I nearly choked on my indignation. “You’re comparing my cooking to fast-food fried chicken?”
He shrugged yet again. “Well, I mean, it’s not quite as flavorful as the Colonel’s, of course, but you’re just getting started. You’ll get there.”
“That’s it!” I exclaimed, jumping up from the bench and stomping to the door. “I’m done.”
Stuart placed his finger to his headset to put it closer to his ear. “They’re ready for you. Come on, Hadley. It’s almost done. This is it.” He put an arm out to usher me back into the main studio.
Aioli. Breadbasket. Chopsticks. Dish rack. Espresso machine. Flour sifter. Gravy boat.
I was going to need at least the entire alphabet in order to actually cool off, but that was going to have to do for now.
“This was the closest competition in the history of America’s Fiercest Chef,” Xavier began as soon as film began rolling once again. “Ultimately, our judges chose one chef to carry the mantle and the title. One chef will be named victorious. One chef will . . .”
Oh my goodness, get on with it!
The rest of it was a blur, and not just because it was all so repetitive and melodramatic. Although, that certainly didn’t help. I zoned out because I just couldn’t take one more hyperbolic guarantee that the winner’s life would completely change, and that they would never be bored or financially strapped or unknown or alone or, I don’t know . . . stuck in traffic ever again.
So when I heard Xavier say my name, it took me a moment to remember the rules. Did they say the name of the winner or the loser first? The loser, right? I plastered on a disappointed-but-resigned-and-grateful-for-the-opportunity smile and took a step toward the judges, to shake their hands and say thanks.
“You’re kidding me,” Max said. At least that’s pretty much what he said. His version was somewhat less family friendly.
I rolled my eyes. Really? He was even going to make a big deal about the fact that I hadn’t shaken his hand and congratulated him first? Granted, that was the way it was usually done on these competitions. Granted, that would have been the polite thing for me to do.
But come on! He was lucky I didn’t haul off and slug him.
I sighed and turned back to face Max, my arm extended. His arm extended as well, and for one fleeting moment I considered the possibility that we might actually end this thing with civility. But then I realized it was his left arm reaching out, and it wasn’t meeting up with the right arm I had extended. He wasn’t going to try to hug me, was he? He wasn’t that much of an imbecile, surely.
I was wrong. He was so much more of an imbecile than I had ever imagined. He wasn’t coming in for a hug at all. As bad as that would have been, the reality was even worse. He reached past me to the judges’ table and with one fluid motion, struck the edge of my plated masterpiece and caused it to flip into Chef Aguste Bisset’s lap.
I gasped and, regrettably, muttered, “Well, I never!” I was always so disappointed in myself when Southern colloquialisms dripped from me freely in the most stressful of moments.
I don’t know a lick of French, apart from necessary cooking terms and the essentials to assure any French visitors to my restaurant that I’m merely ignorant, not rude. But I was fairly confident that Chef Bisset’s exclamation was even less flattering than my Minnie Pearl–inspired outburst.
I heard Glenn call out “Keep rolling!” and I whipped around to glare at him, but he couldn’t be bothered by my disapproval, I suppose. He was, after all, in the process of filming the Culinary Channel’s first foray into Jersey Shore–level entertainment.
“Chef Maxwell,” Xavier said, his voice sounding more confident than his cautious steps back from the table appeared. “We’ll kindly thank you to control—”
“Her?” Max asked with a sneer and, if I’m not mistaken, disgust as he gestured toward me. “With her ‘y’all come back’ and her ‘kiss my grits’ . . . her?” He took another step toward the judges’ table, causing them all to scoot back in fear of what he might do.
“I have never said ‘kiss my grits’ in my entire life!” I protested, quite possibly zeroing in on the wrong thing first. Although, seriously. Kiss my grits? I may have been a little too folksy at times, but I would not stand there and be accused of being a folksy grandmother.
Besides, I was prepared to add, you won. You are the better chef, even if you are the lesser human. So kiss my ever-lovin’ grits, Maxwell Cavanagh.
But before I could say any of that, a funny thing happened. My brain kicked into gear. Finally. They’d said my name first. I’d watched four seasons of this show, in preparation for my appearance. Back when I’d thought that my episodes would bear even a slight resemblance to any episodes that had gone before, I’d studied the patterns. What the judges liked, what they hated, what they were tired of, what they would view as fresh and innovative. Once my brain was working, I saw it all clearly. I knew this show inside and out.
And they always announced the winner’s name first.
“I won?” I muttered.
Thankfully no one heard my muttering. They were all too busy being verbally assaulted by Max’s deluge of insults. Not that I’m thankful about that part, of course.
In context, his temper tantrum made a lot more sense. I mean, it still made absolutely no sense whatsoever, but a temper tantrum over winning would somehow make less than no sense whatsoever.
A few moments later, about the time security was called in and Max was forcibly removed from the set, hurling accusations and threats all the way to the door and beyond, it began to really sink in.
I won. I defeated Max Cavanagh, who was generally regarded as the greatest chef of our generation. I had done it my way—with manners and a whole lot of butter and salt—when faced with unbelievable circumstances that would have caused even the cook at a firehouse to crumble. I’d proven that I was more than just a great pastry chef from Nashville. I’d made it clear that I could hold my own alongside the big guns.
It was just too bad the world would never know, since there was absolutely no chance whatsoever that America’s Fiercest Chef’s tribute to All My Children would ever see the light of day.
1. Freeze fresh ingredients for up to three months.
HADLEY
“That’s it for today, friends. I’m already looking forward to next time, when I’ll show you some tricks for making biscuits that even your gluten-free friends will fight over. And before you ask, no. They aren’t gluten-free. I never said it would be wise for your gluten-free friends to eat them. That’s another story altogether!”
Movement caught my eye, just to the right of the camera. Though he stood in the shadows, I was instantly certain that I didn’t recognize the silhouette. It was undoubtedly a man. Beyond that, I didn’t have a clue. My little makeshift studio didn’t attract guests very often, so my curiosity nearly got the best of me, but the silent snap of Stuart’s fingers pulled back my focus.
“I’m also going to give you a peek into my tried-and-true methods for making sure big family events don’t become overwhelming. It really is possible to enjoy hosting a houseful of people. Well . . . that depends on what your family’s like, I suppose. Regardless, no one has to die!”