Taste Test (9 page)

Authors: Kelly Fiore

BOOK: Taste Test

13.69Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

“Okay … marker.” He sits back down. “And … ACTION.”

This is it? No coaching, no “get ready, it’s happening now”?

Nervously, I run a hand through my hair and watch as the judges, dressed in crisp suits, enter through a door on the right of the arena. They assemble in front of us, stony faced and silent.

“CUT!”

The director mutters something to his assistant, then nods. “Okay, let’s try it again.”

The entire first hour continues like this—minute-long bursts of filming, followed by endless adjustments and retakes. I’m beginning to understand why being an actor is such hard work. My feet are starting to ache and my neck could use a good massage.

I try not to move too much—every time one of us changes position, we have to do another take. It’s pretty tedious and I find myself itching for the actual challenge. The good news is that, once we start cooking, there won’t be multiple takes. Instead, half a dozen camera men will crowd around us like paparazzi, trying to catch every sizzle and bubble in every pot and pan.

“We need you to stand in two lines, facing each other. Line up accordingly—Dillon, to the left. Kelsey, to the right. Lawrence, to the left …”

Marcus directs each of us to one side or the other until we’re standing in two equal rows. His assistant hands out aprons monogrammed with our names and the
Taste Test
logo.

“Each of you will take one slip of paper.”

I watch as Holden Prescott walks slowly along the line, waiting for each person to reach into the clear glass bowl he’s holding. Is it just my imagination, or does he stop a little bit longer in front of Joy? She smiles at him, practically salivating. When he walks away from her, I think I see her eyes flash something hard—anger, maybe? Jealousy? When she notices me staring at her, though, she blinks and shoots me a dirty
look. I grin back at her sweetly. A dozen jokes race through my mind about her and Pants-Off-Prescott.

He gets to me and I remove a piece of paper from the bowl. We aren’t allowed to look at what they say yet. Instead, we stand impatiently until the last person from each row has chosen.

“The words on these slips of paper,” Ms. Svincek begins, sweeping an arm over the group of us, “are words that represent what it’s like to live and compete in the world that is
Taste Test
. Using your designated word, and the ingredients at your disposal, you must create something that represents the emotion or power that word holds for you. You will have”—she glances at her watch—“one hour to complete your dish. Let’s start the clock please.”

A large, electronic countdown clock on the wall above us flashes “1:00:00” in red.

“And … BEGIN!”

The air around me combusts into a mixture of crumpling paper, clanging pans, and feet clamoring toward the pantry and freezers. I wait until almost everyone has fled the arena floor before opening my little white paper and reading my word.

Unsure, I read it again.

My word is “insomnia.”

I don’t want to look like a moron just standing here and wasting time. But the words “drawing a blank” have never been so applicable to me in my life.

How do I cook the inability to sleep?
What can I possibly make that will represent this word in a way that’s both clever and
delicious? I feel the panic rise in my chest. Unable to do anything else, I head for the pantry. The shelves have been ravaged by the time I get there, but my mind is clinging to an idea that I can run with.

Caffeine.

The one cure for lack of sleep.

The one thing that can jolt you back to a functional state.

And caffeine means two things, at least in my world—coffee and chocolate.

I find a variety of coffee beans in vacuum-sealed sacks and choose a dark Kona blend. Nearby, there are two or three brands of cocoa. I pick the one with the highest percentage of cacao.

I haven’t figured all this out yet, but one thing’s for sure—I can’t just make a cup of espresso or a chocolate cake. I need to pull together some kind of main course. Something that reflects me and the word I’ve so unfortunately drawn.

The kitchen is emitting everything all at once—heat, steam, yelling, cursing, flames, and, most obviously, friction. Two guys, Patrick and Jason, are already in a heated debate over whose saucepan is whose. The cameras crowd around them like hungry lions.

I let ingredients run through my mind as I set up my station.

Coffee … cocoa …
cayenne
.

A dry rub! Perfect.

But what about meat? I’m sure the good cuts have already been claimed. I open the refrigerator closest to me and scan
through what’s left. On the bottom shelf, I see two untouched packages of baby back ribs.

Bull’s-eye.

Anyone who’s ever competed—runners, swimmers, dancers—knows that you get into a zone where it’s not about what you think, but what you do. Your hands and feet move as though they are controlled by some inner force. Only a few minutes in, I feel that zone take over for my thoughts. It’s not about Christian or Joy or Prescott or anything else right now. It’s not even about me. It’s about the food. Time doesn’t exist. I work in a way that’s almost automatic, like what I’m doing is the only thing I could, or should, be doing at all.

I’ve just portioned my ribs onto the judges’ plates when the timer runs out. I look around me at the hands rushing to finish things up, the faces dripping with sweat. There are still pots on the stove and pans in the oven. The judges seem unimpressed by the half-finished appearance of some of the plates. I sprinkle on a last dusting of chili powder before pushing my dish to one side of the counter.

