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“I must say, the crust is very nice,” he said, holding the piece up to inspect it.
“Thank you.”
“But now is the big test,” he said. “How will it taste?”
I held my breath as he took a bite and let it sit in his mouth as he slowly chewed on it. He nodded and he looked up at the ceiling and nodded some more.
Anxious to hear his opinion, I shifted from one leg to the other then started drumming my fingertip on the countertop.
Finally, he rolled his tongue around his mouth to clear away any remnants of the clanger and looked at me. “The texture is nice. The pastry, like I said, is spot on. Very flavorful and flaky all while holding its shape.”
Damn it. I could almost hear what was coming.
“However...”
And there it was.
“The meat... elk you said?”
I nodded.
“It’s a little tougher than it should be. Requires too much chewing.”
“I need to cook it longer,” I said.
“Right.” He picked up another slice and looked closely at it again, this time bringing the piece to his nose before handing it to me. “You tell me what’s missing.”
I took the piece and bit into it. He was right. The meat wasn’t as tender as it could be. As for the flavor, it tasted like what it had always tasted like. “It tastes fine,” I said.
He looked at me with a pleasant smile. “Unfortunately, ‘fine’ just isn’t good enough here.”
I nodded. “You’re right.”
“This would be fine for a diner or a small family restaurant,” he said. “I mean, it’s not bad. The flavor is pleasant enough, in a very pedestrian sort of way.”
“It’s just not good enough,” I said dejectedly as I leaned back against the counter.
I’d grown so accustomed to always winning prizes and getting endless praise for my cooking that his harsh words were like a pail of icy cold water.
He put his hand to my shoulder and gave me an encouraging little shake. “Don’t let my criticism of your work get you down, Layla. I’m only telling you this because I know that you can do better. If this clanger of yours had been awful and unredeemable, I wouldn’t even bother trying to help you. But I know that you have it in you to really walk away with this whole competition. You’re not that far off. You just need to hone your seasoning skills a little more.”
I nodded. “Do you want to try the sweet side?” I said in a small and fragile tone.
He smiled at me. “I certainly do.”
I sliced into the sweet side that had the cut out of dough in the shape of an apple that was now golden brown.
Once again, he visually inspected the piece, sniffed it, then took a bite. “Very nice,” he said as he nodded.
Nodding, I looked at him, waiting for more.
“I’m not so sure it was a good idea to cook your apples first,” he said. “I would suggest you try putting them in here raw and letting them cook down in the oven.”
“Right,” I said. Just hearing him saying it... it sounded so obvious. Just as one would in preparing an apple pie.
“The apples are a little too mushy, and I can barely detect the rhubarb, but the flavor is nice. That little shot of bourbon comes through... not too strong. Just enough.”
He finished off his piece then looked at the clanger. “Have you ever considered adding a drizzle of icing over the sweet side?”
