Deep Dish (22 page)

T
ate watched the judges’ faces carefully. Their dishes had been delivered to the judges for what Adelman called a blind tasting, and he fervently hoped that justice would, indeed, be blind.

Deidre Delaney lifted a tiny forkful of the tenderloin, held it in front of her nose, and sniffed delicately. She turned the fork this way and that, put the fork down, made a note on a clipboard beside her plate, picked the fork up again, and finally took a bite.

She chewed slowly, closing her eyes, nodding thoughtfully. She made another note, then took a tiny bit of the sweet potato fritter and tasted, nodding some more.

“Overcooked,” she pronounced. “Not to mention clichéd.”

At least, Tate thought, she wasn’t holding her nose or gagging.

Beau Stapleton had taken a knife and was quite deliberately separating out all the elements of his dishes before tasting, like a kid pushing the peas aside from the mashed potatoes on a school lunch plate. He’d take a bite, chew, take a healthy swig of the wine on the table by his plate, and then take another bite.

Toni Bailey, on the other hand, pulled her plate toward her and happily dug in, attacking the pork and sweet potatoes with reckless abandon, the way southern cooking was meant to be approached, he’d decided.

“Nice,” she said aloud, scribbling a note on the clipboard at her place. “The meat is tender and flavorful, and I love the fig and pepper glaze. I’m gonna have to steal that idea, for sure.”

“Looks like you’ve got at least one fan,” Gina said.

They were sitting off camera, watching the judges from a couple of folding chairs they’d dragged up to one of the monitors at the assistant producer’s table.

“Thanks, Reggie,” he said, glancing over at her.

Adelman had called for a break between shots, and she’d hurried off the set. Fifteen minutes later, she was back, showered and changed into clean clothes—a brightly flowered cotton sundress and sandals. She wore little or no makeup, and with her still-damp hair and sunburn, she looked like a teenager just back from spring break in Panama City Beach.

Zaleski was hovering around her, trying to get her to eat some of the sandwiches and fruit that Iris and Inez had sent over for the cast and crew, but she just waved him away.

“I can’t eat anything. I’m too nervous. And all your fluttering around isn’t helping. So please, just leave me be.”

When Zaleski had wandered away, Tate yawned widely. “You’re not hungry? I’m starved. I could eat that whole cobbler of yours.”

“Maybe later. Not that it matters. You’ve won this round,” she said, not taking her eyes off the judges. “But don’t count me out yet.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he replied. “Check out Deidre’s face. She doesn’t look overly impressed. And she’s hardly touched anything.”

“Yeah, but Toni Bailey’s digging on your stuff.”

“What’s with this Stapleton dude?” Tate asked. “I can’t tell whether he likes it or hates it. Do you know anything about him? Ever eaten in one of his restaurants?”

“Just once, unfortunately,” Gina said, tucking a strand of damp hair behind one ear. “Let’s just say it was a memorable experience. For both of us.”

“Look,” Tate said. “They’re starting in on your soup.”

“It’s probably cold by now,” she fretted.

Deidre Delaney lifted a spoon to her lips and tasted. “Beautiful presentation,” she said, lifting up one of the chive blossoms Gina had floated on top of the soup bowl. “And the silkiness of the corn
doesn’t overwhelm the delicacy of the crabmeat. Although I would have liked a little heat to the finish.”

“Daggumit,” Gina said. “I should have added one of Iris’s peppers. But I was worried about repeating too much of the deviled crab flavors.”

Toni Bailey wasn’t stopping to make notes. She was lapping up the soup like a contented kitten, not stopping until her bowl was empty.

“Now that’s a winner,” she declared. “The essence of southern summer flavors. It’s easy to get too precious with all this layering of flavors that’s the hot ticket right now. But this chef understands that simple, fresh ingredients don’t need any embellishments.”

Gina let out the breath she’d been holding and beamed proudly. “She really gets my food,” she said.

