“It’s just what?”
He pulled me a little further away and lowered his voice even more. “As you know, Max has had a bad week.”
How in the world would I know? Why in the world would I care?
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that Max has had a bad week. How can I help?”
“That’s very sweet of you.” Glenn squeezed my arm and smiled. “I think he’ll be okay. I knew you’d understand.”
Seriously? Was I even capable of sarcasm? I could have sworn that my offer of help had been dripping in it. That had certainly been my intent . . .
He continued, my masterful sarcasm having been artfully deflected. “I know you’re the praying type. I’m pretty sure Max could use some of it.”
What was I even supposed to do with that? I couldn’t be offended that I was known for being the praying type. I was the praying type. But I did not want to pray for Maxwell Cavanagh. All I wanted was for my brilliant Indian/Southern infusion to walk all over his toddler-ready finger food/truffle/mashed pea/foie gras infusion, and then to get the heck out of there.
But when you are the praying type, it’s not easy (or, probably, advisable) to refuse to pray for someone just because they’re a nincompoop.
I groaned softly. “Can we please just finish this?”
“Stuart!” Glenn abruptly shouted, shattering the veil of discretion. “Count it down! And get Hadley a drink if she wants one.”
Max whooped, as if now the party could get started. But Stuart, thankfully, knew me, and just threw his eyes open comically wide as he passed and said, “On your marks, please. We’ve got the transition shots. Let’s pick it up from there. Ten seconds!”
Chef Beckett. Chef Cavanagh. Please bring your dishes forward.
We completed the walk to the judges’ table and set our creations before them. Finally. I looked over at Max’s dish and felt simultaneous admiration and irritation. How? In the midst of all of the drama—all of his drama—how had he managed to create a beautiful jambalaya bourguignonne, an infusion dish he made up on the spot, just as I had made up mine, that looked as if it were ready to be served at any Michelin-starred restaurant in the world?
“Chef Beckett, please tell us about your final dish.”
Why couldn’t it be enough to just be really good at cooking? Or, in my case, really good at cooking and exceptionally good at baking? When had that stopped being enough? When had it been determined that in order to be truly successful in the food industry, you had to be on television?
I took a deep breath and prepared to explain the dish to the judges, and to all the world, I guess. I was so grateful that when I heard the sound of my voice, it seemed to be full of confidence. Confidence I really wished I was feeling.
“Today, Chefs, I have prepared for you a coconut-curry chicken, served on a naan waffle. And while the flavor profile is a little more on the exotic side, I think even exotic food should be comfort food. To that end, you’ll see that you also have a side of warmed sweet and slightly spicy plum chutney. I’ll ask you to pour that over the dish, as you would maple syrup over the traditional Southern version of chicken and waffles.”
I held my breath as I looked down at my dish one more time, and then gently pushed the plate in closer to them. They poured the chutney and then cut into the chicken, and I released a bit of the air I was holding when I saw how easily it cut. My shoulders relaxed as the waffle sprung down and back again beneath the pressure of forks. And finally, my teeth freed my bottom lip from their clenches as three poker faces morphed into expressions of satisfaction and contentment.
“Thank you, Chef Beckett,” the lead judge stated with a smile. “And Chef Cavanagh, what have you prepared?”
For the next two minutes I marveled. It was as if a switch had been flipped, and suddenly Max Cavanagh, grade A jerk, was replaced by a culinary and presentational genius, seemingly worthy of at least some of the honors and commendations which had been bestowed upon him.
He was so smooth and nuanced, and he flirted effortlessly. With the judges. With the cameras. With all of America and the world, it seemed. The pompous, verbose egotist disappeared and a quiet, perfectly subtle Casanova appeared. It was almost indecipherable—and I imagined that to be on the receiving end of his charm would be completely disarming. You know . . . if you hadn’t spent two days growing increasingly convinced that he was somehow the spawn of a serpent and a rabid raccoon.
“Thank you, Chef Cavanagh.”
The judges looked just as satisfied and content after eating his dish as they did after eating mine, and I felt whatever confidence had developed slipping away. Ah well. The anticipation of a second-place finish wasn’t so bad.
But man, oh man, I hated that he would be the one to beat me.
Ten minutes later Max and I were sitting at the Chefs’ Table—a long, rustic wooden slat with equally rustic benches, none of which matched the decor of the “stage” area, but at least felt less cold and staged than the rest of the set. It was at the Chefs’ Table where my opponents and I had sat during the filming of each episode, while our fates were determined. One camera crew was out filming the judges breaking down our dishes while another sat with us as we bantered. At least banter was the goal and expectation.
Max and I did not banter. Certainly not with each other.
“Hadley?” Stuart whispered my name from behind the camera. I looked up and saw him gesture for me to join him.
I hopped down from my bench and walked over to him. “What’s up? I thought we were rolling.”
“We were. But, I mean . . . you guys have to give us something.”
I crossed my arms. “I think we’ve given you plenty. Right now I’m just grateful for the silence.”
“Come on, Hayley,” Max called out. “I think we can handle thirty seconds of small talk.”
I glowered at him and sighed. “Fine.” I returned to the bench as I added, “But please, for all that is good and holy, can you remember my name for those thirty seconds? Please?”
He downed the last of his drink—not even the same one he’d been finishing off a few minutes ago, I was pretty sure—and handed the glass to Stuart. “Of course I can, Harley.” He laughed uproariously at his joke, which I was actually strangely comforted by. At least he knew Harley wasn’t my name either.
“We’re rolling,” Stuart said. Nervously, I think.
And still we sat in silence.
Okay, suck it up, Hadley, I lectured myself. Be the bigger person. Again. If he doesn’t want to put in any effort, it will all come across plain as day on TV.
“Your dish looked really great,” I told him, for the benefit of our future audience.
“Thank you,” he said with a nod. “Yours looked better than I expected.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Stuart shake his head and then bury it in his hands.
“And what did you expect, Chef?”
Max shrugged. “You don’t have to be offended—”
“I’m not,” I lied. “I would just be really interested in knowing what you expected.”
“It’s nothing personal, it’s just that very few chefs can pull off all Southern, all the time. I mean, it worked for Harlan Sanders, but—”