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I pulled three green apples from my bag along with a stalk of rhubarb.
Again, he nodded his approval.
“And my secret ingredient,” I said, pulling an unlabeled small bottle out. I held up the bottle, showing him the amber liquid inside.
“Whiskey?”
“Bourbon,” I said.
Reaching for yet another saucepan, I melted a pat of butter, quickly peeled and sliced up my apples and tossed them into the butter and let them cook down a bit.
“Cinnamon?” Chef Mac suggested.
“Actually, I prefer this.” I picked up my bottle of Hatch chili peppers.”
“Oh,” he said, his brow cocked. “How interesting.”
As I continued to prepare the meal, he repeatedly came around to dip his finger in the apple mixture and in the savory mixture.
Stirring the meat with the liquid now adequately reduced, I dipped in my finger to taste.
“What do you think?” he said, clearly assessing my capacity to assess my own dish.
“I can definitely taste the difference with the use of the fresh herbs.”
“It’s nice and fragrant,” Chef Mac said with a nod. “But there is nonetheless something a little bland in the overall flavor.”
“You think?” I said, momentarily caught off guard by his disapproving comment.
“You have to remember that the judges in this competition have tasted flavors from all over the world. They’ve had rosemary and thyme. They’ve had beef stews flavored with pepper and celery salt and clove. You have to up your game and bring them something new and surprising. Now, your choice of these clangers is novel and interesting, but the flavor so far is common and ordinary.”
“Oh,” I let out, somewhat disappointed.
He tenderly pushed a tendril of my hair out of my face and looked into my eyes. “The only reason I’m being so hard on you, so honest, is that I really want you to win. I want you to realize what you’re getting into.”
“I know,” I said softly.
“As it stands, Layla,” he said. “This would not make it past the first round.”
Ouch!
“Don’t underestimate your competitors,” he went on. “There are students here from all over the world and students who’ve had the advantage of a few years of study. Not to mention, the ever present entry of one Axel King.”
Startled, I looked up at him. “Axel King? Errol King’s son? He enters this competition?”
“Every year,” Chef Mac said with a nod. “And he wins.”
At the sound of Axel’s name, I felt both perked up and demolished. My body heated up as his face and body came to mind, but my ambition felt like it’d been slapped silly.
“Why in the world would he enter a competition like this?” I said softly, almost to myself. “He already has the prestige of being Errol King’s son. He already holds an important position at the academy. Why enter this? Why rob other students of the opportunity to win these prizes?”
Chef Mac chuckled and shrugged. “The worst thing in all this is that he doesn’t take the prizes.”
“So, what’s the point?”
“His father.”
Puzzled, I looked at him. “His father? What does he have to do with this?”
