A Batter of Life and Death (14 page)

“What should I do with my hands?” she asked, holding them up like goalposts.

“Not that,” Philip said.

Nina stuck one hand in the front pocket of her
Take the Cake
apron and rested the other on her hip.

“Or that,” Philip said. “Just be natural.”

I caught Nina’s eye. She reminded me of a skittish mouse. Acting natural with a camera in your face and the knowledge that you’re going to be on national TV was easy enough for Philip to demand, but I had a feeling I was going to look just like Nina when my turn arrived.

Philip tried to position Nina’s hands for her. That made it worse. Finally he shooed her out without asking a single question. “Linda, come show everyone how it’s done.”

Linda practically danced over to her mark and started right in with her Southern drawl. She moved her hands and flirted with the camera. Nina stood watching with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face.

Sebastian didn’t need any guidance from Philip either. He played the role of snooty French chef to perfection, looking at the camera with disdain and throwing out a number of culinary terms that the average viewer would never know.

My palms were sweaty when Philip called my name. I arched my shoulders and took a deep, centering breath, trying to stay ahead of my nerves.

“The camera loves you,” he fawned as I introduced myself to our not-yet-existent viewers.

My speech may have been a little rushed, but my cheeks felt like they’d retained their normal amount of heat and hadn’t flushed in front of the camera. The last thing I wanted to look like was an overripe tomato. I was glad to have the first little piece over. Philip assured us all that as we spent more time under the lights and in front of the camera we’d forget they were even there. I wasn’t sure about that, but I was happy that I hadn’t bombed like Nina.

Philip made her do her intro over. If possible, she appeared to be even stiffer the second time around. I felt sorry for her. If her workstation was any indication of her attitude, I thought she would have been the loosest of all of us. Maybe she’d do better once we were all interacting with each other. I thought it would be easier to talk with my fellow contestants versus just hearing my own voice.

Nina hunched her shoulders and came to stand next to me. “That was horrid.”

“Don’t sweat it,” I whispered as Philip went over our marks, directing us to where he wanted us to stand next. “He says it’s going to get easier.”

Nina didn’t look convinced.

I squeezed her arm. “Really, don’t worry. It’ll be fun.”

At that moment a booming voice echoed in the theater. “Hello, anyone home?”

“Back here,” Philip called. “Our final contestant has arrived.”

Heavy footsteps sounded in the theater. I didn’t need a visual of the new contestant. I’d know that voice anywhere. Richard Lord was joining the show.

Chapter Seventeen

“What’s
he
doing here?” Nina muttered under her breath.

“One guess,” I said, pointing to the cake Richard carried in. I’d bet good money he’d purchased it at the grocery store. How had Richard schemed his way onto the show? I had a feeling it probably had to do with money too.

“Richard.” Philip greeted him with a slap on the back. “You are saving my hide, man. Thanks for being here.”

“My pleasure.” Richard stared in my direction and gave me an evil grin. “Anything I can do to give our little town some visibility.”

Philip took Richard’s cake and placed it next to the others. Then he sent Richard back for makeup and continued to direct us on our next tasks. “Elliot, you ready for this?” Philip asked.

Elliot did a couple jumping jacks and gave his entire body a shake. I’d seen actors at OSF go through similar preshow rituals to get their nerves settled. He took his mark in the center of the kitchen. The instant Philip gave him the sign that the cameras were rolling, Elliot snapped into his TV persona.

“Hey, hey, home bakers. Are you as excited as I am to kick off another season of
Take the Cake
?” He whipped a spatula in the air like a weapon.

Elliot paused, watching Philip for the next hand sign. Philip shot his index finger in the air and Elliot continued on.

“Why are they pausing so much?” Nina whispered.

“I think they must add in applause or something.”

“Like a laugh track.”

I shrugged. “Not sure. It’s just a guess. He stops at all the points when an audience would respond, though.”

Nina leaned closer as Philip shot us a look. “It’s kind of cool to watch it happen. I’d never guess things were so chopped up.”