“You must be joking,” Beau Stapleton declared, pushing his nearly full bowl aside. “I can’t believe either of you liked the chowder. It was watery, insipid. Lacking in imagination. And,” he said, holding out his spoon with a flourish, “I found a huge chunk of crab shell in my bowl. If a line cook in one of my restaurants pulled a rookie stunt like that, I’d fire them on the spot.”

Gina clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “I was in such a hurry, I must have missed it. That’s it,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “He’s right. I blew it.”

“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Tate said, patting her knee. “It’s just one dish. And the other two seemed to love the chowder.”

“No,” Gina said, shaking her head emphatically. “He knows which dishes are mine. And he won’t let me win. It’s not fair, but that’s how it is.”

“Huh?”

“I’m not saying you don’t deserve to win this round,” she said quickly. “I mean, you went out with a kid’s fishing pole and a glorified butter knife and somehow managed to come back with a pork tenderloin. It was totally MacGyver.”

“Shh,” one of the sound tech guys told them. “We’re rolling here.”

“Sorry,” they both whispered.

Beau Stapleton reached for the next plate on the table. “Crab again?” he said nastily.

Gina jumped up. “I can’t watch any more of this. I’m about to jump out of my skin.”

“Shhh!” Barry Adelman glared at her.

H
e found her on the front porch of the lodge, prowling back and forth.

She stopped in her tracks when she caught sight of him. “Is it over? What did they say?”

Tate had to laugh. “Would you relax? They finished deconstructing your deviled crabs, and Barry gave everybody a break before they come back to dessert.”

“What’d they say?” she asked. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to get any more depressed than I already am.”

“Toni loved ’em, Deidre would have liked ‘a little more heat.’ The woman probably puts jalapeños on her oatmeal.”

She had to ask. “And Beau?”

“Can’t understand why you used so much breading. ‘A little seasoning and a lot of crab—that’s all they need.’ That’s the gospel according to Beau.”

“I only used the barest minimum of cracker crumbs!” she wailed. “You’ve got to have something as a binder. Anyway, that’s the authentic Eutaw Island recipe for deviled crabs.”

He shrugged. “I think maybe you’re right. The dude just doesn’t like you. Or your food. But don’t let it bother you. Deidre Delaney’s not exactly president of the Tate Moody fan club.”

“Really? She knows you?”

“We’ve met,” he said succinctly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just that we’re probably in a draw. Deidre hates my guts, Stapleton’s got it in for you. That makes Toni the wild card.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel better,” Gina said, pacing
again. Then she stopped and whirled around. “Hey! What’s up with that? Why are you suddenly on my side?”

“It’s not so sudden,” he said.

They heard a horn beeping then, and turned to see D’John speeding toward them on a golf cart.

He pulled alongside the porch. “All right, you two,” he drawled. “Barry wants you back at the set ASAP. The judges are ready to score the first round. But first, I have got to find a way to make both of you look presentable.”

Tate bowed in Gina’s direction. “Age before beauty,” he said with a grin.

D’
John was brushing powder over Gina’s face—a shame, Tate thought, to cover up those freckles—when Lisa strolled into the makeup room.

“Hey!” she started.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Gina said glumly. “I lost.”

“Who knows?” Lisa said, hopping into the empty chair next to her sister and uncapping a bottle of water. “The judges have been bickering for an hour now.”

“What are they saying?” Tate asked.

“I can’t really hear anything. But that Deidre chick threw a glass of wine in Beau Stapleton’s face a little while ago. And not long after that, the black lady—Toni? She got so mad she stomped off the set and Zeke had to go get her and beg her to come back.”

“But I thought you said they were ready for us,” Gina said, blotting her lips on the tissue D’John offered her.

“That’s what they told me,” he said. “Barry’s exact words were, ‘Get ’em ready and get ’em on the set.’”

“Yeah,” Lisa said. “I’m supposed to take you back over there now.”

“Lisa! Why didn’t you say so?” Gina asked, unfastening the plastic cape D’John had placed around her neck.

“You didn’t ask. Anyway, I still don’t think there’s any hurry.”

Zeke was standing outside the door to the ballroom when they pulled up in the golf carts.

