Wax - Chapter 41: Chapter 41

Twenty minutes.
Not gonna lie, I knew this was cutting it close. When I first heard that was all the time we were given in front of the judges, I thought of ditching the plan. Sure, they were giving a full half hour to prep before entrance—people were even wrapping up final touches on their plate in that time frame—but giving up the opportunity to impress just wasn't really me.
It's not the same when you see the dish you're about to eat come together before your eyes. I could've made things a walk in the park by doing what everyone else did within those thirty minutes given, but. You gotta admit. Watching an underdog in his element was likely to blow them away.
Which is the point, really.
Not everyone at try-outs was going to root for some random dude with no credentials but his father's name. It's called try-outs, right? This preliminary thing. I'm not the walking dictionary.
Anyway, yeah. Not everyone thinks I have the skills to back it up; which was reasonable. I'd been out of it for some time. Disappeared, almost. But you know what, sometimes being underestimated is good. For all you know, it can spark a flame.
We had timekeepers at every station before getting our names called into the room to be assessed and mine had that look on his face. 'Seriously? You're not gonna make it.' Written all over his face.
He held a stopwatch—something I grew up with—and nodded at the station I was assigned to when I first came into the kitchen. There were two people before me and the station in the far corner of the room was empty. I'd assumed it was Andre's. We met in the waiting room. He was first to be called. When I say met, I mean him actively avoiding my gaze and snorting every now and then. Du Bellay even offered him a tissue packet. Fucking hilarious.
Anyway. The prep room was pretty much a cemetery for the most part. Dead silent. No one talked about their dish; people kept to themselves; checked the time every now and then; put all their energy into the stuff they were presenting to the judges; and then there was me. Mortar and pestle. Pounding spices at a leisure pace.
That, and carrot-peeling. Two carrots.
Probably had my timekeeper confused. No doubt, he'd think I was going home right off the bat.
Even wheeling my cart of raw ingredients onto the set was something to react to. You could tell the entire room had no words for whatever they were seeing. After all, I hadn't much to hide. No dinner plates. No cloches. Just raw ingredients, spices and my set of knives.
We had that conversation I expected. You're not a trained chef. In a way, I wasn't. Can you really finish this under twenty?
I waited behind the countertop, staring at the judges who were standing about twenty feet up front with surprise on their faces; except him. There wasn't a word for this—even if there was, I wouldn't know—but it was the feeling of knowing he's known. All along.
Calculated risks. A friend mine. Long lost.
"Alright then. We'll see about that, Mr. Cox," Streisand nodded at the timer. On cue, it beeped to show twenty in minutes. "Your time starts now."
*
The flame I cranked up to high and on it set a pot, half-filled for a pre-boil of the vegetables that needed the heat. Mise had an order to it, no rules, but onions first. I always got the onions first. The knives were feeling it today; they must be, getting shit done faster than usual and having a nice ring to each slice and dice. Carrots were roll-cut, taking a little less than ten seconds. The potatoes I picked were on the smaller side. Waxy. Low starch, high moisture. Held better when braised. I ran a blade around the middle of each potato, peel on. Boiling them skin on adds flavor. Skin goes off after sitting in the heat for a couple of minutes. Those and the carrots went into the pot for a pre-boil once ready—timer set to two.
Garlic, minced. Chilies sliced. Scallions, French-biased. Mushrooms, whatever. Rough. I checked the timer. Just above a minute. Could've been better. Cranked up another stove for the cast iron skillet; this, for the rough paste I'd pounded earlier. Got that out, mixed it up a little, tasted it, hovered a hand over the oiled skillet, tossed in the paste.
The smell surprised me.
I think it was the room. It wasn't like I hadn't made this dish in a decade; just a week ago, the crew had this for dinner and it was high up on their list of favorites. Mine, too. The paste, I tweaked a little but the aroma as soon as it hit the skillet was the shit. This was the real deal.
"Smells incredible." Streisand said from her seat up front, arms crossed but neck slightly craned for a view of the countertop. I knew her from way back. When she used to do shows with Siegfried. "What's in that, may I ask?"
"Garlic, white peppercorns, coriander seeds, Asian shallots, chopped parsley and salt to break it up." I told her, cooking it down and hearing the nice sizzle of the spices, killing the flame just a little so that it didn't burn. Getting the chicken out and ready to go.
