Fire In the Kitchen (6 page)

Cassidy watched Dante stroll over. He beckoned her to follow.

“
Buongiorno,
John. Is that any way to speak to a lady?”

“Forget it, Dante. My mate before me was only five seconds late and she sent him packing, too.”

Dante turned his full attention to the older woman, even though he was still speaking to his colleague. He leaned close and read her name badge.

“
Pearl
was just doing her job. Show some respect and bow out gracefully. There’s always next year.”

“Mr. Cristiani, you came,” she gushed. “We were so excited when we heard a rumor you were coming.” She handed him a clipboard with a registration form to complete.

“Pearl, are you sure?” He patted her shoulder and indicated for Cassidy and the other chef to also receive forms. “We don’t want to get you into trouble.”

Pearl put the minute hand back on the clock a fraction. “No problem. You’re what this competition is all about. You’re passionate, at the top of your game, and…” She paused and theatrically fluffed up her hair. “…the stuff women’s bedtime stories are made of.”

Dante reached for her hand and kissed it. As Pearl sighed, he signed his name with a flourish and handed the registration form back to her.

“Thanks, Pearl.
Sei
stata molto brava
.” He turned to Cassidy. “See you in there. Good luck.”

The other chef beat her to handing in his form. As Cassidy waited for her turn, she watched Dante’s physique as he walked away. Nice long legs, purposeful stride, wide shoulders she imagined herself massaging.

“Ahem.” The registrar coughed.

Cassidy diverted her attention to the form.

“There are a lot of disclaimers here. Shouldn’t I stop to read them?”

“Only if you want to read for a living instead of attending an audition. It would take you half an hour to digest all that technical mumbo jumbo.”

“I guess I’ll take the risk, then. Thanks, Pearl.”

She handed her the form.

“It’s Mrs. Sullivan to you, young lady.” Pearl pushed her glasses down her nose and had a good look at Cassidy. She pulled a few tissues from a box and handed them to her as she indicated the restrooms. “Go and freshen up, dear, you look like you’ve been run over by a bus.”

Cassidy rushed to the bathroom and realized how unsexy she must have appeared in Dante’s eyes. She looked like a drowned possum. The mascara down her cheeks and flat dirty-blonde, damp hair added to the effect.

She wet the tissues she’d been given and swiped them over the black makeup streaks. She put on lip gloss and decided it didn’t make any difference because her face was beyond saving. There was nothing she could do about her clothes.

Her head still buzzed from the night before. If she was after a distraction from her mother’s pregnancy news, this one was priceless.

“Toughen up, princess,” she said to her reflection. “Shut up and cook. Do what you love to do. Save Dad’s café and give Mum a break so Gary can paint the spare room pink or blue. Pay the tax man. That’s why you’re here, sunshine.”

Cassidy left the restroom and followed the signs and noise toward the huge open double doors leading to the audition that could change her life. She took a deep breath before she walked through the long corridor.

Nothing could have prepared Cassidy for what was happening in the huge warehouse beyond the entranceway. There must have been a hundred crew members, all intent on their roles. There were several cameramen surrounding the judges’ table and a few more around the competitors’ benches, where they prepared their dishes. The crew was so close to the bench it was intrusive, and Cassidy knew it was going to be a big distraction when it was her turn to cook. Others were focused on the lighting, the sound, and even the positioning of the food items on the bench. It was hard not to watch as the competitors were made to stop, start, and often repeat what they’d said in different ways to mean the same thing: louder, softer, faster, slower. Smile. Don’t smile. It was a cooking minefield. Were they auditioning to prove they were great chefs or to film a soap drama?

“Ok, cut,” a woman Cassidy assumed to be a producer called out. She watched as a crew member snapped down the yellow and black stripes of the digital clapperboard.

“I’m melting, I’m melting,” an overweight judge said, wiping his fingers down his face. He showed his hand stained with makeup to the audience of hopefuls, who laughed appropriately at his dilemma.

The producer indicated for someone to touch up his face.

Cassidy took the opportunity to inconspicuously make her way to the viewers’ stand, ignoring rude stares from other competitors as she joined them to wait her turn.

