Fed Up (5 page)

Even so, once Leo and Francie were at last permitted to eat, Leo raved about his halibut. “This is just spectacular. The fish is cooked perfectly, and I love the sweet crust on it. That’s just from the sugar you sprinkled on it?” He took a bite of the gnocchi. “These are heavenly. And the roasted vegetables smell incredible!”

Francie, on the other hand, looked anything but enthusiastic. After she’d tasted her lamb, she grabbed a water glass and took a large gulp. My stomach dropped as I watched her force herself to swallow a few more bites. I looked nervously at Josh, who was staring so intently at Francie that he looked frozen in place. What could possibly be wrong? Even the best chef makes a mediocre dish now and then, but Josh had never cooked anything inedible. Of course, the lamb chops should have been served hot. Maybe the fat had congealed, I told myself. Still, even if the lamb wasn’t at its best, it just couldn’t be as repugnant as Francie seemed to find it. Francie, I told myself, must be a picky eater, someone who whined and complained about everything she tasted.

“And how’s your dish, Francie?” prompted Robin, who had been so focused on Leo that she’d obviously failed to notice Francie’s grimacing.

Francie dropped her fork and made eye contact with the camera. “The truth is,” she said emphatically, “it’s just awful.”

“FRANCIE!” Leo admonished. “There’s no need to be rude.”

With a vigorous shake of her head that made her dark, wavy hair fan out, she declared boldly, “It’s vile, it’s positively disgusting, it’s revolting, and I simply can’t eat any more. It is by far the worst thing that has ever been my misfortune to taste in my entire life.” After a brief pause, she said, looking at Josh, “I’m not trying to hurt anyone’s feelings, really I’m not, but something has gone horribly, hideously, dreadfully wrong with this dish.”

Nelson lowered the camera.

Leo was seething. “Francie, this no time for your damned theatrics. Do you know how lucky we were to be chosen? We’ve got a talented chef in our house preparing a gourmet meal for us. Everything I’ve tasted is better than what we’ve had at most restaurants, so just chew and swallow. And for once in your life, smile!”

Belatedly, Robin turned her attention to Nelson. What she saw made her blow up. “Nelson, what the hell are you doing?” she demanded. “What we have going on here is action! Emotion! Conflict! What we have here is reality! And where are you? In outer space!”

“Sorry,” Nelson said weakly. Clearly, even Nelson’s heart went out to Josh.

“Oh, for God’s sake, now we have to do everything all over again,” Robin complained.

This time, Marlee and Digger took a turn at fussing over the food in what was now a futile effort to make it look freshly plated. Josh stood silent and watched as other chefs tended to his plated dishes.

Meanwhile, Robin chastised Nelson for his incompetence. “Could we possibly get through the rest of the meal without further interruption from you? Hit the On button! Hit it once! Hit it now! And don’t touch it again. Is that something you are capable of doing?”

Nelson practically snarled at Robin. “Well, of course—”

“Rhetorical question, Nelson! I was asking a rhetorical question!” Tendrils were beginning to come loose from Robin’s once-tight ponytail, as if her fury at her inept cameraman had somehow electrified her brain and escaped through her hair. “And now, for the last time”—she waved at the dinner plates—“let’s roll!”

Nelson’s light went on.

Francie leaned back in her chair. “I really think I’ve had enough of this dish.”

Leo took a bite of the roasted vegetables and spoke with his mouth full. “Francie, there cannot possibly be anything wrong with your food. Have you even tasted anything? I don’t think you have, because if you had, you’d know that it’s spectacular.” He smiled at Josh and gave him a thumbs-up. Miraculously, Nelson caught the gesture on tape.

Francie, however, was adamant about not tasting another bite of her food. Having watched her more closely than her husband had done, I knew that she had, in fact, eaten some of what she’d been served, but I had no idea whether she was whining about nothing or whether there was actually something wrong with her lamb.

“Absolutely not,” she told Leo. “For your information, I have tasted it, and not for anything on earth am I choking it down again.”

Josh had had enough. He stepped between the bickering couple and removed Francie’s plate. Fumbling for words, he finally said, “I can’t apologize enough. I’d be happy to make you something else, something . . . uh . . . if you can you tell me what’s wrong with this?”

