The Last Super Chef Page 8

  A few minutes later I’m finally starting on my shrimp and Chef Taylor has Pepper giggling as he flatters her about her spice website. He calls for her video to play, and a giant version of her smiling face appears on the screen. The video zooms out as Pepper hurries from one burner to the other, somehow keeping two very different recipes on track. Distracted by it, I almost cut my palm trying to devein my first shrimp.

  Concentrate.

  Chef Graca blows that high-pitched whistle again on his way to Joey’s station. “Five minutes remaining!” he shouts. This time I don’t look at anyone else, I just keep working, but I know I must be way behind.

  I can’t help but hear little snippets of the other videos. Joey cooks because his father loves to eat. Bonifacio’s grandparents owned everything from corner stores to taquerias, and he’s always been surrounded by food. Kiko sounds a little bit like Paige; cooking is more of a science to her than anything else. Pepper already knows the names of the first seven restaurants she’s going to open and the line of frozen health foods she’s going to create.

  I try to stop listening. I try to keep working. But I wonder what they heard in my video, because I didn’t talk about any of that stuff. Did they see the real me? A poor kid who thinks he was born to cook because of the famous father he didn’t bother to mention? The kid who probably doesn’t belong on the same chef-y planet as the rest of them?

  The final bell rings, and Chef Taylor shouts, “Knives down, hands up!” There’s still a handful of untouched shrimp at my station, but I’m not allowed to fix it. During a commercial break, we’re asked to line up in front of the stage while the chefs visit each of our stations and review our prep.

  The judges pace slowly, whispering to each other. I sneak an occasional peek back to catch them checking over a container of onions so closely they might as well be using a magnifying glass or holding up shrimp for each other to inspect.

  The commercial must end, because all around the arena, the red lights of the cameras flame back on. They track the three chefs as they climb back onto the front stage to face us. Chef Wormwood steps forward first.

  “Our first challenge was mise en place.” Her expression is flat and serious. “Chef Taylor, who were your favorites?”

  The Super Chef takes a step as well, so now he’s even with her. “Definitely Chef Kiko,” he says. “The precision of her knife cuts was unmatched.”

  Kiko straightens her shoulders with pride.

  Last but not least, Chef Graca steps forward so the three chefs are even with each other on the stage. He waves at Kiko. “Congratulations! Please step to one side, Chef Tanaka.” He glances up at the balconies and a smattering of applause rains down on us.

  In traditional Super Chef fashion, Kiko takes two big sideways strides to her left, separating from the rest of us with a satisfied expression. She looks like she just got picked first for recess kickball.

  “Anyone else?” Chef Wormwood asks the Super Chef.

  “Most definitely. Points have to go to speed, too. Our fastest competitor was Chef Joey.” Joey takes the cue to join Kiko. More scattered clapping, a few random cheers.

  “These two contestants received the highest scores for this round.” My gut feels empty as I realize they’ll be the only two singled out.

  “That means it’s time to introduce you to our scoreboard!” the Super Chef cries, and the entire wall to our left lights up. There are five slots running down it. “From now until the last of our five challenges, this wall will be the lifeline for our competitors.” New lights flash all around the empty slots, strobing and spinning. “Each episode can have only one winner.”

  Kiko and Joey breathe heavily with anticipation. “And tonight that winner is . . .” He pauses intentionally, just as he always does on Super Chef, causing the tension in the room to spike so high that if there were a skylight, it would probably shatter.

  “Chef Kiko Tanaka!”

  Kiko’s name flashes brightly in the first slot of the scoreboard. To its right, a huge score of 50 lights up. She grins ear to ear. She raises her hand toward Joey for a high five, but he ignores her, his expression sour.

  Chef Taylor either doesn’t notice their exchange or doesn’t care about it. “Each challenge will feature a prize. Normally, you’ll know ahead of time what you’re shooting for. Win the challenge, win the prize. Tonight, though, in this warm-up, we had to keep it a bit a surprise.”

