“I hope so,” Sera said, kissing Asher once more before shooing him back into the crowd so she could concentrate. But privately she wondered what Blake had up his sleeve for round two.
Chapter Thirty-Three
She would find out in forty-five minutes.
The second round went by in a blur. The gong sounded, Vanessa gave her spiel, and suddenly they were off to the races. This time there were no trolleys, just the run of the kitchen for both chefs, and less than an hour in which to create over a hundred individual samples of their paean to the Big Apple. Sera nearly got in a boxing match with Blake over a block of butter, and the bugger wasn’t above throwing elbows with Malcolm either when it came to the sugar and eggs. Sam Everett tucked his head down and went about his business; it was his kitchen after all, and he knew where everything was. Conscious of the cameras, Sera resisted the urge to stick her tongue out when she managed to duck under Blake’s arm and snatch a bag of confectioner’s sugar he was going for (sometimes being short was an advantage). Instead, she smiled sweetly and hustled for her station.
Sera knew just what she was going to make. She only wondered what Blake was going to do to sabotage it. Short of swapping sugar for salt (she’d checked), or rigging her ovens somehow, she didn’t have a clue what he might do. But she couldn’t worry about that right now. She had pastry shells to shape, filling to whip. Still, she couldn’t help glancing over at Blake’s end of the counter periodically.
He was doing something with a series of small molds, while Everett stood ready with a nitrogen bath to flash-freeze the end result. Sera herself had considered the idea—it would have been nice to have a way to instantly chill her creations, as forty-five minutes was barely enough time to let most desserts set—but she’d rejected it as too dangerous under stressful circumstances like these. Might freeze my fingers off, and then where would I be? But Everett seemed willing to risk frostbite, or at least he valued his job enough to do so under Blake’s orders.
This time, the younger chef seemed to be taking more of a backseat, letting his employer take the reins. Guess ol’ Blake’s actually got a few recipes of his own up his sleeve. Who’d a thunk? The cameras were loving it, Sera saw; the operators clustering around her opponents like bees to flowers as Chef Everett carefully dipped Blake’s molds into the super-chilled bath. Considering the relatively mundane work her team was doing, Sera guessed the audience was probably more enthralled with her opponent’s, too.
She risked a quick glance up from the deep fryer she was working (Blake’s gift of lard had come in handy yet again), and had to smile as she caught sight of her aunt doing a Rockettes number with the rest of the BRBs. With Asher gamely anchoring the middle, they were high-kicking and chanting slogans. (Friedrich tried to pretend he wasn’t with the boisterous group, though he was ogling Aruni’s legs on the sly.)
“Bliss, Bliss, she’s our lass; she’s gonna kick Blake Austin’s ass!”
Touched as she was by the support, the sight of all those women—and one amazing man—rooting for her almost made Sera falter.
If I fail, it affects Pauline, too. All the money she put into the business, all the faith she put in me…
Sera squeezed her pastry bag for all it was worth.
Gonnnnnnnnnnnnnngggggggg!
“Spatulas down, Chefs!” Vanessa cried gaily. She struck a pose before the crowd, hands on hips, chin up, hair tossed just so. “Now we’ll see who’s got New York’s number: Chef Austin, whose empire in the Empire State runs to seven restaurants in Manhattan alone, or Chef Wilde, a born-and-bred New Yorker who left Gotham City just a few months ago for a taste of Santa Fe’s sunshine and fresh mountain air. Do we have any New Yorkers here?”
A rather vocal minority spoke up, pumping fists and hooting.
At least they didn’t give us a Bronx cheer, Sera thought, smiling and waving shyly at her peeps. It was nice to know she wasn’t the only New Yorker to have fled the big city in search of someplace more spiritually fulfilling.
“All right then! Let’s start with Chef Austin.” Vanessa turned to Blake, who was standing hipshot with his arms folded across his chest, oozing arrogance. “Chef Austin, we saw you and your partner working with what looked like some pretty cutting-edge materials. What have you whipped up for our audience today?”
“Assistant,” he said through a smile that was all teeth. “My assistant aided me in a recipe I’ve been proud to call my own for some time now. I think you’ll all recognize the design.” He held up a plate, and cameras obligingly zoomed in. The audience let out a collective “Oooh,” enraptured by what they saw.
Sera was just as riveted.
It was a tiny replica of the Empire State Building, complete with top done up in three separate shades, like the tiers of lights that illuminated the legendary building each night.
Done up, she saw, in triple chocolate mousse.
The bottom fell out of Sera’s stomach, even before Blake continued.
“I’ve employed three types of exquisite chocolate mousse, as you’ll see.” He waved a languid hand. “White chocolate for the tops, with just a hint of cardamom to spice it up.” A flourish. “Milk chocolate for the middle,” he pointed, “and rich, dark chocolate for the base, with a mere soupçon of orange essence to round it out and give it some of the sophistication New Yorkers are famous for.” He kissed his fingers to his lips. “I call it my New York State of Mind.”
I call it poaching your former protégée’s recipe, you sack of sh— Sera thought, but Vanessa’s dulcet voice broke into her blind fury.
“Points for presentation, Chef Austin,” Vanessa granted, like a fairy godmother doling out wishes. “I’m sure we’re all looking forward to seeing if the taste can match that spectacular design.
“Now, Chef Wilde,” the hostess said, turning the full wattage of her smile to Sera’s team. Malcolm scowled suspiciously in return, and Sera was still too stunned by what Blake had done to remind him of the cameras absorbing every nuance of their expressions. “We saw you and your assistant working with some ring molds and pastry bags. What have you got in store for us?” She gave Sera a hard glance, as if aware of her distress and wondering at the source.
Pull yourself together, Sera, she commanded her reeling brain. If you win this round, you’ve put the whole contest away. But how can I, her brain responded with a whimper, when I’m basically competing against myself on my best day? The mousse was one of her signature dishes, but she hadn’t considered it for today’s showdown because of the time it took to chill.
Unless you had liquid nitrogen, of course.
Could her own relatively simple dessert top it? She took a deep breath, struggling with her rage and betrayal. Just when she thought Blake had no deeper depths to sink to, no further power to wound, he proved he’d always find a way to crush her.
For one split second, she considered throwing in the towel.
No! Don’t give up. There’s one battle he can’t win, Sera. And that’s class. You can at least be the better person.
Sera breathed in deep, let it out slowly.
“First,” she said with an evenness she dredged from some deep reservoir in her soul, “let me congratulate Chef Austin on a truly spectacular dessert. I’m very familiar with this one, actually, from our time working together in the big city. Hopefully it hasn’t lost any of its original savor.” She sent Blake a smile that was saccharine-dipped cyanide. Then she turned her attention out over the crowd and gave them one that came from the heart. Seeing her friends out there steadied her, reminding her that Blake might be a mean-spirited bastard, but these days she spent her days surrounded by kindness and goodwill. (Well, Malcolm notwithstanding.)