I seriously thought that Josh might cry. This experience was positively humiliating for him. If he’d been cooking for a private party, he’d have been mortified to serve food that made one of the hosts nearly gag. But this occasion was anything but private! And how many viewers would vote for Josh after watching and listening to Francie? None, I thought. Not one viewer. His chance of winning the competition had just dropped to zero.

“Yes,” said Francie, “I can tell you exactly what’s wrong. It’s bitter beyond bitter.” As if she’d failed to make her point, she added, “Horribly bitter! Really very foul tasting.”

“The arugula,” Josh said hopefully. “The arugula has a sharp bitterness to it.”

“No.” Francie shook her head and again sent her wavy hair flying. “I’m very sorry, Josh, but that’s not it. It’s not right. I can’t eat this.”

Following Robin’s orders, Nelson had the camera going. Digger and Marlee both stood rigidly still with their eyes nearly popping out of their heads. The two chefs obviously knew that Josh had completely blown this meal. Neither one looked terribly happy, but they didn’t look torn up over Josh’s failure, either. I thought I would be sick; Josh looked absolutely crushed.

“There’s no time to have Josh make something else. I don’t know what to do.” Robin bit her lip and seemed momentarily lost. “Well, we’ll have to move on. It’ll just have to be part of the episode. What happens, happens, I’m afraid.” I saw a slight but unmistakable glint in Robin’s eye as she savored the prospect of airing this episode of
Chefly Yours.
From Robin’s viewpoint, Francie’s dramatic condemnation of Josh’s food was far better than pleasant murmuring about how delicious everything was. Josh’s pain was Robin’s idea of great TV.

“Why don’t we move on to the tomato salad and cheese course,” I suggested. “And dessert, too.” I took Francie’s plate from Josh’s hands, carried it to the kitchen, and braced myself against the counter.
Oh, Josh! What happened?
Maybe he was so nervous that he accidentally added something weird to the food? Or the old oven didn’t cook the lamb at the proper temperature and . . . ? No. Francie had complained about bitterness. Overcooked or undercooked lamb chops would be tough or raw or flavorless, but they wouldn’t be bitter. Like Josh, I thought of the arugula. At this time of year, it was all too easy to buy lettuce and other greens, including arugula, that had gone to seed and turned bitter. Maybe most of the arugula had been fine, and Francie had somehow ended up tasting a tiny bit that had been ruined by summer heat.

A second later, my dejected boyfriend followed me into the kitchen but avoided looking at me. “Leo’s finishing up his fish,” Josh said, “and I’m going to serve the rest of the meal.” He swore under his breath and then slammed a pair of tongs into the bowl that held the remains of the gnocchi. “There is nothing wrong with that lamb,” he growled.

“Well, why don’t we taste it?” I whispered.

Josh looked at me. “Yeah, good idea.” He cut a bit for both of us from Francie’s plate. “Now, don’t think I normally go eating off customers’ plates at the restaurant, okay?” He managed a little smile.

Until he tasted the lamb.

“Oh, my God.” He wrinkled his face and quickly spat out the offending meat.

“Oh, stop! It can’t be that bad.” Curious, I sampled a tiny slice.
Bitter,
I realized, was a gross understatement. Gagging, I turned and spat the meat out into the sink, which was, thank goodness, equipped with a garbage disposal, exactly where the vile piece of lamb belonged. I filled glasses of water for us both and did my best to wash out the taste. Francie was, after all, right. The taste was worse than awful. It was hideously and inexplicably dreadful.

“I didn’t do that,” Josh said softly. “I did not do anything that would make the lamb taste like that. Did I?” He tasted the vegetables from the roasting pan. “These are pretty good. Although it’s hard to tell right now with that flavor still in my mouth. How the hell did this happen?”

Here’s proof of my love for Josh: in a noble act of self-sacrifice, I risked having that revolting bitterness invade my mouth again. In other words, I tasted the gnocchi with pesto. And again, ahem, used the sink. When I was done, I said, “Oh, hon! The gnocchi with the arugula pesto has the same problem the lamb does. Francie was right. It’s that same bitterness.” I shook my head. “Not from the arugula or the olives, either. At least, I don’t think so. I’ve had arugula that’s turned bitter, but it’s not like this. And olives can be bitter, but this is something different, something much, much worse. Josh, what can do this?”

