The Last Super Chef Read online

  “Are you not going to get your clothes, too?” Bo asks Joey.

  “Someday.” Joey’s—Mo’s—ladder creaks, and when I turn around he’s returned to his side of the room, climbing back up to the top bunk. “Right now I’m gonna enjoy the sweet smell of victory. And this awesome view.”

  “I seem to remember the name at the top of that scoreboard being Kiko’s, not yours,” I say through clenched teeth.

  Joey only sniffs deep through his nostrils, enjoying the scent of whatever his imagined victory smells like. “In time she too will fall. All of you will.” He leans over the edge of the bunk. “Sorry, Bo. We can be total buds until then. But, you know, it is a contest.”

  I plop down on my bed. I’m only seeing three things right now: my name lit up bright at the bottom of that arena wall, Joey’s smug smile, and the Super Chef shaking his head slightly when my last place standing was revealed. For a second I tell myself it doesn’t matter what he thinks. The fact he’s my father is completely irrelevant to what I’m here for. But the Super Chef is something else, too. The main judge. So I guess I kinda do have to care about his opinion.

  Not my father. Yes my judge. I’ve only been here one night and I already see how hard it’s going to be to keep them separated.

  “Attention! Line up!” A strong, deep, and female voice calls out from the common room. Chef Wormwood’s command freezes me in place until she repeats it even louder. “Line up!”

  Joey scrambles down his ladder. I burst up off my bed. He bumps me as he rushes to be the first one out of our room. I feel Bo close behind me as I follow, and see Pepper and Kiko emerge out from the other side at the same time. Chef Wormwood waits for us in the middle of the common room, still in her chef’s jacket, her hands on her hips. Her expression is flat and stern.

  We’ve all seen Super Chef enough to know the drill. We line up directly in front of her so that Joey, who got there first and took the center spot, is straight across from Chef Wormwood.

  Mel peeks out of his door, sees Wormwood, and steps out. He leans against the wall, relaxed, watching the commotion with a smirk on his face. But when Wormwood shoots a glance at him, he snaps to attention, his arms glued to his sides. His lips flatten into a tight line.

  Returning her gaze to us, Wormwood shakes her head while we organize ourselves, swapping spots with each other before shuffling to make sure our line is perfectly straight.

  When we finally stop moving, she releases a disappointed puff of air. “Tell me just one thing. Are you guys good at anything?”

  16

  “I received a perfect score,” Kiko protests. “My prep was—”

  Chef Wormwood slaps a hand onto her forehead. “Perfect? Good Lord, I hope you don’t think that was perfect. That would mean we have more work to do than I thought. Thank goodness we started with a warm-up.”

  “So we were not on the television?” Bo asks. He sounds relieved. He glances around at the rest of us, giving us all the good news he thinks he just heard. “It was only practice.”

  But Wormwood snorts. “I’m sorry, Mr. Agosto, that was most certainly not practice. At least, it wasn’t supposed to be. And yes, from now on, you should assume you’re always on television, including tonight.”

  The relief that had briefly crossed Bo’s face fades into mild horror.

  “Understand what I mean by ‘warm-up.’ I’m saying we were warming you up for the rest of the challenges. I’m saying you’re heading for a lot more stress than a little bit of mise en place creates. I’m saying those of you who did well tonight—or think you did well, anyway—better not get too comfortable. Perfect scores are going to be a lot harder to come by going forward. And I am saying”—she paces to the end of the line, stopping in front of Pepper—“that if you want to win this competition, we better not see any more shells and veins on shrimp.”

  Pepper opens her mouth to respond but seems to think better of it. She keeps her face turned up, though, refusing to blink as she stares back into Wormwood’s stern eyes. I never noticed how pasty Chef Wormwood is, like a person who’s never been outside before, but it’s super clear inches away from Pepper’s dark skin.

  Their mini-stalemate feels like it lasts forever, until finally the sous chef backs away, returning to the center position a few feet in front of Joey. “You understand the excellence we expect here, correct? You’re supposed to be representing the future.” She throws her head back, and what she says next feels like she must be quoting the Super Chef. “‘A shining sign of what’s to come.’” Looking down again, she continues. “If you think Chef Taylor is going to—”

  “When do we meet him, by the way?” Pepper interrupts.