"Can I taste just a little?"
I looked up and it was Pao, the other guy. He'd let his seat and made his way up to my station with his hands behind his back, eyes on my skillet. Hadn't heard much of him but he seemed chill.
I nodded, handing him a spoon. He dipped the tip of it into the paste that had cooked down just before I added the chicken for searing. Skin-side down first.
"Mm! Wow." His eyes lit up and he did something with his hands. "You are serving this by itself?"
"That's the plan."
"Okay, all good. I just want to say I can see this going very well with some rice, you know? Can be any type. Even quinoa. Although I personally don't like quinoa." He laughed, nodding in thanks before heading back to his seat.
I gave it some thought while the chicken was going. It smelled incredible, sure. And I'd almost always served it on its own, without any sides to go with. I gave my cart a scan.
The kaffir limes, I'd intended as a finishing touch. The acidity would've sealed the deal. Leftover herbs included a pinch of parsley and some shallots. Checked underneath the counter. A pressure cooker. But rice. I didn't bring any.
"There's a box of essentials in the cabinet to your right. Under the sink."
I looked up from my skillet. Some twenty feet apart, but I could feel the ripples in his eyes. A pool in the midsummer evening. Waiting for the fun to start. He knew I wasn't backing out from a request.
That cabinet, I checked. In there was a small bag of ordinary white rice. I got that out, caught the look on Pao's face. Pure excitement. "Are you seriously going to do it? You don't have to, you know. You don't have much time."
I glanced at the timer. Fifteen left. Then going for two things at once—looking after the cook on the chicken, getting out the pressure cooker—I mapped out a timeline. "Cilantro lime rice. How does that sound?"
======================
Thirteen seconds to spare. Thirteen seconds to relish in the moment while cameras closed in for b-rolls and thirteen seconds to feel the adrenaline in my fingers. A friend. Long lost. The kind you'd left behind, thinking you'd never miss. Weird.
I slid the plate for tasting onto the countertop, waiting as they made their way to my station, eyes fixed on the dish. I gave a brief description of the dish as they picked up their cutlery and dug in. It was hard not to stare at him; as though something in my head had itself programmed to rest my gaze on a specific human being.
Pao was the first to speak after a spoonful, reaching in for another. "You know what this remind me of?"
I waited.
"Adobo." He smiled. "The recipe is different but it's also a type of braised chicken dish I used to eat all the time when I was young. Back home. My lola—my grandmother—she used to make it for me." He paused for a bit, ate more, and continued after. "Some food, when it's good, really lets you think about memories you thought you forgot about. And I think, to me, that is good cooking. I think that is what cooking is about."
He reached over the counter to clap me on the shoulder, a sentimental look on his face. Overall, he looked pleased. "Not saying this tastes like chicken adobo. It's very different. I just think it tastes like home. But elevated. Also, I love the rice. You surprise me, pulling out the pressure cooker last-minute. I was nervous."
Streisand laughed. "His leg—I had to watch it bounce for ten whole minutes, Mr. Cox. You owe us a favor for all that anxiety caused.
"That aside, I was not expecting a humble dish from you," she admitted, resting her fork on a napkin and turning to me with a look. Curious. "It's no secret that you have a name to live up to. Siegfried is no small figure in the industry and you are, among many other professional contestants, untrained as a chef. What is it that you do again? If I may ask."
"Firefighter."
"Ah." Her reaction was to nod, smiling. "Well. Kitchens would be nothing without firefighters." If she was referring to the huge fraction of structural fires caused by fools in kitchens, I understood. Dark humor, but very much appreciated in fire houses like mine.
Then it was his turn and everyone turned to him as I did, waiting for the payoff that was the end of the climb. View from a snow-capped mountain.
He'd set his cutlery aside like Streisand did but dabbed at his lips with another napkin, dragging out the wait as he did and the look in his eyes, as though he knew what it took to make me wait and how hard it was to resist giving him the finger.
"The peppercorns," he began. "A mild kick, but it made all the difference. Paired with the coriander seeds, of course, made the dish more than just the usual braised chicken you'd see on the menu at any diner. I assume the kaffir limes were initially meant to finish the dish? It was the only element of acidity you had, which I nearly passed off as lazy because you could have made a marinade for the chicken with that paste and the limes but—having it in the rice with other herbs and fulfilling Chef Pao's sudden request at the same time is, I admit, quite... impressive."