  Earlier I’d gotten brief glimpses of the black-shirted helpers hanging around the edges of the arena, occasionally emerging to retrieve a dropped knife or wipe up a dangerous spill during the frantic challenge. One of those black-shirts approaches Kiko now, a box extended out in his hands. He reaches her and, after a hold-your-breath pause, lifts the top off. We see the insides on the big screen behind the Super Chef. Must be the same angle the viewers at home are getting.

  Kiko sucks in a breath as the Super Chef officially puts words to what we’re all looking at. “One Takamura Antoku chef knife!” he cries. “Perhaps you know them, Chef Kiko, as they’re from Japan like you?”

  Kiko nods, biting her lip. “This . . . it is the perfect knife. All over Japan they are revered.” She holds her hand close to her body, like she’s afraid to reach out and touch it.

  “All over the world, they’re revered,” the Super Chef says.

  Kiko smiles, acknowledging his correction, and finally reaches out toward the box with a slightly trembling hand.

  The crowd oohs and aahs. Joey drops his face into both hands. I’d be doing the same thing if I’d been that close to winning a knife like that. I’ve heard the brothers who make them put their heart and soul into every little detail of their products, all of it done by their family, nothing outsourced.

  “Ah, he may have missed out on the prize, but young Chef Modestino wasn’t far behind in the scoring,” Chef Graca says. Hearing his name, Joey lifts his face out of his hands. “Let’s see his second place score!” Joey’s name slides in second with a score of 45. His despair fades into joy, and he pumps his fist so hard Kiko has to take a step away from him to avoid getting accidentally punched.

  “The rest of you have some work to do to catch up after tonight,” Chef Wormwood declares sternly, glaring at us with eyes as clear and stabbing as Mrs. Kadubowski on her best day. She glances over at the scoreboard again. “Let’s see the complete results.”

  Bells ding and the rest of our scores light up the wall.

  Kiko Tanaka

  50

  Joey Modestino

  45

  Pepper Carmichael

  38

  Bonifacio Agosto

  35

  Curtis Pith

  34

  As soon as my name shows up I glance at the Super Chef. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it seems like he shakes his head slightly in disappointment. He raises his voice to announcement level. “Each challenge, this scoreboard will be updated with the latest results. At the end of the season, the young chef with the highest cumulative score will become . . .”

  Now he looks up at the balcony, encouraging their participation, and all three chefs and the dozens of people watching shout in unison.

  “The! Last! Super! Chef!”

  For all the worrying from the media, the live arena crowd seems to have fully accepted the reality of this being the last season. They show how on board they are with the idea via their nearly deafening cheering. I hear all of it, but I don’t see the people shouting and celebrating. All I see is the glowing 34 on that scoreboard wall.

  All I see is the lowest score.

  All I see is last place.

  15

  The cameras track the Super Chef and his two partners as they pace off the stage. Only when they’re completely gone do the red recording lights fade. I’ve watched the show so many times I hear the closing music, see the credits rolling near the floor. But here in the actual arena there’s no overlay of white names against a black background, and the only sounds are the orderly footfa
lls of the audience as they file out. The crowd laughs and smiles, as if what just happened was the normal-est of days at the office and not the most terrifying sixty minutes of our lives.

  Kari the producer darts out a side door. She has clear-rimmed glasses that keep sliding down her nose as she half runs toward us. Those wild blond curls constantly threaten to escape the band of the slim headset, which so far seems permanently attached to her ear.

  “Great job!” she cheers. “You guys are all naturals.”

  I’m pretty sure the rest of the Super Five are the same level of shocked as I am. Frozen in place, we stare straight ahead as her expression grows more serious. “Now. Your handlers are your go-tos for whatever you need while you’re here.” She points at a row of college-aged people, including Mel, standing off to the side. It seems each of the other contestants have their own “Mels,” though I hadn’t caught any names yet. “They’ll come to me if they can’t help with something. Please remember one of them will always be on duty upstairs. They’re your overnight supervisors.

