Knives at Dawn (42 page)

“Vincent, I can't hear you,” she said straight into the camera, laughing deliriously. “I have now lost track of all time, of all sense of reality. I can't hear anything anymore. I don't even know if there's information to be given at this time.…” For a moment, the Bocuse d'Or had turned into Angela May's own personal
Blair Witch Project
. The veteran Ferniot, however, wasn't satisfied with the competing chants and noisemakers that were shaking the foundation of Hall 33 and casually deployed comments designed to whip up even more clamor: “In a way, it's true. It's crazy to be
here. Come from the other part of the world, like Japanese, travel all the way around Asia to be here and support their team. It's fantastic.” On cue, the Japanese cheering section amped up their volume, jumping in unison and pumping their fists, pouring more vibrations into the pulsating air.

In Kitchen 6, Hollingsworth was starting to be affected by the crowd—even though he preferred his kitchens noisy, this was too much, like Christmastime in Tora Bora. But he fought to maintain his focus as he plowed forward. He pulled the beef tenderloin from the freezer. It didn't feel cold or firm enough, but he tried a few slices anyway. Yep, it needed to harden further. He returned it to the freezer. Off his schedule, he returned to the cod. The puree had softened, but he had quickly come to resent the mousse, which was a struggle to incorporate cleanly into the rolled component.
I can't believe I'm doing this mousse
, he mused, struggling even to hear his own thoughts. “I was frustrated with myself for making a decision that I thought was foolish,” he would say later. “Something I'm not entirely comfortable with. Why would I choose to do it this day?” Keller's words from all the way back in November, “This is your thing, Tim,” suddenly took on an even deeper meaning. For all the Michelin-blessed consultants he had, the candidate was
the
chef in this little three by six-meter kitchen, and he damn well should have acted like it.

“Is this going to be as pretty as I wanted it to be?” he wondered to himself as he started rolling the mousse around the first cod cylinder. As he saw the roe puree squish out the ends like sauce on a spicy tuna roll, he internally answered his own question:
No
. Again, he berated himself for not going with his gut. “I think without the color it would have looked clean,” he would say later. “With the color, it didn't look clean. That's what I believed and I'm sad to say I didn't go with my own belief.”

Adding to his self-consciousness was the convention of photographers and reporters who had by then gathered in the window, craning to see around Guest to get a look at him. Hollingsworth rarely minds being watched while he works—he greets visitors to The French Laundry kitchen with an all-American smile and all-the-time-in-the-world
attention—but the audible cries of “What's that?” were getting to him because by that point in time he himself wasn't quite sure of the answer himself.

Guest picked up on the photographers' focus, too, and didn't appreciate it. In Orlando she hadn't minded the attention, but it had felt more equal-opportunity to her then. On this day in Lyon, “I had a feeling I was in their way. They were trying to take a picture of Chef Tim. I felt that from them. Not energy that I needed. I ducked and they were snapping pictures of Chef Tim, then I got up and they were like ‘Oh, my God.' I could see it in their face or their movements, the fact I was picking up on that meant I wasn't focusing on my stuff which meant that I was a little distracted by the people … it didn't bother me that I was in the way, just the energy they were putting out when I was trying to focus it did affect me a little bit.…”

Finally, Hollingsworth got the cod cylinders rolled in plastic and transferred them to the refrigerator.

“Adina, don't forget, fifteen minutes before we fire it, we have to pull it out. Actually make it twenty minutes.”

There were only two words he expected to hear back, and they were the ones he got: “Yes, Chef.” Guest seemed very intense to him at that moment, and he took that as a good thing, the embodiment of all those signs back home at The French Laundry:
Sense of urgency
? Check.

A glance at his task list revealed, to Hollingsworth's surprise, that he was actually
ahead
of his schedule. The only explanation was that although cooking and freezing were taking longer than they were supposed to, his butchering and knife work must have been taking less time than they usually did. Maybe he was dancing a little bit after all. He decided to use the time to help out his right arm.

“How are you looking, Adina?” “I'm a little behind.”

Because of the way the schedule had been designed, this was no problem.

“What do you need? Give me projects. Is the endive made?” This was a reference to the endive marmalade.

“No.”

“Okay, give me that.”