“All set?” he asked.

“I’m good,” Tate said.

“Me too,” Gina said. “Where do you want us?”

“Actually, we’re not quite ready for you yet,” Zeke said, glancing down at the clipboard he held in his right hand. “We’re changing the lights around, and Barry decided to give the crew a dinner break so we don’t go into overtime.”

“So, what now?” Tate asked.

“You could get dinner—it’s set up in the lodge—”

“No,” Gina said quickly. “I can’t eat.”

“Or you could hang out in the production trailer. I think that’s where Val and Scott are.” Zeke walked around to the side of the ballroom and gestured toward a big white mobile home that had the TCC Network logo painted in red and black on the side.

“Where’d that come from?” Gina asked.

“Barry had it brought over this morning,” Zeke explained. “He wants to go ahead and do some of the postproduction work here before we all head back to the mainland.” Zeke opened the trailer door and motioned them inside. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he promised. “Can I get anybody anything?”

Lisa giggled and whispered something in his ear, and his fair skin flushed a vivid pink.

The inside of the trailer was nothing like a mobile home. One whole wall was taken up with television monitors and a control board with what looked like more switches, dials, and buttons than a NASA cockpit.

Opposite the electronic gear, four leather swivel chairs were bolted to the floor, surrounding a small table littered with coffee cups, water bottles, and paper.

Scott Zaleski sat in one chair, Val Foster in the one opposite him. They were both madly typing away on their BlackBerrys.

“Hi,” Scott said, looking up from his PDA. “Is it time?”

“Nope,” Lisa said, stepping inside right behind her sister and Tate. “The crew’s taking a break.”

“Sit here,” Scott said, getting up and gesturing toward his chair.

“Thanks,” Tate said, dropping down.

Scott glared. “I meant Gina.”

“Let him be,” Gina said. “I’m too nervous to sit.”

“I’m not,” Lisa said, sitting beside Val.

“This is cozy,” Val said, looking around the room before going back to her BlackBerry.

“I thought you couldn’t get service over here,” Gina said, peering over Scott’s shoulder.

“You can in this thing,” Scott said, tapping away. “Did you see the size of that antenna?”

Gina sat down at a chair in front of the control panel. “It looks like they’re still arguing,” she said, tapping at a monitor that showed the judge’s table.

Tate got up to look for himself. The three judges did indeed seem involved in some kind of heated debate.

“They’ve been at it for two hours now,” Scott commented, not looking up.

“We figure it’s a stalemate,” Val added. “Deidre hates Tate. Seems like Beau’s got it in for Gina. Toni Bailey’s the wild card, but she can’t seem to get either one of them to budge.”

“Wait! That’s totally unfair. Does Barry know about this?” Lisa wanted to know.

“We told him. He thinks it’s great. Says it adds ‘intrigue’ to the food fight,” Val said.

“Prick,” Scott muttered.

Tate spun around in his chair. “So what do we do now?”

“We wait,” Val said. “But at least I can get some work done on the shows we start taping once we go home.” She went back to her BlackBerry. Scott did the same.

Time passed. Tate found a deck of cards and dealt a hand of solitaire. Gina and Lisa shared a two-year-old back issue of
People
magazine Lisa found in the trailer’s postage-stamp-size bathroom.

“I’m bored!” Lisa announced after an hour.

“Can’t dance, and it’s too wet to plow,” Gina said mildly.

“What the hell does that mean?” Scott asked, finally putting aside his BlackBerry.

“I don’t really know,” Gina admitted. “Our granny used to say it when we were visiting her and we didn’t have anything to do.”

“I don’t get it,” Scott said.

“My grandma used to always say, ‘All dressed up and no place to go,’” Tate volunteered.

Val sighed deeply and exchanged a sympathetic look with Scott. “Don’t you just love all these folksy southern sayings?”

The door swung open, and Zeke stuck his head inside. “The crew’s back, and we’re ready for you.”

Val and Scott were out the door like a shot, and Lisa was right behind them. Gina hung back for a second, reluctant, it seemed, to face the music.