She recognized several popular chefs among them. She knew she looked like she’d been through the dishwasher and hosed down with the dirty dishwater. In contrast, they had crisp white jackets, checked trousers, and pretentious attitudes. She thought the female competitors might be more understanding, but they were worse. One even moved farther down the bench when Cassidy sat near her.

Dante was there, the only friendly face. He waved and her heart hiccupped. She recalled how good her hand had felt in his as he’d rushed her along. She couldn’t help admiring the way he appeared so cool, as if he hadn’t made it there against the odds. How did he manage to look so good after the punishing elements? His wet black hair was slicked behind his ears, a few loose strands fell in sexy defiance. He’d obviously tidied up using his fingers instead of a comb and a mirror. His jacket was only damp, but it clung to his skin and flattered his physique. She wondered what it would be like to slide her hand inside the front buttons of his shirt and feel if his skin was as cool and firm as she imagined. Her gaze travelled up to his face and she was embarrassed to discover he’d caught her out. Their connection held as delicious moments that seemed like hours passed.

His name was called. The invisible line joining them snapped.

Chefs close to Dante patted him on the back and the remaining few applauded as he sauntered into the large fridge room. A couple minutes later, he came out with a full basket and made his way to the main stage.

It took longer for him to audition than Cassidy would have thought possible. Cameramen shot him from every angle and asked him the same questions more than once. Unfazed, he followed their directions until it was time for him to start cooking. Then the time was all his.

The chefs before him had introduced themselves to the judges and described their accomplishments before they’d started to cook. The judges had asked a few questions and flustered many of them…but not Dante.

Dante smiled at the judges, who welcomed him as if he needed no introduction. The compère had fiery red hair and looked as if she
really
knew him, speaking to him as if he were the only one in the room and they had a romantic history.

“It’s a real pleasure to have you here today, Dante,” she said. “Of course we all know who you are and your area of expertise is Italian cuisine with a fresh local touch. What do we have the pleasure of you preparing for us today?”

“A tasting platter.” He smiled, and Cassidy felt her stomach tighten. As she watched, he meticulously laid out his knives and ingredients. The chefs around her spoke in loud awed whispers.

“We’ve had it.”

“How does he expect to prepare six things on a tasting platter in fifteen minutes?”

“How can we expect a chef like him to do any less?”

As he cooked, Dante entertained his audience and judges as if he were cooking sausages on a BBQ for friends on a Sunday afternoon. He was a magician, describing his favorite place down south as his freshly cooked garlic and chili infused the air.

“This is what we should serve our loved ones.” Dante’s fingers danced over the platter as they created a visual masterpiece. “Good food should explore all the senses. It should be fresh, simple, and visually stunning.”

Cassidy looked at the neatly stacked pans and tidy work area. Had he really cooked all that food just a moment ago? If it was true that one ate with her eyes, she was full.

“Good friends, good company, good times.”

He opened a bottle of Western Australian Shiraz and filled wine glasses for the judges and one for himself. He placed the platter in front of them with a flourish as a large clock sounded that his time was up.

“
Buon appetito,
” he said, clinking his glass with theirs.

Cassidy realized her mouth was half open, as if she could taste the food he served to the judges, who ate in silence while they sipped their wine.

“Congratulations, Dante, and we got a free dish without having to wait six months for a booking.”

“I would have waited half a year for this,” the host said as she reached for a fork and asked one of the judges if she could share his food.

“It was superb, but…” The judge wearing thick glasses tapped his pen on a notepad several times before continuing. He spoke slowly and deliberately. “I’ve heard the ingredients you have been using in your restaurant lately have been sub-standard. You may be fully booked now, but that could change in the near future.”

Dante’s posture became rigid and he walked over and rested his hands on the table in front of the judge. The room became quiet. “The rumors you heard are true.”

A collective gasp came from the audience and the other judges.

Dante continued. “It’s my restaurant, so I must take full responsibility for what happened in my absence. I’m here to make things right and prove to you all I’m still as passionate about the Slow Food movement as ever.”