Elliot finished his exaggerated opening, explaining the rules of the competition to viewers, introducing each of us, and drooling over the cakes lining the counter. He’d obviously done this before. He acted completely at ease in front of the camera, and knew before Philip signaled when to pause and start again. I had to agree with Nina, watching a television show from the comfort of home was a completely different experience than watching it come together in front of me.

Richard returned from the makeup chair with a thick of layer of powder attempting to cover the ruddy color of his cheeks. “Juliet, don’t look so surprised to see me. You’re not the only chef in town.”

“I never said I was.” I tried to keep my tone even, but Richard had a way of getting under my skin.

“Too bad about that chef’s death, but kind of a bonus for me.”

“I’m not going to dignify that remark with a comment.” I folded my arms across my chest. “What did you do, bribe your way in?”

Richard answered my question with a grin. He took great pleasure in making me angry. If we were going to work on set together, I was going to have to find a way not to let him get me riled up. Being camera shy was suddenly the lowest problem on my list.

We spent the next two hours shooting and reshooting. Once Philip was confident he had the shots he needed, we moved on to the taste-testing portion of the show. Elliot and two professional judges would taste each entry, provide their personal critiques, and crown a winner for each round. The judges looked like they belonged in a courtroom with their starched black aprons and matching dark expressions.

“Okay, home bakers, things are about to get real.” Elliot jumped to center stage, and cracked an amused smile. His gaze lingered on us for a moment before he whipped around and introduced the judges.

Elliot teased out each word, putting just the right emphasis on every syllable as he announced the first judge. “Home bakers, put your hands together for the one-and-only, world-class patisserie chef, joining us all the way from Paris, France … Maaa—dame Duuu—bois!” He sounded like the football announcer from Thomas’s high school games.

A petite woman wearing thick black glasses about the size of her head gave a curt nod. Elliot leaped off the stage and walked over to Sebastian. “A French chef and a French judge,
oooh,
this could get interesting, you guys.”

Madame Dubois adjusted her glasses and squinted at Sebastian.

“Any thoughts on how your fellow countryman is going to fare in this bake-off?” Elliot asked, casually resting his arm on Sebastian’s shoulder.

Madame Dubois peered at Sebastian from behind her glasses. Her eyes disappeared in a thin slant as she appraised him. “Non, I do not know dis chef.”

Elliot nudged Sebastian, who threw him off with such force I thought Elliot might wind up on the floor. Sebastian avoided Madame Dubois’s gaze, while Elliot quickly recovered.

“Man, the tension in here is on fire. I love it!” He hopped back on stage and stood next to the other judge. “Home bakers, I’m superexcited to have you meet our other judge, coming to us from the C—I—A! That’s right, the CIA.”

Nina started. “CIA?” she mouthed.

Before I could answer, Elliot chuckled. “I see some of our competitors are looking a little green.” He stared at Nina. “Running from the law, or something?”

Nina shook her head. She looked uncomfortable. I couldn’t tell if it was from having Elliot’s attention focused on her, or if she was skittish about something else.

Elliot grinned at the camera. “That’s right, home bakers, joining us from the CIA, also known as the Culinary Institute of America.” He winked at Nina. “Is master chef Harold Maaar—shall!”

Harold acknowledged each of us with a stern grimace. Elliot clapped. “Let’s do this!” Perfectly plated slices of each of our cakes appeared before the judges. “Home bakers, hold on to your cookbooks. Watch your pastry knives.
Take the Cake
has officially begun!”

I held my breath as each judge took a bite of my cake. Philip had instructed the judges to stay neutral during taste-testing and reserve their comments until they’d tasted all the offerings. I tried to read their expressions, but everyone’s face remained stoic.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Elliot jumped onto center stage again and announced that the judges were ready to weigh in. Linda faced the gauntlet of judges first. She received rave reviews for her design and use of embellishments. Her cake also received high marks for taste and texture, but both Elliot and Madame Dubois agreed with my assessment, that her frosting was too sweet. Nina’s nondairy cake was met with mixed reviews. They liked the overall flavor, but weren’t thrilled with the texture. Richard’s cake (shockingly) didn’t make the cut. He was declared the clear loser for round one, and stalked away pretending to be angry. I knew he could care less. He was just happy to get his mug on TV.

