Take Me Home Tonight (10 page)

This one didn't get quite as enthusiastic a response. But then she had a very austere and stern presence.

“Isn't she gorgeous, you guys?” Verna hugged the tall, slender woman who wore her hair in a severe bun. “Do you eat? Can I fix you something?” The audience laughed at that one, but Zoe didn't crack a smile.

Mimi suspected winging it wouldn't work with this judge. Palms damp, she swiped them on her chef's jacket. She needed to calm her racing heart. She cut a glance to Calix, third row, first seat off the aisle. He held her gaze with an intense look that beamed pure, high-grade confidence. He was telling her to believe in herself, and it zapped her good and hard in the gut. He was right. If she didn't believe in herself, she'd bomb. It was the whole reason she'd kept contact with her father to a bare minimum this past week.

Zoe took her seat, shaking hands with Chef Alfonso. She sat rigidly, hands clasped on the table.

“And finally, you're not gonna believe who we scored for this show, you guys. I am so darn pleased to introduce our third and final judge. I don't even know how we got so lucky, but ladies and gentlemen, the founder of the Food Channel himself, the incomparable innovator, Mr. Aaron Simmons.”

Mimi watched as a white-haired gentleman in black slacks and a gray cardigan strode out. Doubt came roaring back. As the founder of the Food Channel, he'd expect brilliance in the kitchen—why not? He was surrounded by it.

She was so screwed. Her gaze flicked toward the audience, seeking out Calix's. He beamed confidence her way. And she took it. Sucked it in greedily.

You know what? I'm going to own this show.

“. . . quick thinking, presentation, and innovation.” Verna's tone had a hint of finality, drawing Mimi back to the moment. “Ready, contestants?”

“Ready, Chef,” they all murmured.

Mimi repeated the last words.
Quick thinking,
presentation, and innovation.
She said them again, slowly, absorbing each one. It mattered. What they were looking for. It was all about her ability to think on her feet, the presentation on the plate, and using the ingredients in an unusual way.
Got it.

“Then please reach under the table and bring up your shopping bags.”

Mimi hauled up her recyclable bag, dropping the heavy weight on the counter.

“Each bag contains four items. You'll have thirty minutes to make a dish using all four of them. You'll also have the use of items in my pantry and refrigerator. Think you can handle this? Because this is what it'll be like working on my show. We cook fast, with style, and a whole lot of fun.”

Mimi couldn't resist one last glance at Calix. His smile radiated assurance.

Warmth suffused her, loosening her, allowing confidence to stream back in. She was smart, she was a quick thinker, she was creative . . . She had this.

“Ladies and gentleman, thirty minutes on the clock. Ready . . . three, two, one . . . open your bags and go.”

Verna took her place behind her own kitchen counter and resumed the show, while the contestants worked at a long table on the side of the stage.

As Mimi fumbled with the bag, she couldn't help noticing Pedro had already dumped out his contents. An apple rolled toward her, but he snatched it, even as he tore open the plastic covering the small ham. Yeah, he worked a food truck. The man had skills.

Block it out. Focus.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a tube of crescent rolls, a small cooked ham, an apple, and an unwrapped wedge of cheese. When her attention wandered to Alena on her other side, she remembered Calix's advice to shut out what everyone else was doing. Twenty-seven minutes.
Focus.

These ingredients seemed more obvious for dessert than appetizers—except for the ham—so she had to shift her thinking. Black pepper. Okay. An image of a tart came to
mind. Cheesy. Apples. Oh, caramel drizzle. Could she put pepper in a caramel sauce?

And here's where Calix's training kicks in
. Because she had no choice but to rely on her instincts.

Without a recipe in hand, she had to close her eyes, smell the ingredients, and imagine how the flavors would work together.

Pepper with caramel didn't seem right. Maybe some chili powder? Did chili powder work with apples, though? No, not at all. Apples . . . nutmeg, cinnamon. Mint. She associated apples with pork chops . . . so, rosemary.

She was getting it now. She could do this, go on instinct and not second-guess herself. Wait, how long did crescent rolls need to cook? She checked the tube. Fifteen minutes, so that was half the allotted time. They needed to go into the oven immediately.