Based as it was on a longstanding French Laundry staple, Hollings-worth scarcely needed to think before jumping in: he put some honey and Banyuls vinegar (wine vinegar from mostly Grenache grapes) in a small pot, brought them to a simmer, and reduced them, a preparation called a
gastrique
. Then he stirred in the endive and let it simmer. While the marmalade was simmering, Hollingsworth took a few more tasks off of Guest's list, mostly stove work: he blanched the cabbage, broccoli, and leeks, and pickled those pesky pearl onions. Then he moved on to the tart, drawing a circle on parchment paper with his Sharpie and arranging the punched celeriac, truffle, and tenderloin in that narrowing circular pattern. He also processed the ingredients Guest had measured for the hollandaise-like citrus mousseline and the shrimp foam that would sauce the seafood plates. The team was back on track, working in harmony and mowing down the items on their to-do list.

On the competition floor, Ferniot and May brought out the judges, introducing them one by one, just as they had the day before. Paul Bocuse was also introduced, emerging through the curtain that hung between Kitchen 6 and Kitchen 7.

By this time, the journalist pen, which stretched between the sponsor boxes and the judging floor, was packed—photographers and videographers threw elbows vying for position at the front of the pit, while writers with notebooks at the ready were just as eager to be able to lean on the counter for the coming two-hour platter parade.

At the one-hour mark to his fish platter deadline, Hollingsworth was feeling surprisingly good. The cod was a source of concern, but he was otherwise still optimistic. He thought that Guest should have felt the same way, but …

“Chef, the custards aren't setting.”

Again, Hollingsworth picked up on Guest's anxiety over those custards. He talked to her as calmly as possible: “That's fine, Chef, put them back in the oven. We have time.” He also wanted her focused on the work ahead of them, especially the tart: “Adina, the shrimp project is going to be a big project. In twenty minutes we're going to do the shrimp. I'm going to need your help.”

At one fifty on the button, Geir Skeie's platter went up in the window of Kitchen Number 1.

As a game show–like anthem underscored his words, Ferniot announced the fish platter to the audience: “
Le premier plat de poisson, le poisson de Norvège
.”

The platter was lifted by two committee members, and it was a formidable piece of work: titled “Norwegian Cod, Scallops and Prawns à la ‘Sandefjord,' ” it featured loin of cod with lightly smoked scallops and cod belly, green-pea sphere, brandade, Norwegian
Kabaret
(cabaret) with peas, prawns, and onions, a red beet cube with Jerusalem artichokes and black truffles, and potato and leek with quail egg. For sauce, there was a Riesling and horseradish emulsion.

Angela May was moved to praise: “I have to say, this is one of those dishes that, if I were in a restaurant and I saw it walking past me, I would order it in a heartbeat because I eat mostly with my eyes before I eat with my palate.”

In the stands, Rich Rosendale was also impressed. “That is going to be hard to beat,” he thought.

When plated, the thoughtfulness of Skeie's presentation was undeniable: for example, the Sandefjord—a browned rectangle of cod, a seared scallop, the brandade, and the pea sphere (a glistening Ping Pong ball–sized “pea” no doubt produced via some molecular means)—fit perfectly in a small rectangular indentation, while the beet cube stood on one corner, as though pirouetting at the back of the plate.

And so the clock was ticking. For all of the Day Two competitors, it was only a matter of time. It would all be over, one way or another, soon.

T
IMOTHY
H
OLLINGSWORTH CAN'T SAY
exactly when his abdominal muscles seized up on him, can't pinpoint the instant when he first perceived the cramp in his gut, a “constant flex” that started in the center and gradually moved around to the side, a sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced in the kitchen, or even at the gym. But it was about one hour before the fish platter was due in the window.

It's a safe bet that the cramp was brought on, in large part, by the shrimp tart. While the puff pastry base remained the same, as did the fennel marmalade, the shrimp themselves, when cooked, were mealy and a bit odorous. To try to mask the unappealing taste, Hollingsworth threw the kitchen sink at them: lobster glace, reduced shrimp stock,
fleur de sel
, Espelette. He then
hacheed
(finely chopped) the shrimp, spread them out, and punched out “shingles” that he would transfer to the pastry with the aid of a spatula. These he would alternate with the avocado shingles, but he was barely started on this project when he wished he had gone with an alternate thought: spreading the shrimp out on the marmalade, then laying avocado on top to neatly mask the disintegrating crustacean. Hollingsworth was used to coming through at moments like these, but today, Keller's kitchen philosophy would be more prescient than it ever had been: There would indeed be no such thing as perfect food. Only the idea of it. The fleeting, oh-so-close idea of it.

