Taste Test (24 page)

“So, honored guests, please bid the contestants good-bye—for now, that is. And, contestants, head to your stations.”

I turn to my dad and Billy and give them a small smile.

“Off to work I go.”

Dad slings an arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “We’ll see you at judging, pumpkin. Knock ’em dead!”

He heads toward the door with the rest of the visitors. Billy pauses and puts both hands on my shoulders.

“You totally rock this show—you know that, kid?”

I can’t help but grin. “Of course—I rock everything I do.”

“That’s the attitude you need to win this thing.”

He reaches a hand up and moves a strand of hair from my face. Something flutters deep in my stomach.

“I’ll see you,” he says, bending down and pressing his lips to my forehead. Over his shoulder, I see Christian watching us. Billy gives me a wink before passing through the doors, and they shut loudly behind him.

I’m grinding spices when Christian wanders into my station and leans against the counter. I press the button and pretend I don’t see him. The peppercorns spin and pulverize into tiny flecks of their former selves. Unfortunately, Christian decides to wait patiently until they’ve reached the right consistency.

“Can I help you?” I finally ask.

“That guy. Is he your boyfriend?”

I give him a sugary smile. “No, actually, that’s my dad. I’m not really into older guys.”

“Har-har.”

“Why do you care, anyway? Blondie or Bambi or whatever her name is seemed
very
pleased to be back in your presence.”

Christian raises his eyebrows. “Well, can you blame her?”

“Guess there’s no accounting for taste,” I grumble as he heads back to his station.

By the time our two hours are up, I’ve succeeded in burning my fish twice and curdling my first batch of mango butter. I don’t know why I’m so off tonight, but it doesn’t help knowing that Christian’s girlfriend-person-thingy is going to be eating my dish and I haven’t laced it with some sort of laxative or something.

I think I’m more bothered, though, about the fact that I care so much. I try to erase her, and him, from my mind as I plate my food.

Judging takes place in the usual room, but a long dining table has replaced the typical setup. The judges and all the guests are seated side by side, like a surreal, televised Thanksgiving dinner. All of the contestants line up parallel to the table. I rock back and forth on my heels, trying not to let my nerves show. Chef Mason stands to greet us as a dozen servers file in carrying trays of food.

“As you can see, we’ll be trying your creations one by one. Each of you will hear the critiques of all the dishes, including your own.”

A few people nod. I wonder if everyone else feels the same trepidation I do. Having a dozen people I don’t know try my food in front of me is completely nerve-racking. There’s a reason why chefs stay in the kitchen.

They start with Pierce’s rib eye with asparagus risotto, then Kelsey’s chipotle chicken. Aside from some minor complaints (the beef is too rare, the chicken’s too dry), most of the guests are very complimentary. In some ways it’s a relief—in others, it’s a disappointment. This is the reason why you don’t give things to your family to judge. They can’t possibly be impartial critics of your work.

“And now we’re on to Nora Henderson’s blackened mahimahi with mango butter,” Madame Bouchon announces, reading the description off a card in front of her.

“Blackened is right,” Christian says, loud enough for the table to hear. “She burnt it the first two times she cooked it.”

“Whatever—your pork looks like tree bark,” I growl at him.

“Ahem.” Chef Mason clears his throat. “Contestants, please withhold your commentary until Elimination Table.”

“Besides, practice makes perfect,” Madame Bouchon says breezily. She gives me an encouraging smile.

The servers walk around the table, presenting a plate to each person. For a moment, there is complete silence, aside from the clink of forks on porcelain.

“Nice and spicy,” Ms. Svincek nods. “I like that the mango butter has a creamy texture. It really cuts through the heat of the pepper.”

“I agree.” Pierce’s sister is nodding. “I like the combination of flavors.”

“I don’t know …”

I turn to see Blondie poking at her fish with a fork, frowning.

“I think it’s a little dry. And the spices are too thick, more like a crust.”

I can’t help but glare at her. What the hell does she know, anyway? The last meal she probably had was a Tic Tac.

The rest of the table has their say. My dad, of course, loves it, calling it a “fish rub my granddaddy would be proud of.” Billy grins at me when he says, “It’s got true, Southern flavor with a sophisticated spin.”

“Sophisticated. Please.” Christian scoffs under his breath. I give him a beatific smile.

So by the time we get to his dish, I’m ready to walk out or punch something. When his peppercorn pork loin is presented, everyone admires the crusty roast resting on a bed of greens. Christian moves forward to the head of the table and begins to slice the meat.

“Carving is an important skill to have,” he says, smiling at the table. Then he glances back at me. “That can be hard to
understand if you’ve only ever cooked cheap cuts of meat—the kind you chop or shred. Or spit back out.”

I watch my dad’s face turn red, then purple, and his lips press into a hard line. Billy looks like he might jump up and grab the knife out of Christian’s hand. I decide not to react, even though I’m fuming. Making fun of me is one thing, but going after my dad and his cooking is completely uncalled for. I remind myself that when the table actually gets to taste Christian’s food, Dad and Billy will have a chance to stick it to him.

“This is probably the driest pork I’ve ever eaten,” Billy complains a minute later, chewing as though it’s leather. “I don’t know how you cooked this, man, but it’s tough as all get-out.”

Only because we have to be silent during our own judging, Christian stands stock-still and doesn’t respond. Actually, he doesn’t even look at Billy; he’s got his eyes trained on Blondie. I watch him wink at her and she giggles. I struggle with my gag reflex.

“You know, pork can be a pretty challenging meat to cook, especially when the cut has very little fat,” my dad puts in, giving Christian a kind smile. “You could always wrap some bacon around the loin—like a little cushion to add some moisture to the meat.”