As she preheated the oven to three-fifty, she visualized the crescent rolls and apples. And then cheese. Oozing out of the crust.
Yes
. Tearing open the tube, she dumped the rolls out, slicing each almost completely in half, but still leaving them connected. If she diced the cheese, it might not melt evenly, so she'd have to grate. She sniffed the cheese—Gouda?

What about the caramel drizzle? She should get that going. But she'd need to whisk it while it cooked, and that would take most of her time. Okay, whatever, just go for it.
Move.
Less thinking, more acting.

Mimi thinly sliced and diced the ham, peeled and chopped the apple, drizzled olive oil on the mixture and added salt, pepper, and thyme leaves. Stuffing the crescent roll crust with shredded Gouda, she pressed her thumb down, making a well. Into it she started to add the ham and apple mixture, but she stopped. Flavor. It was all about flavor. What went with ham, apples, and Gouda? Cloves. Pinch of nutmeg . . . and cinnamon. Yeah. That made sense. And rosemary, right? A good amount of coarse salt. She wasn't going to skimp on the salt. Mixing it well, she pinched an apple and popped it into her mouth. Mm.
Good.

She spooned the mixture into the wells. Then, just before
setting them in the oven, she sprinkled a few bits of Gouda on each of the three rolls. So, cheese in the crust, cheese on top. Wait, no, she'd cook the tarts first, then put the cheese on top. Otherwise the cheese would burn.

Great. Now, quickly, the drizzle. Racing to the refrigerator, she grabbed butter and a container of half and half, dumped both into a pan, and set a low flame. Measuring brown sugar into it, she started whisking. Oh, salt.
Flavor, Meems
. But just a sprinkle.

No freaking idea what I have here.
In all likelihood, they'd call her out for making a dessert, but she had to go with her instincts. It wasn't like she could pull a recipe off her laptop. As she stirred, she glanced at the other contestants. Pedro worked like a machine, in constant motion, attending to multiple stations at once. Impressive. The guy had total command of his workspace.

She shot a look at Calix. Finding his gaze on her so intently delivered a shock to her system. He didn't even smile. Just gave her that intense, steadying look.

She
loved
it. Loved his attention.

“Okay, friends, you've got five minutes on the clock. Five minutes to finish cooking and plating.”

Her syrup wasn't thickening. Not going to panic.
You know what? I don't need this much sauce.
She dumped half of it in the sink and set it back on the stove. Better.

With so many scents competing in the kitchen, Mimi couldn't get a sense of her rolls. She didn't want to leave her drizzle—why the hell had she gone with a caramel sauce? It wasn't even necessary. But her gut told her it was, because the tarts alone were too basic.

Time to check the rolls. In a whirl of motion, she swung around, opened the oven, saw the mixture cooked to perfection and the rolls nicely browned, and pulled the cookie sheet out. She sprinkled cheese on top and spun back to the drizzle, which had just started to bubble.

“Two minutes, friends. You've got two minutes on the clock.”

Pulling three clean white plates off the stack in the middle
of the table, Mimi set a tart on each one, while continuing to whisk.

“One minute. You've got sixty seconds left.”

With a spoon, she drizzled her sauce over the tarts. It looked divine, smelled delicious, but . . . crap. They looked plain and boring. What could she do?

She picked up each tart, drizzled sauce on the plates, and set them back down. Herbs littered her work station, so she made a pretty design with the rosemary on either side of the tart. Simple, but pretty.

“Time is up.” The timer dinged. “Stand back.”

They all threw up their hands and took one step back from the table.

Holy shit. Adrenaline crashed through her system, and perspiration trickled down her spine.

She'd done it. She'd completed the assignment. Whether or not they liked her dish was out of her hands. But she'd done it, and that made her damn proud.

*   *   *

Ten
minutes later, the contestants stood before the judges. It was down to Pedro and Mimi. Pedro, standing one step in front of the other contestants, waited for one last judge's assessment.