“How do you propose to do that?” The judge crossed his arms and everyone waited for Dante’s response.

“By cooking good food with great fresh, local ingredients.” Dante sounded humble. “By giving a damn.”

“Excuse us,” the judge replied.

Dante walked back to where he had been preparing his food. Several minutes passed as he handed his preparation dishes to the kitchen staff to take away. The judges collaborated in low voices.

The judge who had interrogated Dante cleared his throat. “Congratulations, Dante, majority wins. You’re through to the next round.”

The chefs in the audience stood and applauded as Dante bowed to the judges and to the audience. Dante walked past Cassidy as he left the stage to return to his seat. She gave him the thumbs up.

“Good luck,” he said as he walked past. “Watch out for unexpected cameramen.”

The next contestant stammered and fidgeted while attempting to explain what contribution he could make to the show. Cassidy cringed. She felt sorry for him, having to follow Dante’s performance, but not sorry enough to wish she was the one being thrown to the wolves instead of him.

I can do this. I can do this. Show no fear.

She rehearsed her dish in her mind until they called her name. She put her hand over her wildly beating heart as she made her way down the stairs and hoped she wouldn’t make a fool of herself.

She was asked to make an appetizer and was given three minutes to select her ingredients. Opening the door to the refrigerated room, she was overwhelmed by the variety of food. She picked up a basket and turned to find herself staring into a cameraman’s lens. The basket—and her sanity—crashed to the floor as the cameraman told her quietly to ignore him.

Her heart racing, she picked up her basket and tried to be reunited with her equilibrium. She gathered what she needed—wild mushrooms, nutmeg, butter, cream, and the other necessities to prepare the inventive dish she’d only rehearsed in her mind. Would it work?
Agar, where’s the agar?
In her haste to find the all-important ingredient, she stood on the cameraman’s foot and nearly lost the contents of her tray.

*

Dante felt fantastic. What had started out as a lousy week had turned around. He’d thought his cousin had shared the love and values that had been passed down by their fathers. He’d been wrong. Hopefully, this competition would be the forum to put things right. But his ex-girlfriend Valerie, who was the show’s host, was going to have to be put at a distance without causing a scene. She was a wildfire out of control and a part of his past he’d rather forget.

He watched Cassidy race to the food storage area. He knew many of the other chefs here today—they weren’t patient, they weren’t gracious, and they weren’t going to be friendly toward an amateur cook. Particularly a somewhat quirky one like her. But he admired her determination and was drawn to her. He was sure those sparkling green eyes—or blue, he really must check—had intrigued many men before him. It was a welcome change to find an attractive woman who wasn’t star-struck by the celebrity doors he could open for them. Under his breath, he wished her luck.

One of his apprentices, Matt, joined him and shook his hand with vigor. He told Dante that Carlos had also made it to the next round. Dante initially felt a swell of pride because he’d trained Carlos, but it wasn’t long before the memories of his deception came flooding back.

“How’d you do?” Dante changed the subject.

“Nowhere near as well as you or Carlos, but they’re giving me another chance after the first round if they still have a couple of spots left.”

“What did you cook?”

“Classic gnocchi with Napolitana sauce and a twist.”

“What was the twist?”

“Would you believe I made it into a pizza?”

Dante scowled at Matt, but tapped his hand gently to soften the blow. “What am I always telling you? Keep it simple. Let the fresh ingredients tell their own story instead of trying to take them to a masquerade ball to impress.”

Always generous with his advice, Dante suggested to his apprentice if he got another chance, he should cook it again without the pizza base, and gave him ideas on presentation.

He knew he should be on his way back to the restaurant, but Dante couldn’t leave just yet. He wanted to see if his apprentice got a second chance. No, that wasn’t true. He wanted to watch Cassidy cook. She’d ignited a burner inside him that wasn’t easily put out.

He felt nervous for her as he heard the other spectators express their views on her unsuitability. Their cruel laughter seemed to catch on like a Mexican wave. She was going to have the challenge of her life—he knew what the judges were looking for, and appearances were important. They would have already made up their minds before she’d even laid out her knives. She was toast without butter. Burnt toast.