The judges begin making their rounds, stopping at each plate. They scrutinize the appearance of the food first before tasting it. There are a lot of steaks, a lot of red meat in general. I’m glad I didn’t even try to go in that direction, and I’m even gladder that I’m the only person who made a pork dish. Since it’s so easy to overcook, I’m sure people were afraid to screw it up on the first shot. But, for me, cooking ribs is like brushing my teeth. It’s a daily occurrence.

It’s interesting to see what the judges like and what they aren’t blown away by. Madame Bouchon described Joy’s lobster bisque with roasted corn and potato shreds as “decadent and comforting at the same time.” Unfortunately, Gigi’s play on a deconstructed Waldorf salad doesn’t seem to please anyone. Prescott practically spit out his mouthful, then complained about the “inedible texture and lack of seasoning.”

“Now, this is what I’m talking about.” Chef Mason smiles, looking up from Christian’s dish. He’s taken sea bass and roasted it with fennel and beets, then topped it with a microgreen salad.

Ms. Svincek takes a bite and looks equally pleased.

“Well, well, well. We have a contender here, folks.”

Christian looks directly at me and winks. I want to slap that smug expression off his stupid, too-handsome face.

“Nora Henderson.” Gloria Bouchon gives me a nod. “Can you tell us about your dish?”

I take a deep breath. I try to forget about the cameras that are trained on my every move and the challengers waiting for me to screw up.

“Well, my word was ‘insomnia.’ When I think of lack of sleep, I think of how to remedy it. For me, that’s caffeine.”

I wave a hand over the platter.

“I’ve prepared baby back ribs with a coffee-cocoa-cayenne dry rub and three-chili macaroni and cheese.”

One of the director’s assistants moves forward and starts unceremoniously sawing apart the ribs.

“Am I just supposed to … pick it up?” Madame Bouchon asks, sounding a little disgusted.

“Um … yeah …” I feel a stab of panic—why did I think that these people in their nice clothes would want to gnaw on pig bones? I watch as each of them takes a bite. Then another. Chef Mason is the first to speak.

“Strong aroma. Nice crust on the meat. Is this a recipe you’ve made before?”

“It’s an adaptation of my dad’s dry rub. He owns a barbecue restaurant in North Carolina.”

Somewhere in the arena, I hear a snort of laughter. I can feel my face redden.

“Well, Ms. Henderson,” Chef Mason says, smiling, “you’ve certainly made good use of your time today.”

“I agree.” Ms. Svincek nods. “Excellent flavor and texture, Nora. I would imagine that, as the competition progresses, you’ll be someone to watch.”

They liked it.

I’m
someone to watch
.

I exhale slowly, a bubble of giddiness inflating in my chest. It only deflates when I remember what’s still to come.

The Elimination Table is the viewers’ favorite segment of the show and the one the contestants dread most. We all have to sit on uncomfortable stools in front of a long stainless-steel table while each of the judges grills us on the techniques we used or choices we made. It’s grueling and nerve-racking, which is why it makes such good television. The show draws it out longer and longer every season; the competitors are hunched over in pain by the time they’re excused from the arena.

“Now.” Chef Mason speaks first, his voice is deep and resonating. “This Elimination Table will be different than others you’ve seen in the past. In fact, it will change
everything
about this season from here on out.”

My heart stutters a bit before picking up where it left off, a little harder and a little more quickly.

I guess we should have expected something like this. Every first episode has a surprise, a change in the show that serves to shock the audience and trip up the competitors. Once, they brought in three alumni from
Taste Test UK
to compete against the new contestants. Another time, they had each competitor cook for a famous celebrity chef, who in turn chose the winners—and losers. I can only imagine what they’ve decided to do this time.

I glance at Angela, who shrugs, then at Joy, who is examining her fingernails in the halogen lights. Against my better judgment, I look over at Christian, too; he’s staring straight ahead, his face blank.

Like
he
has anything to worry about, anyway. I’m sure Daddy’s reputation will keep him in until the end.

“As you already know,” Chef Mason continues, “an elimination challenge requires someone to be excused from the show. To be eighty-sixed, if you will.”

Chef Mason’s face is serene, expressionless.

“This time, however, we aren’t eliminating one contestant.”

He takes a breath and time seems to stutter to a halt.

“We’re eliminating four of you.”

There’s a shifting in the air around me, as though everyone’s stopped breathing entirely. My head is spinning. Four
people?! The idea of
one
elimination is nerve-racking enough—but
FOUR
? Hell, there are only twenty of us here in the first place!

Gigi is sitting beside me and I can’t resist turning to look at her. Her eyes mirror what I feel, what everyone seems to be feeling—shock, horror, and, most of all, fear.

The crew adjusts their cameras and Marcus leans forward in anticipation. The judges take their seats and Ms. Svincek gives us a smile that can only be called menacing.

“Let the interrogations begin!”

Director’s Notes