“Holy cow, buddy, you move like lightning.” The audience applauded, and Chef Alonso had a look of disbelief. “Gotta give you a five for quick thinking, and invite you to join my kitchen.” Chef Alonso paused while the audience laughed, but he never took his eyes off Pedro. “I give you a three for flavor because brushing the dough with butter and coarse salt just made it taste like a pretzel. I didn't like that. And I give you a two for innovation because, while I think it's clever that you cut the ham into tubes, I just don't find pigs in a blanket all that special.”

“Thank you, Chef.” Pedro stepped back.

Mimi's turn. Anxiety turned her skin clammy.

“Okay, and now for our last contestant, Mimi Romano,” Verna said. “Judges, let's start with Mr. Simmons.”

“Let me just say that this tart was absolutely delicious,” the older gentleman said. “If I could, I'd give you a five for flavor.”

As the audience exploded with applause, she relaxed. This was good. Really good.

“I'm giving you a three for quick thinking, but that might just be an unfortunate comparison to Mr. Speedy over here.” Again, they laughed, and Pedro took a bow.

“A four for innovation. It wasn't enormously clever to create a tart, but the way you turned what might've tasted like a dessert into a mouthwatering appetizer was just sensational. And a three for presentation because the drizzle was the same color as the tart, so nothing really popped.”

“Thank you so much.” It took everything she had not to look for Calix and pump her fist. But she kept her focus on the judges.

“Chef Alonso,” Verna said.

“You're a star.” The man beamed at her. “Just a star. Calm under pressure. I'm going to disagree with my esteemed colleague on the quick-thinking part, because I watched you make very quick decisions. And in order to pull off these flavors, you had to have relied on your instincts as a chef.”

Yeah, so not a chef
. But he didn't need to know that. “Thank you.”

“So, I give you a five for quick thinking, a five for presentation, and a three for innovation because, as Mr. Simmons mentioned, a tart wasn't enormously clever.”

She nodded her thanks. So, that made twenty-five out of thirty. One judge to go.

Please don't be too hard on me.
Zoe seemed to relish her role as bad cop. She'd already called out Pedro for making grilled cheese sandwiches.
Do you know what to do with an herb? What, exactly, do you hope to gain from apprenticing with Verna?
And she'd shredded Joey.
Basically, you flip burgers. Do I have that right? You stuff clams into white buns?
And when she'd asked what he hoped to achieve from working on Verna's show, she'd eviscerated him when he'd said he thought a fast-food cooking show would be a hit. Not everyone wants to “cook gourmet,” he'd said. And Zoe's lip had curled in disdain. Joey wasn't long for this show.

Mimi girded herself for a tough critique.

But something roiled under Zoe's icy demeanor. “Let me ask you a question.”

“Sure.”

“Mimi Romano. Any relation to Dino Romano?”

Where was she going with this? “He's my father.”

“So, then, I'm curious why you'd choose to be on this show when you've got a world-renown restaurateur for a father. Are you bored? Looking for some attention?”

Looking for attention—what, like Paris Hilton? Okay, hang on. She couldn't let herself get all worked up and jump the gun. She had to stay calm and think
.

Alena was keeping her Russian bakery in Chicago afloat in order to support a large, extended family with health issues. Pedro worked his food truck eighteen hours a day seven days a week to send money back to his family in Guatemala.

So, yeah, Zoe
was
painting Mimi with the pampered princess brush.

Oh, it's on, honey.
“I love cooking, and I'm excited for the opportunity to work with Verna Bloom.”

“Surely you've had the opportunity to work with the finest chefs in the world, given the restaurants your father either owns or invests in?”

“I grew up in and around kitchens, but I've had no formal training, if that's what you're asking.”

“And you've got an MBA from Columbia.”

Mimi nodded.

“So, no formal training, an MBA . . . are you just playing around with this competition? You've got all the connections you need to follow in your father's footsteps. In fact, looking at your résumé, you've groomed yourself to do just that. You're a businesswoman who doesn't have to knock down any doors. Why cook on national television?”

“I love cooking. I grew up in the kitchen with my grandmother and my dad.”

“That's sweet, Ms. Romano. But with all that hard work at Ivy League schools, I'm asking why you'd want to be an apprentice on a cooking show?”