Topped Chef: A Key West Food Critic Mystery Read online

  “Are you sure it’s Sam Rizzoli?”

  She nodded. Checked her list and nodded again.

  I felt a fist to my gut, but before I could follow up, a very tall man with a mane of white hair, a close-cut white beard, and intense blue eyes clapped his hands and called for attention. The chattering died down to a murmur. He pushed through the crowd and beckoned Deena to join him on the rustic stage that was used for “Old Town, New Folk” concerts.

  “Welcome to Topped Chef, Key West–style,” he bellowed into the microphone mounted on the podium. “I’m the executive producer and director of the show, all wrapped up in one shiny package. Like surf and turf. Or fish and chips or…”

  Deena put two fingers on his wrist and he stopped and grinned down at her.

  “Okay, my assistant says enough with the foodie metaphors. My name is Peter Shapiro. Deena Smith—this gorgeous morsel next to me—will be assisting me with scheduling details. She’s my field and story producer, also known as the vice president in charge of difficult people.”

  He squeezed Deena’s shoulder and smiled in a slightly oily way.

  “For the preliminary round of this event, this morning our wannabe chefs delivered an original dish featuring the seafood of Key West to our staff. We’ve narrowed these dishes to six entries and these wonderful contestants are right here in this room.”

  I glanced around, searching the faces of the people in chef’s clothing, feeling my curiosity blossom. Which of them would be disappointed when the contest ended? Only one would be elated—as I’d been when I landed the job at Key Zest in the fall. I had wanted the job so badly; actually landing it felt unreal.

  “We have selected a distinguished panel of judges who will rate the food purely on appearance, flavor, general excellence of cooking, and evidence of technique, without consideration of the cooks behind them. Once the three winning dishes are chosen, the personalities will be introduced into the mix.” He rubbed his palms together, laughing in an evil way. “Then things get wonderfully interesting. Could the judges come forward to the stage?”

  I headed to the back of the room and trooped up the steps to join Peter and Deena and three other judges—a rangy man with dark, wavy hair and wearing a paisley shirt, a small woman with an anxious look on her delicate features, and a substantial man wearing a white chef’s coat and black clogs and a white toque.

  “Sam Rizzoli and his family have inhabited Key West for generations.” Peter pointed to the rangy man, who had the kind of muscles that came from regular workouts, but also a small gut that suggested he enjoyed indulging in food or drink, or both. “Sam owns four restaurants in town,” Peter added, “including the brand-new sensation Just Off Duval.”

  Yep. The very same restaurant I had panned. The very man who’d been in our office this morning shouting at Wally about my foodie ignorance. I hadn’t gotten a look at him as I’d snuck down the hall, but I’d know his angry voice anywhere. I forced my face to retain the pleasant expression I’d painted on as I climbed the stairs to the stage. Spotlights beat down on the stage and I began to sweat.

  “Next to Sam is Toby Davidson.” Peter Shapiro pointed to the small woman wearing a brown pageboy streaked with gray. She looked as uncomfortable as I felt—possibly even worse. She waggled her fingers and mouthed “hello.”

  “Ms. Davidson has written a memoir about how she handled her grief over losing her husband through baking cakes. She is a founding editor of Bake with Joy, and has seen her work published in Gourmet, Bon Appetit, Cooking Light, and many other magazines. Her essays have been included in anthologies of the year’s best food writing for 2010, 2011, and 2012.”

  Now Toby flashed a warm smile. I pictured her pulling cake after gorgeous cake from her oven, her spirits lifting as each one baked and was frosted and eaten. I could definitely relate to that coping style—it was only surprising that she wasn’t round as a beach ball.

  “And next to Toby, meet chef Adam Boyd whose brilliant treatment of seafood has propelled his Key West restaurant onto the top one hundred list of places to eat on the eastern seaboard.” The mustachioed young man in the chef’s coat blinked his eyes and gave a stiff bow.

  “And last but by no means least, please meet Hayley Snow, new food critic for the style magazine Key Zest.” No accolades after my introduction—I hadn’t had time to accumulate any.

  I bared my teeth and tried to look distinguished. And tried not to look at Sam Rizzoli’s incredulous, outraged face. He clearly hadn’t known that I was joining the judging roster.

  “After the top dishes have been selected, the three winning chef candidates will be interviewed by our judges. Three cooking challenges will follow, details to come. Are there any questions about that? I hope not because we don’t have time for them.”

  There was a smattering of applause and laughter and he glanced at his watch. “I would like the judges to follow me. Chefs, please remain here until you’re called. Any pressing questions or concerns, talk to Deena.” He squeezed her shoulder again and she grimaced and held up her clipboard.

  “The bathroom is to the right of the entrance,” she said, and everyone laughed.

  We trooped off the stage and exited out the back door, into a narrow passage between two buildings that opened into a small courtyard. Tropical plantings and pieces of abstract sculpture made it look both homey and artsy. Cameras, lights, and wires spoiled the effect.

  “We’ll be filming up here,” said Peter as he ushered us up two steps onto a large covered porch connected to a darling conch cottage. Inside the double glass doors, I could see a cameraman filming dishes of food that had been laid out on the counter, filling most of the small kitchen. Workers wearing earbuds and microphones buzzed around him, adjusting plates and bowls and lights. Two more workers positioned us in four wicker chairs that had been pulled up to the table facing the kitchen, and then clipped microphones to our collars, wormed wires down our shirts, and fastened battery packs to the back of our pants.