Tate held the door open for her, and she went slowly down the folding stairs. She turned to thank him, and he stuck out his hand. “Good luck. And I really mean it.”

“Thanks. I’d say the same to you, but for this first round, anyway, I don’t think you’re going to need it.”

“Gina!” Scott called. “Get in here, will you? D’John needs you again.”

Val was waiting for him just outside the trailer, her arms folded across her chest. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “Why are you sucking up to her? I almost died when you trotted off set in the middle of the shoot to fetch that sherry. Are you deliberately trying to sabotage our chances to win?”

“I’m just being a nice guy,” he protested. “Is that a crime?”

“This is television,” she shot back. “As far as I’m concerned, nice is a felony.”

B
arry Adelman put an arm around each of the contestant’s shoulders.

“Okay, you guys, you both did great. Sorry about the wait, but you know chefs.” He shrugged. “Talk about a bunch of prima donnas. Anyway, we’re all set now. So here’s how it’s gonna go. You two are each gonna be in your kitchen. The judges will be at their table. They’ll give us their opinions on the dishes, and then their scores. Then the camera will cut over to each of you, in turn, to catch your reactions.”

“Oh, no—” Gina started.

“Now, don’t worry about a thing,” he reassured her. “I want you to just be yourself, no matter what happens. Show your emotions. If you’re disappointed, lemme see that. Pissed off, excited, whatever. I’m looking for honest, gut reaction. Got that?”

“Yeah,” Tate said. “Honest.”

“Of course,” Barry added, “it goes without saying, no profanity. No high fives, no gloating. No hysteria.”

“Just honesty,” Tate said, rolling his eyes.

“Our judges have tasted, they’ve talked, they’ve argued, and they’ve debated,” Barry said, speaking smoothly in front of the camera. “Now it’s time to see how they scored the first round of the Food Fight. So, judges, how did you like the dishes submitted by contestant one?”

Deidre Delaney flipped her long blond hair over one shoulder and smiled wanly. “Contestant one’s food left me cold, to be honest. I’ll give the chef credit for managing to kill a wild pig, but really, aside from that, I was disappointed.”

Beau Stapleton groaned dramatically.

“Let me continue, please,” Deidre said, glaring at Stapleton. “The chef had a whole pig to work with, right? A pork tenderloin…I mean…please. If it were me, I would have done pork belly braised in wild greens. Spare ribs. I would have done pork cheeks. They are wonderful, moist—”

“But it’s not you,” Toni Bailey pointed out. “Just judge what the chef did, for Pete’s sake.”

“Fine,” Deidre said, flipping her hair again. She held up a card with a “2” scrawled on it. “The dishes were generic. And I’m being generous even giving a two.”

“I disagree,” Stapleton blurted. “Deidre, what does it take to impress you? This chef basically killed a wild boar with his bare hands, butchered it, and prepared an amazing meal. I’m giving him a five.” He held the card up over his head, then pointed at Tate. “You rock, dude!”

Toni Bailey smiled serenely. “As much as I hate to agree with Beau, I have to say that he’s right. The pork was outstanding. The fig and pepper glaze was a playful and inventive way to work indigenous
ingredients into the menu, and the sweet potato fritters were a nice surprise. For me, the only thing keeping the meal from being perfect was the need for a more assertive vegetable. That said, I’m scoring it a four.”

Tate nodded thoughtfully but gave no other reaction.

The camera switched over to Barry Adelman. “All right. It seems the judges have correctly divined that chef one is Tate Moody with his wild hog supper, and given him a combined score of eleven out of fifteen. Now, let’s see how Regina Foxworth’s seafood sampler fared with the judges.”

Deidre Delaney tossed her hair again and beamed in Gina’s direction. “Gina, your menu struck all the right chords with me. I loved the crab-corn chowder with that lovely little chive blossom garnish. It was simple but creative. I did want more heat to the soup, but that’s a personal preference. The fresh-vegetable chopped salad was perfect, and I adored the little deviled crabs, which were the essence of low-country southern cuisine. The dewberry cobbler was a lovely end note to a perfectly balanced symphony of flavors.” She flipped her card up triumphantly. “Five!”