  “Yeah, why are you here instead of him?” Joey adds.

  Chef Wormwood glowers at them both. She tucks her hands behind her back and straightens her shoulders. “I am here because Chef asked me to be here. My job tonight is to clue you in on what happens next.” She pauses, waiting to see if any of us will mention the Super Chef again, but no one does. “So let’s get to it, then, shall we?”

  She starts to pace again. “Since each episode of the show will air live, we want to spend as much time cooking as possible, so what I’m about to tell you will not be explained again on set. I suggest listening closely.” She stops and looks down her nose at us. I try my hardest not to fidget under the intensity of her gaze.

  “Chef Taylor is purposefully keeping contact with you at a minimum. He doesn’t want his final selection to be swayed by personal relationships.”

  What could be more personal than one of the Super Five being your own son?

  “We’re not going to meet him?” I ask, wondering why my voice sounds so concerned.

  “Oh, you’ll meet him.” Chef Wormwood sends her knowing grin toward me. “During the competition, each of you will spend a single evening in a one-on-one session with the Super Chef. He’ll take you to dinner at one of his favorite restaurants. You’ll have a ‘heart-to-heart’ about your goals and dreams. Your vision for your own future, maybe. Outside of the raw scores of the challenges, this dinner will be your only opportunity to impress upon him why you should be the winner of The Last Super Chef. Competition points will be on the line.”

  A heart-to-heart? Why would we need that? Super Chef competitions have always been about food. I came here to cook. But I can see that Wormwood isn’t kidding. So if this “Evening with the Super Chef” has to happen—and I’m not ready yet to surrender the possibility I might be able to get out of it somehow—then I have to keep it focused. Cooking talk only. No distractions.

  “These meetings . . . they will also be on TV?” Bo asks. For a dude who submitted a whole video to be in a contest he knew would be on television, he seems awfully nervous to . . . be on television.

  Still, now I can see Bo’s concern, even feel an echo of it in my own suddenly somersaulting gut. Will I get to talk to the Super Chef before this evening? Or will my first conversation with my father happen in front of a worldwide TV audience?

  “Yes, Mr. Agosto,” Wormwood answers impatiently. “TV. The contest you entered is part of a television program.”

  “But if he finished last,” Joey starts, saving Bo from Wormwood’s criticism. I look up to find him pointing at me. “Why’s he still here? Aren’t we kicking off one per episode like regular Super Chef?”

  I gulp. So he rescues Bo only to throw me to the wolves? Definitely not cool.

  “I’m in the middle of explaining that,” Chef Wormwood says. “May I continue?”

  Joey zips it and nods.

  “All of you will go through this entire contest to its completion. Each episode will have its own score, and those scores will be added to your cumulative total. No one will get eliminated—kicked off, as you say—until the very end, when we pick a single winner. That means each of you is here for the long haul. I hope you’re all prepared for that.”

  “Oh, I’m ready,” Joey says, rubbing his hands together.

  “I
can’t wait to meet the Super Chef,” Pepper agrees.

  “Tonight was your one and only warm-up challenge, a fifty-point maximum episode. During all the other episodes, you will be able to earn a maximum of one hundred points toward your total.”

  “It’s like the House Cup,” Kiko suggests.

  “Yeah, right. Total Harry Potter vibe,” Joey agrees. He launches a fist straight up in the air. “Slytherin for the win!”

  “I’m a Hufflepuff!” Bo announces proudly.

  “Of course you are, bud,” Joey says, rubbing one of Bo’s shoulders.

  “Gryffindor,” Pepper chimes in. She looks to her right, at Kiko.

  “Ravenclaw,” Kiko answers, shrugging a little.

  “One of each! What are the odds?” Joey says. He looks around Bo at me again. “You’re the tiebreaker, Pith. Which house are you?”

  “I—I don’t know,” I answer.

  “You never did one of those quizzes? They take like two minutes on your phone.”

  “I, um, I don’t have a smartphone.”

  Everyone is quiet for moments that seem to stretch out forever, until Wormwood finally breaks the awkward silence.