He seemed to finish. But I waited.
His eyes darted left, and then back at me. The tips of his ears were beginning to burn.
"The chicken was perfectly braised. So were the vegetables. Timed perfectly. I saw you picked smaller potatoes. And boiled them with the peel on. The skin of the chicken retained its crisp texture despite the sauce, so either you knew exactly what you were doing or it was pure luck. E-either way, I see you've... made an additional portion," his eyes went, again, to the left of me. At the countertop where I'd left another plate of the exact same dish. Same portions. "Why?"
I paused, following his gaze, then, turning back to him.
"For me."
The other two judges burst out laughing and I could near snorts from the camera crew on both sides of the room. He was smiling. Rolling his eyes. Shaking his head. "You idiot."
"Felt like having it for lunch," I said. And they cracked up again. He nearly had his face in his hands at this point. I guess they weren't used to chefs cooking for themselves. Which was a weird concept, I realized. Chefs were meant to cook for people other than themselves. A weird concept I could relate to.
You'd think it wouldn't hurt to do that; to do something entirely for the sake of one sole person.
"Okay Li-roy, I can call you that, right? Li-roy. I think we don't need to discuss. YOU IN." Pao said with his arms open and I stood blank for a second before leaning down a little and he came in hot with a hug. It caught me off guard. I turned to his counterparts. They seemed to agree. "See you in a week. Ay you can go eat your lunch now." He let me off.
The director called 'cut' and the crew rushed about to prep for the next contestant.
I'd cleared my station while the chicken was braising in the skillet so I hadn't much remaining on the bench. Tossing a couple of spare plates onto the cart, my set of knives and my lunch, I reached for the tasting plate that was nearly clean—only to upset a little snowstorm with his cutlery in hand, eyeing the last spoonful of chicken and rice.
He stared. I stared.
I slid the plate away from him just for a tease and saw his shoulders droop. Laughing, I returned it to its original position and nodded at the plate. He gave me a look, indignant, before digging in all the same.
"Mr. Cox," some assistant came running up to my station. "Oh, you're done. That was fast. We have your private interview scheduled next. This way please." She gestured for me to follow. I nodded, grabbing my cart.
Halfway across the room, I looked over my shoulder. He noticed; raising his hand a little. A tiny wave.
Ah, fuck. The suit was sexy on him.
I headed out the set through a door that led to a different hallway and followed the assistant into another area for waiting. Just several feet from the door and already, Andre's voice was blasting out of it before I got anywhere close. The assistant looked like she didn't want anything to do with the shit going down in the waiting room so she left me and my cart right outside before hurrying back on set.
Okay.
"—pity points? Just because you're a woman now? No one's buying that shit, Anthony."
I'd wheeled my cart into the room just to see Andre and Siegfried's sous chef in the middle of a stand-off. Andre had a finger in her face. The other had her arms crossed. They were hard to miss, standing right before the entrance. I pretty much had nowhere else to go 'cuz no cart was going to make its way between them unless it flew and I could tell we were supposed to park them on the other end of the room.
So I ended up just standing there, between the two. Staring.
Andre noticed first. He looked surprised to see me in the waiting room. Supposedly for the people who made it past try-outs. The dude before me was missing. Guess he didn't make it.
"What the hell do you want?" He sneered, fucking around with his hands on his hips. Defensive. "Stay out of this, Cox."
I stared. If anything, Andre was an expert at bringing out the challenge in any situation. Literally, everything he said, I felt like doing the exact opposite of. I left my cart and got close, standing just a foot away from the two. Hands in my pockets.
Andre was not happy. "I said, it's none of your business, you arse."
All I really did was stand there. In his space. Staring still.
My silence got to him; like he'd been looking to tease a reaction out of me but I wasn't giving him any of that so he basically had nothing to get off on. Which ended up having him look like a fool, speaking to himself.
"Fucking idiots." He finished under his breath, turning away from my gaze and moving far from the other chef in the room, toward a couple of seats lined up.
There was another door at the end of the room and someone emerged from it, calling Andre's name and instantly his expression went from angry kid to standard douchebag. I couldn't care less.
