Another night’s sleep had helped a little, and today’s marathon challenge to produce “three distinct desserts that celebrate the pineapple” was going better than Rosaline had feared it might.
When Colin Thrimp appeared at her workstation she dropped into narration mode without thinking. “So I’m making the pineapple filling for my pineapple-shaped pineapple biscuits. Which, now I say it out loud, might be too much pineapple even for a pineapple challenge. What I’ve got here is pineapple juice, sugar, and bits of actual pineapple in a pan. I’ll leave those to simmer. And while that’s doing its thing, I’m going to put together my brown sugar espuma for my molasses-roasted pineapple with dark brown sugar cream.”
“Espuma?” said Grace Forsythe, whose innuendar had, once again, called her to Rosaline’s side. “Hardly knew ’er.”
She probably shouldn’t have taken her eyes off any of the things she was cooking, but Rosaline couldn’t help but ask, “Are you allowed to espuma before the watershed?”
“If she’s up for it.”
Alain glanced up from his apothecary’s counter of wholesome-looking ingredients and Rosaline cringed in case he said something. But either he thought better of it or hadn’t been paying attention, and quickly returned to work.
Which was typical, wasn’t it? She’d spent nearly the whole competition worrying about what other people thought and felt, and he’d spent it going after things he wanted. It was an arsehole way to live your life, but it was definitely a better way to win a baking competition.
When judging rolled round, Rosaline was called up first, and she carefully laid her selection of pineapple-themed desserts on the table at the front of the ballroom.
“Well, these,” declared Wilfred Honey, “look lovely.”
Marianne Wolvercote subjected Rosaline’s offering to flensing scrutiny. “I’m impressed by the espuma. That’s quite technical. But the cupcakes”—she took a bite of one—“while nice, aren’t really at the level I’d be expecting from you at this stage in the competition.”
Oh God. She was going out. She was going out for serving substandard cupcakes to a renowned patissier.
“And the biscuits”—Marianne Wolvercote was still not done—“although I understand the whimsy and the rosemary representing the fronds of the pineapple are an interesting touch, are just a bit too . . . jam-in-pastry for me.”
Rosaline blinked, trying not to cry. Tears on-camera were bad enough. Tears in front of her dickhead ex would be a whole different level of mortifying.
Wilfred Honey folded his arms mulishly. “See, I disagree. Your espuma’s lovely and technical. The cupcakes, yes, they’re simple but they’ve got a lot of heart, and they’re perfectly baked, and they taste grand. As for the biscuits, they’re fun, and I can see your little girl really liking them.”
Feeling slightly shaky and not at all sure whether that had been a good judging or a bad judging, Rosaline went back to her stool.
Harry was next. “Right,” he said, “I’ve done a sort of range of pineapple sweets. There’s pineapple fudge, piña colada ice lollies, and a yellow velvet cake, which is like a red velvet cake, only it’s yellow and it’s done with pineapple.”
The judges sampled his various delectables.
“I think this is actually quite clever again,” said Marianne Wolvercote in the surprised tone she seemed to reserve for the times Harry did something impressive. “You’ve taken classic favourites, made them fit the brief, and presented them in quite an elegant way. I will say that you got lucky with your ice lollies because”—and here she snapped a corner from one of them—“they’ve only just frozen.”
“Call me a stickler,” added Wilfred Honey, “but I don’t like ice lollies on Bake Expectations. Because it’s not baking and, to be honest, it’s barely cooking.”
Harry nodded. “That’s fair.”
“I think you’re getting away with it here,” Wilfred went on, “because the challenge was for a range of desserts. And they do complement the cake and the fudge very nicely. The yellow velvet was a risk because I’ve not seen a pineapple velvet before, but it has worked and it is very velvety, which is what it’s supposed to be.”
Although she hadn’t been super thrilled with her own feedback, Rosaline still shared a smile with Harry as he returned—blushing slightly—to his place.
“Basic,” declared Marianne Wolvercote in response to the three cakes Nora plonked down in front of her. “We wanted a cohesive set of desserts that celebrated the pineapple. And what you’ve given us are three cakes with pineapple on them.”
“There’s also pineapple in them,” Nora pointed out.
Wilfred Honey sliced into the pineapple cheesecake and gently levered out a slice. “We can’t fault you technically. This is nicely tart, well set, and has a lovely sweet base. The Victoria sponge is perfect, and I know how much skill it takes to bake a perfect Victoria sponge. And you’ve also made a great pineapple upside-down. But Marianne is right that you’re not showing a lot of range here, compared to the other contestants.”
“Mmhm,” said Nora. “Thanks.”
Finally, it was Alain—bearing his usual tray of trying too hard.
“So,” he announced, “I’ve prepared coconut panna cotta with spiced pineapple, a pineapple mint sherbet with fresh fruit, and a vanilla bean and pineapple lattice tart.”
Oh fuck. It all looked great. Of course it looked great. He was a smug prick, but he was annoyingly good at baking.
“I’m probably going to be a bit prejudiced about this,” said Wilfred Honey, “because I do love a tart.”
“Don’t we all, darling,” put in Grace Forsythe from the sidelines.
“You’ve got a lovely even bake on it,” went on Wilfred Honey, “and the vanilla bean really softens the acidity of the pineapple. This is just perfect.”
Alain smiled modestly. “Thank you.”
“You’ve outdone yourself, Alain.” Marianne Wolvercote was testing the wobble on the panna cotta. “I particularly appreciate that you went for a sherbet, which, of course, is another dessert that was popular in the period. In fact, I like it so much that I’ll forgive you for going back to the herb garden for the mint.”
“The texture on the panna cotta,” went on Wilfred Honey, “is exactly where it needs to be. And I like that for this one you’ve used the pineapple more as a garnish so that you get it incorporated differently into each dessert.”
Marianne Wolvercote nodded. “I absolutely agree. I think the way you’ve used the flavours across all three dishes shows a real subtlety of touch. Each one gives us a different side of the pineapple, and that’s exactly what we’re looking for.”
So he won. Of course he fucking won.
Grace Forsythe still did the enormous rambling speech where she hinted it might be somebody else, but he fucking won.
“And that,” Grace Forsythe went on, “brings us to the sad part of the afternoon. It’s always difficult to say goodbye to somebody this close to the end.”