  She glances at one of the ceiling cameras. “I swear, Lucas. Children. On Super Chef.” Shaking her head, she returns her attention to us. “It is not the House Cup,” she says, uttering “House” and “Cup” like the very words are disgusting. “This is far more important than Harry Potter.” With that, she turns and grabs a stack of printed sheets off the kitchen island. “This is The Last Super Chef,” she finishes, waving the pages in our direction.

  “Chef Taylor believes there are certain keys to becoming and staying a great chef.” Starting with Pepper, she paces down our line, distributing one sheet to each of us. “Like you, there are five such skills. And so . . . besides tonight’s warm-up, there will be five challenges, each one focusing on one of these qualities. After that, we’ll have a final cook-off, The Last Super Chef finale. That’ll be on Thanksgiving Day, as you’ve no doubt already heard.”

  “Knife work!” Joey shouts. “Tonight’s key was knife work!”

  “Again . . . tonight was not one of the five challenge episodes,” Chef Wormwood says. “I did recommend listening carefully, Mr. Modestino.”

  “Entrepreneurship must be one!” Pepper shouts. “You gotta be an entrepreneur to—”

  “I also suggest you refrain from shouting out future guesses. Part of each episode’s score will be how closely you determine that night’s theme. Fifty points for your performance, fifty points for the theme. All you’re doing is giving your competition ideas, Ms. Carmichael.”

  The page Wormwood hands out is a complete schedule for the competition. I’m afraid to be caught not paying attention, so I only give it a quick glance, but it looks like the five challenges happen on every other day. The remaining, in-between days, and the weekends, too, all read simply, “OPEN/TRAINING.”

  The challenge days are numbered: Challenge #1, Challenge #2, and so on. No indication of the themes, of course, but the prizes are listed clearly. It’s easy to see how they get bigger and bigger, too, right up until the last one, spending a week learning with Taylor in the kitchens of one of his most famous restaurants.

  That last challenge, #5, happens the Monday before Thanksgiving. Then there’s a two-day break before the holiday. That entry has a big, red GRAND FINALE slanted across it. I scan the prizes again, trying to recall every article I’ve ever read about the Super Chef, every interview I’ve ever watched. Has he given out such a list? His traits for being a great chef? I don’t remember one.

  Kiko’s the first one to look up from the page. “No hints for the themes?” she asks with a wry smile, hope in her voice.

  Wormwood glances at the schedule in her own hand, then meets Kiko’s eyes. “I’d pay close attention to the prizes if I were you,” she surprisingly offers. “There’s more to them than might first meet the eye.” She actually winks back at Kiko.

  Everyone goes back to frantically reviewing the list of prizes. It’s such an odd mishmash—a trip to Paris, an apprenticeship with a renowned pastry chef, a fancy stove, basketball tickets. My mind spins, and I hope everyone else’s does the same, because I see no pattern at all.

  Wormwood raises her voice again, forcing us to pull our attention off the schedules. “While you’re competing, while you’re doing the absolute best work you can do, make sure to be thinking about the theme. You’ll have to submit your guess when the cooking is over. Do consider carefully. Some themes will be far more obvious than others. Now, questions?”

  “What are these open days?” Pepper asks.

  Wormwood shrugs. “We have some additional plans, but we’re still finalizing the details. This all came together really fast. Basically these days will give you a chance to have the supervised calls with your families, catch up on your homework, and let you rest up before your one-on-ones with Lucas . . . Chef Taylor in the evenings. Among other things.”

  “Preparation! Prep! That was tonight’s theme,” Joey blurts.

  “There was no theme tonight,” Kiko moans. “She has already told us that.”

  “Any other questions?” Wormwood asks more harshly.

  “May I call my mother?” Bo’s request comes in such a low voice I almost don’t hear it.

  “Like I said, you’ll get opportunities for supervised calls with your families on some of the open days.” Wormwood narrows her eyes at us. “During these calls, there will be absolutely no discussion about the details of the competition. No unauthorized outside information should reach your ears at all. Any violation of this will result in your immediate ejection from this competition.” She relaxes her posture. “Now, anything else?”

  None of us speaks this time.