Christian’s expression is tight. He doesn’t smile back.

When we’re excused to wait for elimination, the contestants file out of the room. Once we’re in the hall, though, I speed up and tap Christian’s shoulder. He turns around and, upon seeing me, rolls his eyes.

“What is it, Henderson?”

“You want to explain why you found it necessary to insult my father
and
my best friend? They make their living working with—what did you call it? Cheap meat? That’s crap, Christian, a low blow, and just plain mean.”

Pierce walks over and moves between the two of us, as though to prevent a full-on attack. Christian leans against the wall and crosses his arms.

“Best friend, huh?”

“Yes,” I snap, “Billy is my best friend. I’ve known him since middle school and we’ve been friends ever since. He works for my dad. Happy now?”

“It doesn’t make a difference to me what he is to you—but, just so you know, that friendship is completely one-sided.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Willy, or whatever his name is, sure isn’t thinking ‘friendship’ when he looks at you.”

I shake my head, beyond done with this whole conversation.

“
Billy
,” I say, emphasizing the
B
, “is none of your business. Clearly you have your hands full with your own visitor, so how about laying off mine?”

“Okay, okay,” Christian says, holding up both hands. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

“Trust me.” I practically spit the words. “You have no effect on my panties.”

“Well, for someone whose panties aren’t affected, you sure seem upset.”

“Why don’t you go practice slicing something?” I yell as
Gigi pulls me away by the sleeve. “You let me know if you need some help figuring out how to cook pork correctly.”

“When I need your advice, I’ll ask for it,” he shoots back.

“Come on, Nora. He’s not worth it,” Gigi says, tugging my arm again.

I don’t say anything in response. Instead, I wrench my arm away from her and head toward wardrobe, feeling furious for being so furious and for caring at all.

Guest Judge One-On-One

Judd Henderson

Producer (P):
     Mr. Henderson, welcome. It’s a pleasure to have you here.

Judd Henderson (JH):
     Please, call me Judd.

P:
     Well, Judd, you must be very proud of your daughter, Nora.

JH:
     [nods] Absolutely. She’s doin’ real good.

P:
     Yes, exceptionally well. She may even end up in Paris next fall!

JH:
     [crosses arms] Yeah, I guess that’s a good possibility now.

P:
     And how do you feel about that? Having your daughter halfway across the world?

JH:
     Well, now, I know it’ll be a challenge. Nora and me—we’ve always been real close. I know she’ll be missed at home.

P:
     Yes, speaking of home—I know that the young man joining you today, Billy, is one of Nora’s closest friends.

JH:
     Yes, indeedy. Billy ’n’ Nora are like brother and sister. It’s been that way for years.

P:
     Brother and sister … I was thinking there might be something more …
romantic
there.

JH:
     [removes hat, rubs head] I’m not really in the habit of discussing my daughter’s love life.

P:
     Of course. I’m sure it’s strange for you to discuss Nora’s potential boyfriend. Or boy
friends
, as the case may be here.

JH:
     Meaning?

P:
     [smiles] Let’s just say that Billy isn’t the
only
one potentially harboring affections for your daughter. It seems like Christian Van Lorton has his own feelings to contend with.

JH:
     Oh lordy. [covers face] See, now—this is why some fathers don’t let their daughters out of the house till they’re twenty-one!

Chapter Sixteen

You Always Hurt the Ones You Like(ish)

At the dim Italian restaurant, the table is being monitored by a stationary camera and a hanging microphone, just in case anything show worthy happens over our Bolognese. Dad immediately walks over to the bar, so Billy and I sit down across from each other and wait for him to come back.

“You did good tonight, Nors!” he says enthusiastically. “Another win under your belt—that’s gotta feel good.”

I nod. The win was definitely a plus, but Christian’s loss is what really makes me feel victorious.

“So now that it’s down to the final four—I mean, you’ve only got one more challenge until the finale. That’s got to be nerve-racking.”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder.” I kick him under the table and he winces.

“Sorry. I guess the last thing you need is more pressure right now, huh?”

“It’s all right. It’s just supertense here, that’s all. Sometimes I don’t want to have to talk about the competition—I just want to talk about regular stuff.”

He reaches across the table and pats my hand. For a split second, his fingers curl around mine before letting go. I feel a little warm in my sweater.

“All righty.” Dad plops down next to me, Budweiser in hand. “What are we talkin’ about?”

“Anything but
Taste Test
,” Billy says, leaning back in his chair. I notice he’s gotten a fresh haircut—he looks more preppy than usual. He cocks his head a little, his smile unfolding into an outright grin. I look down at my hands, trying to figure out why I suddenly feel so shy, so awkward around my best friend.

But once the three of us start eating and talking, it is just like old times. I mean, I can’t even attempt to count how many nights Dad, Billy, and I sat around a table at Smoke Signals, just talking about life. The awkwardness doesn’t resurface, even after dinner when Billy and I take a long walk on campus.

“So school’s the same?” I ask him. He shrugs.

“What do you think? Nothing ever changes around that place.”

“Celia Franklin still asking you out every other day?”

He smirks, puffing out his chest a little. “Of course. What do you expect? The freshmen girls are completely infatuated with me.”

“Ugh,” I groan. “I leave for four months and already you’ve become a total man-whore.”

“Oh, you think so?”

In a split second, he manages to get my arm pinned behind my back and uses his free hand to tickle my side, which is by far my most sensitive spot. I yelp and try to squirm away from him, but he just holds me tighter. We both struggle a little, out of breath and red faced.