Before he answered, Robin called to him from the dining room. “Josh, we’re ready for the next course.”

Josh took a deep breath and carried the tomato salad and cheese plate to Francie and Leo. Francie looked hesitant to eat anything that Josh put in front of her, but she did help herself to tomatoes, tasted them, smiled, and offered unmistakably genuine praise. “The flavor and seasoning of the dressing is perfect.”

One piece of good footage.

Nelson kept filming as a morose Josh presented the dessert cobbler. Leo again dug in with pleasure and oohed and aahed, but Francie did nothing more than move her spoon toward her dessert plate. The hot peach and raspberry concoction smelled fantastic. Wasn’t she tempted to try it? And couldn’t she see how miserable Josh looked? Didn’t she want to make amends to him for her harsh criticism of the lamb and gnocchi? Not that I could really blame her—the bitterness lingered on my own tongue—but out of love for Josh, I sent telepathic messages to encourage her to speak kind words and help Josh to save face.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Francie announced curtly. So much for my telepathic abilities.

“Please, can you just finish dessert? And then we’ll wrap this up.” Robin looked desperate to bolt, but she was probably no more desperate than the rest of us were. Every single one of us, I thought, had had more than enough of this episode of
Chefly Yours
.

“We’re almost done. I promise,” Josh pleaded. He looked ready to sprint out of the house in shame.

“I feel sick.” Francie rose from her seat and walked unsteadily from the table.

Join the club! After the whole fiasco, I wasn’t feeling too well myself.

Francie staggered out of the dining room into a large front hallway. From where I was standing, I could see her head toward a staircase. Gripping the handrail, she slowly began to make her way up the steps.

“Christ, we’re never going to get through this.” Digger looked at his watch. “This is like a never-ending day. This blows for Josh, man.”

“Yup, but at least it’s been interesting,” Marlee added.

Robin drew Josh aside and was gracious enough to put her hand on his arm as she spoke softly to him. I hoped she was saying something reassuring. Maybe that the TV station would never in a million years air this horrible episode?

Appalled by everyone’s seeming lack of compassion for Francie, who clearly was not just feigning illness, I decided to check on her. I made my way to the front hall and up the stairs. By the time I reached the landing at the top, I could hear gagging and groaning. Following the sounds, I rounded a corner and on the floor ahead of me saw Francie’s feet projecting from what was clearly a bathroom. Bright yellow towels hung on towel racks fastened inside the open door. Even before I entered the bathroom, I realized that Francie was horribly sick. She’d obviously been too ill even to close the bathroom door. Besides, the air in the dark hallway reeked. For a second, the taboo against barging into an occupied bathroom made me hesitate, but the dreadful sounds had now stopped, and the silence frightened me.

I stepped into the bathroom and knelt just inside the door. “Francie? Can I help you?” I put my hand on her shoulder. Francie didn’t respond. She lay curled up on her side on a yellow bath mat, her hair in her face and her arms wrapped around her stomach. Bodily fluids were spattered on the old white ceramic bathroom fixtures and lay in pools on the cracked tile of the floor. The stench was overwhelming. Holding my breath and fighting nausea, I grabbed one of the thick yellow towels that hung from the door and made a senseless, panic-driven effort to rid Francie of the wet filth that clung to her dark curls and stained her white linen shell. Covering my hand with the towel, I brushed her hair away from her face, and as I leaned in to clean her mouth and cheeks, I realized she was having a terrible time breathing. Before that moment, my efforts had been directed at restoring Francie’s dignity, I suppose. The sight of her sprawled on the floor, splattered with her own bodily wastes, had triggered a powerful impulse to clean her up and make her presentable, to spare her the humiliation being seen in this godawful condition. Now, all at once, the gravity of the situation hit me. At a minimum, she was dangerously dehydrated. Without question, she needed immediate help that I couldn’t provide. My experience in hands-on first aid consisted of having treated small children with scraped knees. Now, I was facing a life-threatening emergency.