  “Good night, then,” Chef Wormwood says. “Make yourselves some dinner. I’m thinking you’ll need the energy come tomorrow.” She marches straight for the door without looking back, and slams it shut once she’s through.

  “Isn’t she supposed to be the nice one?” Joey asks after a beat of silence.

  “That’s what I always thought,” I agree. On the show, the Super Chef is usually first to show his temper, and it’s typically level-headed Chef Wormwood who calms him down.

  “So what now?” Kiko asks.

  “What else?” Pepper says. She darts out of line and hurries toward the girls’ side, calling over her shoulder when she’s almost there. “Family meal.”

  THE LAST SUPER CHEF COMPETITION SCHEDULE

  Tuesday, November 12—Arrival—Mise en place warm-up

  Prize: One Takamura santoku knife

  Wednesday, November 13—OPEN/TRAINING

  Thursday, November 14—Challenge #1

  Prize: Two tickets to NBA All-Star Weekend

  Friday, November 15—OPEN/TRAINING—Evening with the Super Chef #1

  Saturday, November 16—OPEN/TRAINING

  Sunday, November 17—OPEN/TRAINING—Evening with the Super Chef #2

  Monday, November 18—Challenge #2

  Prize: Family trip to Paris and the Louvre

  Tuesday, November 19—OPEN/TRAINING—Evening with the Super Chef #3

  Wednesday, November 20—Challenge #3

  Prize: Custom-crafted Molteni stove

  Thursday, November 21—OPEN/TRAINING—Evening with the Super Chef #4

  Friday, November 22—Challenge #4

  Prize: Apprenticeship with renowned pastry chef Madeline Dalibard, focusing on her specialty: layered pastries and cakes

  Saturday, November 23—OPEN/TRAINING

  Sunday, November 24—OPEN/TRAINING—Evening with the Super Chef #5

  Monday, November 25—Challenge #5

  Prize: One week with the Super Chef in Taylor House, his signature family-style restaurant in New York City, working with him every night in its kitchens

  Tuesday, November 26—OPEN/TRAINING

  Wednesday, November 27—OPEN/TRAINING

  Thursday, November 28
—THANKSGIVING—The Last Super Chef GRAND FINALE

  *Tentative schedule; subject to change

  17

  “It is not the House Cup,” Joey says. He’s wearing his sweatshirt backward, so it looks a little like a chef’s coat, and his expression is eerily similar to Chef Wormwood’s when she was standing right in front of us less than an hour ago.

  “Stop it!” Pepper says. Mid-laugh, she risks a glance up at the ceiling cameras.

  “Eyes on your work,” Mel warns her.

  Pepper jumps. “Party pooper,” she says as her smile fades. She makes a show of giving her jambalaya another stir.

  The fridge was so well stocked, we could’ve made anything, but when she came running out of her room with a bag of the Cajun spices she sells on pepperspicesuptheworld.com, we all agreed Pepper should make the first dinner. Now she waves her wooden spoon in Joey’s direction. “But Mel is right. It’s gonna be your fault if this burns, Joey. Let me concentrate.”

  In the short time he’s been the only adult here with us, Mel’s become a sort of kitchen chameleon—standing off to one side, arms folded across his chest, watchful eagle eyes seeming to catch every move we make. But it’s weird, like you only notice him if you look straight at him. As soon as I start to laugh at another of Joey’s jokes, I somehow forget Mel is there, as if he’s found some new way to blend into the wall behind him.

  Pepper uses a fresh spoon to taste her dinner. From stools on the other side of the kitchen island bar, Kiko, Bo, and I watch her nod, apparently pleased with the flavor. Joey’s standing near the fridge, his temporary stage. He shakes his finger at us, still imitating Wormwood in a gruff, female voice that’s not at all complimentary. “This is more important than Harry Potter.”

  His impersonation really is spot on. Next to me, Bo is suppressing a laugh as he sticks his index finger into the open bag, then licks the dust that comes back. Pepper used only half the package. She slid the rest toward us and challenged the group to name the ingredients. “Cayenne and onion powder are the most obvious,” she said. “So you get those free because they’re too easy. First one wrong has to make dessert.”