  “Okay.” Kari claps one hand against the back of her clipboard. “I bet you guys are super tired. Let’s head up to your dorms.”

  Kari said “dorms,” but the rooms we’re taken to when we stomp up the stairs directly above Super Chef Arena aren’t like any dorms I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve seen a lot of dorms—or any dorms, actually—but I still feel like I understand enough about dorms to know these are not dorms.

  The ceilings rise up so high my neck almost locks up when I try to see where they stop. The area we’re standing in is cut neatly in half: one side a gourmet kitchen, the other a sparkling living room. We’d taken the elevator up to the fifty-fourth floor for the arena, so this must be floor fifty-five, accessible, as far as I can tell, only by stairs up from the studio below.

  “Boys are that way,” Kari says, pointing to a room on the left. “Girls on the other side. And that room.” She points to another door in the back, closer to the girls’ side. “Is where your assistant-handler will sleep each night.”

  This is different. Usually the regular Super Chef contestants get put up in a big house, and part of the drama is watching all the personal battles they have when they forget the cameras are recording their every move.

  Then I remember: sometimes in an episode the Super Chef comes down to the arena as if he was waiting upstairs. “Isn’t this the Super Chef’s . . . ?”

  Kari tucks her clipboard to her chest. “Chef Taylor originally built these quarters into Super Chef Arena for himself, yes, but as you’re minors, we couldn’t place you off site. So you’ll stay here. There’s a twenty-four-hour security staff downstairs.” She glances up at shiny black cubes lodged into every corner of the ceiling. “And keep in mind, these cameras are always on.”

  “Where are our suitcases?” Pepper asks.

  “In your rooms, of course. Sorry to take them from you and throw you to the wolves right off the plane like that.” Kari barks out a nervous laugh. “It was the way Chef Taylor wanted to start things off. He is the boss, after all.”

  “Are our phones there, too?” Bonifacio asks.

  Kari shakes her head. “No phones. As the rules warned you would happen, we took those downstairs for the duration of the competition. If there’s an emergency, talk to the handler on call.” She points at the back room again. “Or you can use that button”—now she gestures toward a glowing blue button that looks like a doorbell near the entry—“which will contact security downstairs. They will be here in seconds. And let me remind you: no internet here either.”

  “We can go to our bags, then? To our things?” Bonifacio wonders in a fearful tone. “Sí?”

  “Sí, yes. Go ahead, unpack.” Kari nods at the rooms to the right and left, girls and boys, then points to the kitchen and raises her voice as Bonifacio and Kiko are the first to head to the bedrooms. “When you’re downstairs in the arena, you follow Chef’s orders. But when you’re in this space, you can do whatever you want. As far as meals go, the fridge is fully stocked. Chef Taylor figured you five were more than capable of cooking your own dinners. The on-duty handler will supervise and lend a hand as needed.”

  She starts to turn for the door, then seems to remember something. “Take note! Chef Wormwood will pay you a visit a little later to explain a bit more about the competition. So don’t get too comfortable.”

  Once more Kari turns away, but again she gets only a step farther before whipping around. Each new announcement is made in a voice slightly louder than the last.

  “Oh! And another thing. The handlers are not your servants. Please leave them alone unless you really need them. These folks are in college, graduate school.” She nods toward the five of them, standing in a straight, attentive line. “They have quite a lot of studying to do while they’re here interning.”

  Joey hears Bonifacio rummaging around the boys’ side. The instructions and reminders apparently over, he races after him, shouting, “Dibs on the best bed!”

  Pepper seems to realize he might have the right idea and hurries after Kiko into their room. I’m still standing in the huge common area, gazing around at the couch that looks more comfortable than any bed I’ve ever slept in, the gleaming kitchen, until finally my eyes fall onto the wall of windows leading out to a balcony I recognize. It’s where a troubled Chef Taylor leaned at the end of season one, in turmoil over which of the two finalists should be declared the first champion. Outside now, just as they had that night, the New York City lights wink and blink and flash, as if the skyscrapers are alive and talking to each other.

