortals in the culinary world.

"I don't see anything else interesting in this aisle. Do you want to try to squeeze through or just turn around?" she asked Carla.

"I vote for turning around. I certainly don't have any desire to see Chet preening for his groupies."

"As I recall, you used to be one of my groupies." The masculine voice stopped Amy's plunge back into gridlock. She turned around. The classically trained, highly paid, conceited Chef Britton was sneering at Carla. He wrinkled his nose at her and asked, "What's the matter? Don't you love me anymore?"

Considering his height, barely taller than Amy, and receding hairline, he looked sort of like a balding troll. Carla showed no emotion, but that was something she was used to doing while working in a busy emergency room. Her hands were clenched into fists behind her back as she said, "Do you really want me to answer that? I might hurt your fragile ego. Wouldn't want to poke any holes in it and have your bravado deflated right before the showdown."

"A few harmless words aren't going to do anything to my confidence. I'll win." He narrowed his eyes at Carla and then turned his gaze onto Amy. "There's no way amateurs can defeat me."

"The Almighty Unbeatable Chef Britton?" Carla shook her head. "There's this thing called humility. You should try it some time."

One of the Cornerstone chefs glanced at Carla as he spooned butter-poached shrimp into a miniature stainless steel bowl. Spiky bits of dusty blond hair poked out from around the edges of his stovepipe-like paper hat. He smiled at Carla but kept one eye on his cranky boss's back. Obviously getting caught approving of snarky comments toward the head chef wouldn't be wise.

Chef Britton took a deep breath, which puffed out his chest. If he was trying to make himself look taller and more impressive, it wasn't working. He was short for a man, not even remotely close to being average height. Apparently he used obnoxiousness as a way to distract people from noticing his stunted stature.

"You don't need to be humble when you're as good as I am. My food is unbeatable." He swung his gaze back toward Amy. Although he was speaking to Carla, he was obviously trying his best to play dirty and unnerve Amy. "I hope you're prepared to lose."

Don't blink first. It's a sign of weakness
. Out of her peripheral vision she could see Carla shake her head slightly. Amy had seen the gesture before.
Don't answer him. I've got this.
Carla was a master of snappy comebacks, and she never hesitated to come to Amy's aid when the situation called for world-class insults.

"If your cooking skills are anything like your bedroom skills, I hope your partner in the showdown has a lot of stamina. Based on my prior experience, I predict you'll be down for the count about ten minutes into the competition," Carla said.

The smiling sous chef snorted, then spun around to stir something in a chafing dish. Score! Chef Britton's cool attitude cracked, leaving behind a crimson flush that rose from his neck, crept up his face, and headed toward his sparse hairline at a rather alarming speed. He whirled back around and sneered at Carla. "A good partner makes all the difference, my dear. Trisha's energy is contagious. I'll have no problems going full tilt for as long as it takes to win."

"You really should watch out. All of the bragging is going to come back around and bite you in the ass." Carla cranked up her laser-like evil eye and aimed it at Britton. "Karma's a bitch."

"Karma…Carla. Same thing."

Ouch. He had no problems lobbing insult grenades to defend his snobby encampment. What would he do during the showdown to defend his top chef status within the community? Amy's stomach twisted into a knot as Carla leveled one more icy stare at her former lover before turning away. She grabbed Amy's hand and pulled her into the crowd. If one of Britton's tactics to win was rattling her, he'd done a good job. Amy's heart was beating so hard she could hear blood whooshing in her ears. But unfortunately for him, it looked like Carla had turned the tables and given him a dose of rudeness. Would his break in composure still be in effect at the showdown?

CHAPTER TWO

Three hours later, Amy wished Carla was with her again to break up the flood of tension that was threatening to drown her. The showdown was almost ready to begin, and things weren't going well. "Could you have left them in your car?" Amy asked as she looked into the empty drawer.

Sophie shook her head. "No. I had them in my booth but put them in that drawer after Bridget stopped by to say we could start setting up our kitchens onstage. My knife case was here an hour ago."

Amy pulled the metal drawer out completely, until she could see the back wall. She shook her head. The knives were gone. "I guess somebody must've slipped past the security guards. We'll have to take turns using mine. Sorry, they probably aren't as nice as yours."