With him out of the way, I could have the cart parked near the seats and finally get to lunch. It was getting cold.
"Leroy, right?" Siegfried's sous chef had followed suit, returning to the seat beside her cart in front of mine.
"Yeah," was all I said, getting out my plate of chicken and rice and digging in. Rice could be better. Needed an extra minute to rest and fluff up. Chicken was good though.
"Thank you."
"I just stood there."
"Well, yes, but you did look intimidating."
I paused. "I did?"
"Yes. I mean... you're built different, for one." She explained. I didn't get it.
"... okay."
"Antoinette Du Bellay," she extended a hand. I took it so that I could get back to lunch. Truth was, I'd seen her around back when I was homeschooled. Siegfried liked giving me tours of his restaurants as a substitute for the kind of learning journeys public schools had. Back then, she'd already been working in some of 'em. Not as sous chef though. And under a different name.
"Andre's different whenever Siegfried isn't around," she sighed, leaning against the backrest of her chair. "I never know how to deal with people like him. I'm amazed anyone does."
I shrugged. I noticed she had her eyes fixed on my lunch.
"Leftovers from just now?"
"I made extra for myself," I corrected. Like the two other judges, she burst out laughing.
"You know you're not actually allowed to do that."
"...was that a rule?"
"Yeah, kinda."
"...was there a contract?"
"Uh... no, not really."
I shrugged. "Then it's not a rule."
"Oh Leroy." She shook her head, laughing. As though she was my aunt or something and I'd broken a couple of rules at school and she was the one driving me home. Weird. She didn't feel very distant.
She left me to enjoy my lunch in silence, tidying her cart as I did. Then out of no fucking where, her stomach growled. I mean, there was the sound and, uh, pretty sure it wasn't me 'cuz I was in the middle of taking good care of it, so. Figured it was hers.
We exchanged a look. And then she quickly excused herself and cleared her throat, returning to her seat.
"... you want some?"
I held out my plate. She blinked at it. Seemed a little reluctant. "I couldn't... possibly... I mean, you made it for yourself."
I didn't get her. "It's braised chicken with some cilantro lime rice."
She stared at it, then gave in to the temptation; grabbing spare cutlery from her cart and receiving the plate with two hands, thanking me twice.
"Oh my god," she said after digging in. "This is... really, really good. There's something about it that's... comforting. I can imagine having this in a cozy diner, but totally underpaying for something so elevated despite being so... home-y."
"Thanks."
She went in for another spoonful. My lunch. :(
"I can see your influences," Du Bellay went on. She seemed to like the dish a lot. "Siegfried must have taught you the recipe for braised chicken. I've tasted something similar, just, more... high-end, you know what I mean? Without the hominess. If that's a word. I think it's the spices you used... it roots the palate and warms the heart. Very much like your mother's cooking."
I kinda spaced out there since she was depleting my lunch at a speed I wasn't very happy with but the thought of her knowing Annie's style of cooking was a little strange. Siegfried was never proud of Annie's diner. Pretty much no one at his restaurants knew about it.
Weird that she did.
=================
There was a week between try-outs and the show's first official round. Held locally. Then came the world trip. Thirteen of us in total. Of which, I knew three. Including myself. The rest was like a mystery-thing. They'd let us meet on the first day and kept everything else under wraps. Which wasn't a big deal, since this was never about the other people participating in the first place.
They had a private Q&A session after the individual interview thing I did and I asked about bringing pets along for the trip. The crew seemed surprised. Apparently, someone else had asked the same question and because they were key personnel (by this point, I'd already guessed), they were in the process of making arrangements. I signed up for that. They asked to send details about Chicken. So I did.
Over the week of nothing, I was back to my usual routine of dropping by the fire house, heading off to the bistro, leaving before Andre came in for his restaurant shift in the evening, and then going for a run with my boy in the evening after dinner with station twelve.
There were times, I admit, I would just stare at the screen of my phone.
It wasn't going to ring or buzz. And I didn't know what the fuck it was I was waiting around for. But I just did. Couldn't help it.
Then on the third day of the week after try-outs, in the middle of my shift heading the bistro kitchen, head waiter Charles came bursting into the kitchen with this look on his face like the world was about fuck itself up.
"A critic's here." He breathed. "It's him. The one with the really pale hair—holy shit guys."