It came down to Sebastian and me. Sebastian’s intricate marzipan design wowed the judges. I could feel my stomach flop as I waited in front of the three of them to receive my feedback.

“Stunning cake, Jules,” CIA president Harold Marshall said, sticking his fork back into the piece of cake in front of him. “I can’t stop eating it. It has such a great balance of sweetness, with the bitter chocolate. Not too rich. Supermoist. Mouthwatering. This one’s a winner in my book.”

I smiled. One down. Two to go.

Madame Dubois had similar kind words for my creation. I’d never considered that I’d be so nervous hearing what they thought. I felt like I was back in culinary school.

Working on a large cruise ship rarely gave me an opportunity to talk directly with passengers about my pastries. On a rare occasion, I might get called to a table, and in those cases, passengers usually had great things to say about my creations. The same was true at Torte. Our customers tended to rave about our products. I couldn’t remember a time in recent history when anyone had ever complained about taste.

Once this summer we had a tourist complain that her drink order was taking too long. Andy was the fastest barista in town, but when we get slammed during the busy season it can take a couple extra minutes. My motto is: great coffee is worth the wait. But my other motto is: the customer is always right, so we gave her a complimentary cookie and a gift card for a free coffee. She was back the next day with a group of her friends.

For this part of the competition, the judges were critiquing us on presentation, design, and taste, which included the overall flavor and texture of our cakes.

Elliot was the last judge to provide feedback on my cake. “Not bad.” He held his plate for the camera to pan closer, then he stabbed his slice of cake with his fork. “See how the cake holds on to the fork? Great texture.” He took a bite. “Nice flavor density. I like the balance of the chocolates. What kind of chocolate did you use?”

“A Bavarian milk chocolate and a dark chocolate ganache,” I replied.

“What’s the frosting?”

“A chocolate cream cheese.”

“That’s what I thought.” Elliot nodded. He turned to Madame Dubois seated next to him. “It’s missing something I can’t put my finger on.”

Madame Dubois caught my eye.

Elliot snapped his finger in the air. “Got it. Salt.”

“Salt. Oui.” Madame nodded in agreement.

“A finishing salt, just to enhance the forward finish of the ganache.”

Philip called everyone to the front while the judges deliberated over a winner. Elliot might have a point about salt. Finishing salt is also known as sea salt, not table salt that comes from a shaker. We use finishing salts in a variety of pastries, breads, and savories at Torte. Our vendor harvests the salt off the Oregon coast. The delicate flakes enhance the flavor of everything from fresh-cut tomatoes to chocolate. One of the additional benefits of using a finishing salt is that you don’t have to use very much. A little sprinkle goes a long way. I kicked myself for not thinking of it. I’d have to try adding salt when I made the cake for the bakeshop.

The judges huddled together, speaking in low tones, while Philip went over the next phase of the competition. “All right, everyone.” Philip tapped on his clipboard. “Once the judges declare a winner for this first round, we’ll go ahead and get that on film and then you’re free to go for the afternoon. We’ll resume the shoot first thing in the morning. As you’ll see on the production schedules I passed around this morning, the second round is signature desserts. I’ll be sending a camera crew out on location to get some footage of all of you at work in the kitchen. You’ll each need to submit one dessert that defines you and your style. Ideally, I’d like it to be something that represents the region you’re from. I know that might be kind of hard with Jules and Richard since you’re both from around here, but just do whatever you think represents your pastry shop.”

It was everything I could do to stop myself from blurting out a snide comment about Richard’s signature dessert being stale, day-old, warehouse pastries.

He beat me to it. “Shouldn’t be a problem. The Merry Windsor is known all around town for our world-class pastries.” He gave me a smug look. “Right, Juliet?”

The judges announced that they’d come to a decision, saving me from entering into a battle with Richard Lord. It was futile anyway.

“I want you all lined up on your marks in the kitchen,” Philip directed.

We complied, as the cameras focused on Elliot who gave a quick recap of each of us and our desserts.