"You can borrow one of mine," Chef Jake called from the other side of the stage. He ran the wide blade of a chef's knife over his pewter-colored sharpening rod. The sword-fight sound of metal scraping against metal clanged across the stage. "Sucks that somebody took your entire kit. I have a smaller chef's knife I won't use. You're welcome to it."

"Thank you," Sophie said as she jogged across the front of the stage. The long, silky brown hair in her ponytail swung back and forth, glistening in the spotlights. She grasped the handle of the knife Chef Jake had placed on the corner of his prep table. "It feels good. I appreciate the help. I was about ready to see if I could find a booth selling knives out on the expo floor."

"Don't worry about it. Glad I could help."

Sophie returned to Amy's side, grabbed the laminated recipe sheet, and began pulling vegetables out of the cooler that was stashed under the worktable. The rules of the contest said they could wash fruits and vegetables beforehand but couldn't start any chopping or slicing until the preparatory period that was just beginning. "I'll chop the onions if you can do the celery."

Amy grabbed the plastic bag of pale-green celery stalks. She laid a couple out on a plastic cutting board and concentrated on slicing them as thinly as possible. With only one hour to prepare the soup from start to finish, that didn't leave a lot of time to soften large chunks of vegetables. Plus the repetitive act of chopping vegetables was a bit like meditating. A nice distraction from the stress storm gathering inside her.

After slicing the celery and grating carrots into crunchy orange shreds, she took a look around. There were colorful piles of vegetables on the work areas of the three kitchens. Jake and his partner, Holly, had purple onions, jalapeno peppers, and white beans arranged next to their hot plate. If she had to guess, white chicken chili would be their soup. Trisha, Chef Britton's partner, was using a mezzaluna to chop herbs that were grown on her own farm. She gripped the wooden handle at each end of the utensil and rocked the curved, half-moon blade back and forth on the wooden cutting board. As Amy watched, a fluffy mountain of leaves was quickly reduced to a dense mound of minced herbs. Bowls of shredded lacinato kale and spinach were already prepared and standing ready, no thanks to the famous chef. Britton had yet to make an appearance onstage.

The Country Captain soup Amy and Sophie were making would have a tomatoey broth infused with mild curry powder. Golden raisins would add a touch of sweetness to the spicy, chunky soup. Cornmeal biscuits and citrus-marinated carrot salad completed the hopefully prize-winning meal.

"Let's go over what order we need to do everything," Sophie said as she slid part of the chopped onions that were destined for the salad into a small metal bowl. "I want to make sure everything gets done in time."

"I don't think there's such a thing as too much practice," Amy said. She picked up her copy of the recipe. "Let's do this."

"I'll start sautéing the vegetables. I need you to cut a stick of butter into half-inch cubes. Then one of us will have to run it to the freezer backstage. The butter must be as cold as possible when I make the biscuits." Sophie pointed at the gap in the curtains to the left of the stage. "Let's go see how far away it is."

"Sorry to be nosy, but I couldn't help eavesdropping. Can't you just put the butter on top of ice in your cooler?" Trisha asked as she slammed a blue mesh bag full of yellow onions on her worktable. "Then you won't need to leave the stage."

Sophie shook her head. "That's a good idea, but I don't think ice will work well enough, especially with these bright stage lights heating everything up. I would rather just use the deep freeze that's set up backstage to chill the butter as fast as possible. It'll only take a minute or two to run back and forth."

Amy followed her cooking partner into the dark area behind the heavy black curtain. All of the walls were painted black, lit by dim spotlights. The dense darkness cloaked electrical cords snaking across the floor. Not only was the area creepy and spooky, it was downright dangerous, especially for frenzied, stressed-out cooks. Luckily she would be running with a stick of butter, not a knife. The stainless steel upright commercial freezer stood against the back wall, dully shining in the murky light. Amy took a deep, fortifying breath. She began shoving folding chairs and card tables out of the way to clear a straight path to the oversized appliance. "I'll take care of getting the butter here. That way you can keep an eye out for when the vegetables have softened enough and get the chicken into the pot as soon as possible. We can tag team everything."