The cameras switched to Gina and caught her letting her breath out slowly, and finally giving a tentative smile.

“Beau?” Barry prompted. “What’s your take?

Stapleton grimaced. “Well, Barry, I don’t know what dishes our esteemed chef Deidre was tasting, but it can’t have been the same meal I sampled.”

“Oh, please,” Deidre said, giving him a dismissive wave.

“This chef had all the right ingredients, and yet she managed to do all the wrong things. As I said before, the chowder wasn’t a proper chowder at all—in fact, it’s an insult to honest chowders to call it that.”

Barry Adelman laughed. “Hey, Beau! I didn’t know you could insult a soup.”

“She seems to have a special knack,” Stapleton quipped. “Or should I say, lack. Whatever. Those vegetables Deidre loved? Tired. Dull. In short, forgettable.”

The camera cut quickly to Gina, who had her hands clasped in her lap and her teeth clenched behind a pasted-on smile.

“He’s a dickhead,” Tate whispered without moving his lips.

“And now we get to those deviled crabs Deidre so ‘adored,’” Stapleton said, his voice mocking. “One word. Gimmicky. All in all, I’d have to say the entire menu was a huge disappointment.”

Toni Bailey leaned forward. “But what about that cobbler? Are you just ignoring that?”

“Again,” Stapleton said, “no surprises there. I want a fresh fruit cobbler with some zing to it, some spark. A hint of ginger, some lemon zest or orange liqueur, some little something that makes my tongue tingle.”

“I’ll make his tongue tingle,” Tate muttered. For a fleeting moment, Gina’s smile took on an authentic warmth.

Stapleton yawned widely, not bothering to cover his mouth. “The cobbler was forgettable. Amateurish. As was the entire meal.” He offhandedly flashed his scorecard, and the entire crew gasped.

“Only a one!” Barry crowed. “Ow! That’s gotta hurt.”

Gina felt tears welling in her eyes. Her jaws ached from pseudo-smiling, but the camera, unrelenting, was aimed right at her.

“Shake it off,” Tate whispered. “You knew he was gonna screw you over.”

“So, Toni Bailey,” Barry said. All eyes on the set were focused on the third judge. “It all comes down to you now. Our other two judges were at extreme odds in their scores of Gina Foxton. What did you think, Toni?”

The petite black woman’s hoop earrings jangled as she shook her head in dismay at Stapleton’s harsh comments.

“Honey, don’t you fret,” Toni soothed, looking directly at Gina. “You are a fine young cook. And that meal was so good, it made me wanna slap my mama.”

Gina laughed ruefully.

“See?” Tate whispered.

“I agree completely with Deidre about your chowder. Some folks,” she said, inclining her head toward Stapleton, “like a gloppy, floury mess in a chowder. Not me. No, sir. Me, I just want honest flavors. Over in L.A.”—she glanced at Stapleton—“that’s Lower Alabama to you, you add that other mess when you don’t have the real thing, say
if you were using frozen corn, or canned crabmeat. But when you got the honest-to-goodness thing—fresh-picked corn, crabs right out of the creek—you don’t need that other junk. Same thing with those chopped vegetables, and that wonderful dewberry cobbler of yours. They were real nice. I don’t hold with people who wanna mess around with the conventions of southern cooking.”

She gave Stapleton a look that Gina’s grandmother would have called the skunk-eye. “And that is what we’re supposed to be looking for here on Eutaw Island. The best
southern
cook.”

Gina felt her spirits rise.

But Toni sighed. “Baby, the only thing keeping me from giving you a perfect five was this.” She held up the index finger of her left hand. A tiny fragment of white gleamed against the mocha color of her skin.

“Yeah,” she said sorrowfully. “A little bitty old piece of crabshell no bigger than a pea. That’s how come I had to give you this.” She held up her scorecard, with a bold “4” scrawled on it.