Even in the heat of the moment, he was thinking clearly enough to realize that the pain was brought on by stress. “Coming down to the wire, you cannot be late, you have one shot,” he said. All those months of exertion, the decision to say “yes” to applying for Orlando, the development of his food, the last-minute arrival of the platters themselves, and the little serving pieces that had just shown up with Scannell on Monday.
Everything
. It was all taking its toll.

To try to relieve the cramp, Hollingsworth stretched out his side, to no avail, then got back to work.

Other platters made their debut, each one named, then described by Ferniot and May, and accompanied by that synthesized music.

Denmark's Jasper Kure sent out a platter featuring, among other compositions, a tartlet with shrimp and dill-glazed peas, and cauliflower with lightly smoked quail eggs, caviar, and radish. The most brazen element might have been the most simple: a turned carrot glazed and sprinkled with fresh herbs. To put something that basic forth in the Bocuse d'Or required immense confidence in technique, precision, and seasoning; it offered no place to hide.

Spain and Malaysia followed, then Japan, one of the countries to which Hollingsworth paid the most respect. Their chef did not disappoint, at least where originality and showmanship were concerned: his platter was headlined by codfish in a shrimp “dress” with fresh wasabi sauce. His written presentation to the judges even came with eating instructions for devouring the garnishes (“left to right”). Those garnishes included turnip braised in soy sauce, stuffed with oysters, sea urchin, and shrimp, and perfumed with yuzu zest; and a scallop croquette scented with algae tea.

“Very unique and very interesting,” said Angela May.

Back in Kitchen 6, Guest removed the custards in their martini-glass stands from the oven. She began setting the discs of melba toast she'd just baked inside the rims of the glasses, where they'd be suspended. Hollings-worth stopped her three-quarters of the way through, noticing condensation fogging up the vessels. “Adina,” he called out. “You gotta wipe them!”

After the bumpy morning getting to the Sirha and some missteps in the first minutes (his knife adjustment, Guest's injury), it had been smooth sailing for the first few hours. Journalist after journalist commented to Henin that they couldn't believe how little Hollingsworth and Guest spoke to each other.

“They are not talking because they don't have to talk,” Henin told them.

But bit by bit, things were beginning to spiral out of control. Kitchen Number 6 had assumed the air of a submarine taking on water and Hollingsworth,
the commander, was doing everything he could to keep it afloat and complete his mission. It was an odd moment for reflection, but time stopped for him as a rueful conclusion rippled through his mind.
It really sucks that this was such a fast thing
, he thought. “She was making mistakes that of course she would make because she doesn't work service and that right there is ‘service time.' ”

If only they'd had more time, he thought. Then he could have positioned Guest at the canapé station at The French Laundry, right next to where he expedited, and she'd have known what he wanted before he knew it himself, and plating according to his standards would have been second nature to her. They'd have been the Astaire and Rogers of the Bocuse d'Or, waltzing their way through the last hour of the competition, instead of staggering toward the finish line. He saw them that way in his mind for a half-second, a different team having a different experience, but then the cacophony of the crowd brought him back.

In the window, Coach Henin was giving verbal updates on the remaining time: “Two minutes,” he bellowed.

The shrimp tart, such as it was, was already on the platter, as was the caviar tube. Hollingsworth began arranging matchbox car–sized wedges of potato mille-feuille around the caviar. Once again, his sense of time had abandoned him—he felt like it was taking Guest forever to clean up those custard cups, to get the melbas back inside, and to get them onto the platter, but he also recognized that time might have just been moving slowly for him. When the cups did come over, and he and Guest began setting them around the perimeter of the platter, he noticed that some of the melbas, despite the adjustment in size from the last practice, were not resting perfectly horizontally; some of them seesawed ever so slightly.