And then the cameras stopped, because apparently Audra Carnegie’s skirt wasn’t lying exactly right, and some of the contestants weren’t smiling hard enough. Dahlia breathed out and glanced around her again, taking in more of the set—the abstract Chihuly glass sculptures, all perfectly lit in hues of green and blue, that dotted the clear wall between the cooking stations and the pantry. She could just glimpse the pantry through them, and her pulse ticked up at all the fresh produce on display, the just-visible corner of the refurbished library card catalog she knew held every spice she could imagine. Dahlia could not wait to get herself inside that pantry.
It was when she turned her head to see what lay on the other side of the set that her eyes landed on that strawberry blond hair again. And a face, she saw more clearly now with the increased supply of oxygen to her brain, that was generously dotted with freckles. Their hazel eyes were staring straight at her. At least, Dahlia thought hazel was the right word: an arresting greenish-gray, with flecks of gold and flashes of darkness mixed within. The hue of their hair seemed even brighter here, under the full effects of the stage lights, like they were cast in a heavenly glow.
If heavenly glows also included grumpy scowls.
If cool, lean Jacob next to her was a jaguar, Strawberry Blond Hair was a lion.
They were at the station directly behind hers. Dahlia’s face warmed again at the recollection of their interaction earlier, but creeping rays of confidence were seeping into her now. She could make this better, too.
She worked up a friendly smile. “Good luck,” she whispered. Which was a much more normal thing to say to a fellow Chef’s Special competitor than, you know, talk of fourth grade spelling bees.
They looked at her, unmoving, for a second longer. She thought, maybe, she saw their jaw clench. And then they grunted.
Again.
Except this was a purposeful grunt. They thought about this one.
They grunted at her, and then averted their eyes.
So. That would be a no as to whether they had found Dahlia’s freak-out charming.
Dahlia turned back to her station. She glanced at Jacob, who was staring straight ahead, arms crossed at his chest, standing in a wide power pose.
Fine. You couldn’t win them all. She still had the prospect of friendship with Barbara from Iowa, at least. Screw these people; grandmas were awesome.
It took far longer than Dahlia had anticipated, but finally, finally, over an hour and many surprisingly specific instructions later, it was time to cook.
The first challenge was always simple, open ended. Each contestant cooked whatever they wanted to showcase their personal styles, their signature skills. Everyone knew this, had time to plan for it for weeks.
She in fact didn’t trip on the mad dash to the pantry. As soon as Dahlia got her hands on some limes, she felt calm. Back at her station, she swept her dark hair onto the top of her head as the red clock embedded in the judges’ table clicked away, and she made a game plan. She was vaguely aware that Jacob was making filet mignon, that Strawberry Blond Grunting Face behind her was making lamb. She knew it would be this way.
On every cooking show she’d ever watched, everyone always jerked off to proteins she hardly ever cooked with. All of that stuff cost money. Money a single, recently divorced copy editor didn’t have.
Honestly, the only protein Dahlia could really afford, if she ever stuck to her budget, was canned tuna. But she preferred vegetarian dishes anyway. One could do some pretty amazing things with fresh produce, flour, grains, eggs, and a shit ton of spices. Perfecting homemade pasta was the first true balm to her soul last year after she moved out of the house she had shared with David, to be truly on her own for the first time in her life.
Vegetarian dishes didn’t win Chef’s Special.
But. Dahlia had grown up by the rocky shores of New England. She currently lived by the brackish waters of Chesapeake Bay. She knew seafood, too.
Not that fish tacos were really a signature of either New England or the Chesapeake. But whatever, who wanted to mess with crabs and lobsters, which had always seemed to her like more work than they were worth? She could have her way with a slab of cod and still have fun with all the other stuff. Marinade to mix, fresh tortillas to grill, cabbage to chop, jalape?os to mince. Colors, flavors, juices. The brighter and saucier the food, the more joy Dahlia took from it.
She had no idea whether fish tacos would be too basic for the judges or not, but she knew they would taste good and they would look pretty, and those were the only building blocks Dahlia had to work with.
So she juiced, she mixed, she grilled, she chopped, she cooked. She made a plan and followed it. She smiled at the judges and answered their amiable banter when they stopped by her station. She tried not to think about the cameras, tried not to look at the judges’ faces as they sampled her food. Tried not to think about lamb or steak.