  From the corner of my eye, I catch producer Kari clicking a button on a black remote. Automatic blinds start to descend over the tall windows, slowly cutting out the city lights. She holds the remote in the air, showing it to me. “This controls a lot of stuff around here.” She makes sure I see her placing it on an end table. “You guys’ll figure it out, I’m sure.”

  The hum of the motor fills the room. It seems to give Kari time to remember yet another item. “Everybody, listen up! One more thing. Some areas around here are off limits and locked. That balcony, for example.” She locks eyes with me and I nod. “We can’t have any accidents up here. Please be careful.”

  Mel paces over to the sliding-glass door and gives it a hard tug, confirming it doesn’t budge. Meanwhile Kari inhales, and, still speaking loudly, finishes up. “Okay, Chefs, clear eyes, deep breaths. We’re glad you made it this far. Mel here has the first shift.”

  While Kari checks her clipboard one last time, each of the handlers finds and hugs their assigned chef. Like Mel and me, they must have traveled here together and gotten to know each other on the plane. During our flight, he asked me a few questions about my mom and sister, any allergies I had, what kinds of foods I liked and disliked. “Although I think I got the full list of both from your mom,” he joked.

  Now he walks toward me again. I’m still staring at the blinds covering the windows. I think I might be in a little bit of shock.

  “You okay, Curtis?” Mel asks.

  I face him and nod, but I still can’t find my voice.

  His smile widens. “You had the blue suitcase, right? Spider-Man?”

  I nod again.

  He cuts his eyes toward the room that Bonifacio and Joey ran into, then tilts his head. “It’s in there. Parked it myself.”

  From somewhere in their rooms, I can hear the rest of the Super Five crying out excitement over whatever they’re finding. Maybe this is what camp is like: kids arriving to a new place, making interesting discoveries about this short-term home away from home, hours away from hovering parents. I have no idea; the Pith family could never afford camp.

  Mel’s right. I should check out my room, empty my suitcase. Mom warned me to do it quick so everything inside didn’t wrinkle. When I’m almost to the door, I hear a whisper.

  “Good luck, kiddo,” Mel says.

  At least I think it’s him. When I turn around, though, he’s gone.


  The ceilings in the bedroom are just as tall as the ones in the common room were. Which means there’s plenty of space for Joey to be jumping up and down on the top bunk of a bunk bed near the only window, another floor-to-ceiling wall of glass filled with the glow of the city.

  “This view is completely amazing!” he cries.

  Bonifacio is carefully emptying his suitcase on the bottom bunk, fixing any wrinkled shirts in his collection. Because that’s what his shirts look like, a collection. Every one is a button-down with a slightly different pattern, as if he’s spent a bunch of time hunting down one of each. It’s Magic: The Gathering, the nerdy shirt edition.

  “Can you see the Statue of Liberty?” I ask hopefully. I remember the Super Chef could see it from the balcony and this window is on the same side.

  Joey jumps high one last time, turning to face me in the process. His leaping slows to small hops, then stops completely. “Yep. Snooze you lose.” In a smooth motion, he drops down to his butt on the top bunk, bounces off it, and descends to the floor, barely missing kicking his bunkmate in the butt as his wild feet swing down.

  Bonifacio lurches forward when Joey slaps his back. “We’ve got the bunks. Mo and Bo. Bo and Joe. The Oh-sters. Oh no? Oh yeah.”

  “Mo for Modestino?” Bo, rubbing his shoulder blade, asks him.

  “That’s what they call me back home,” Joey confirms. He makes finger guns at Bo, then drops his thumbs like hammers. “Don’t wear it out.”

  I lift my suitcase onto my bed, hearing Joey approach across the room behind me. “Your bed’s closer to the bathroom, at least,” he says in my ear. “Maybe keep you from peeing your pants like you did downstairs.”

  I do my best to ignore him while I struggle with my bag. It’s pretty old, and it takes me a couple tries to get the handle to collapse, and even more effort to work the zipper loose.