  I could feel my intestines starting to grind. I’d only appeared on a TV show one other time, shortly after getting hired at Key Zest. I’d come across simultaneously wooden and giddy, recalling not one of the talking points I’d memorized ahead of time.

  “Welcome, welcome,” said Peter, when the sound checks had been completed. “Do you know each other?”

  I looked down the row, at Toby’s ski jump nose, Chef Adam’s bristling mustache, and then Sam’s grim face, and shook my head. The others followed suit.

  “Perfect! Then there will be no off-camera shenanigans to queer the contest. Don’t worry about the camera and don’t worry about us—we are simply white noise. Be yourselves, act natural, talk to each other about food. What could be easier? We are not airing live, but we do not, I repeat do not have time to reshoot scenes. So give us your best first time out.”

  He pointed at a cameraman who stood by the double doors. “Are we ready?” The man with the camera gave a thumbs-up.

  “Welcome to Topped Chef Key West–style!” Peter said as the camera rolled. “Home of the next culinary superstar. Our judges today are four distinguished guests from the food scene here in paradise—the island of Key West.” He stepped aside and introduced each of us, as he had on the stage. The crew in the kitchen began to ferry the dishes that had been arranged on the inside counter out to our table.

  “Six seafood dishes have been selected in a preliminary tasting round,” Peter told our invisible audience. “Now our judges will have the opportunity to sample them all and narrow the selection down to three. As you can see”—he motioned for a camera close-up—“the dishes are only labeled with the number corresponding to our contestants’ names. Let the games begin!”

  He stepped to the side and one of his assistants ladled a glob of orange-sauced seafood and rice onto the square white china plates that had been set in front of us.

  “Tasters, on your mark, get set, go!” said Shapiro.

  “What in the name of god is this?” Sa
m Rizzoli asked after he’d forked a bite into his mouth. “It tastes like a cross between Russian dressing and Welsh rarebit. Only curdled.”

  I touched my tongue to the spoon, eyes closed so I could concentrate, wishing he’d let the rest of us taste before he’d trashed it. The sauce was definitely on the oily side, slightly sweet, containing small chunks of what appeared to be stone crab, and maybe a dash of pickle relish. A recipe my old-fashioned roommate, Miss Gloria, might have enjoyed. And actually something that might turn up on Rizzoli’s restaurant’s menu.

  “If you absolutely must sauce it, stone crab wants to be savory, rather than sweet,” said Chef Adam. “This is the kind of dish you might expect to find in Ohio. Key West? Not so much.”

  Toby took a deep breath and raised a finger. “I like it.”

  “Interesting, but a little odd,” I added, feeling utterly lame.

  The two male judges exchanged tortured glances, and Chef Adam signaled for the next dish. The plates were whisked away and one of the assistants placed pieces of white fish in a butter and caper sauce onto clean ones. I nibbled quickly so I could come to my own conclusions before the others colored my perspective. Not bad, though the cook had been overgenerous with the capers, so the saltiness overwhelmed the pallid, white flesh of the fish.

  “Would you say it’s a little salty?” I ventured, wanting to register an opinion but unable to suppress the idea that the creator of this dish would be hanging on our every word. Probably this very chef’s family and friends were gathered in the Armory, watching his hopes and dreams get torn to shreds on a TV monitor.

  “I would say it’s not awful, but perhaps unremarkable,” said Chef Adam.

  “Remarkable for its pedestrian treatment,” Sam agreed, pushing the plate aside. “In fact, the strongest flavor in the sauce is the hint of metal lid from the caper jar. How long do you suppose they were in his refrigerator? Next.”

  Toby looked as though she’d been about to say something but the plates were removed before she had the chance. Shapiro’s assistant placed a small blob of polenta and a pink shrimp on each of our fresh plates. I carved off an inch of the crustacean, drew it through the buttery, cheesy cornmeal, and popped it into my mouth.

  “I love this!” I said as soon as I’d swallowed.

  “Classic, but unimaginative,” said Chef Adam.

  “I agree with Hayley—it’s a simple recipe but executed flawlessly,” Toby piped up.

  “Not terrible,” said Sam in a booming voice, looking directly at the camera. “But quite the Key West cliché. I know you want a chef who can cook regional dishes, but shouldn’t they show evidence of some imagination? Let’s sidestep the dishes with ‘uneven and overreaching preparation,’ shall we?”

  I didn’t dare look down the table. Uneven and overreaching preparation were the words I’d used to describe his restaurant. Along with bad cooking juju and some other phrases I wanted to forget.

  Assistants delivered the next dish, a lobster salad drizzled with a spicy green foam that looked like something that had washed up on the beach after a storm. It was garnished with a glistening spoonful of caviar. I took one fiery bite and clutched my neck, signaling for a glass of water. One of the assistants hurried over with a glass and I gulped it down.

  Chef Adam finished chewing, leaned back in his chair, and sighed in satisfaction. “Nearly perfect. Whereas the caper sauce overwhelmed the other fish with its metallic salinity, the jalapeño foam provides just enough contrast to brighten the fish. And the caviar is both gorgeous and delightful.”

  Had Chef Adam even noticed the metallic taste of the previous dish before Mr. Rizzoli mentioned it? Their tag-team act was starting to seriously annoy me.

  “It tries too hard,” I snapped, feeling my throat continue to burn and thinking this description applied to Chef Adam, too. But then I added a softening smile, hoping I didn’t sound as mean as the two men. “I like hot peppers, but not so hot I have to call the fire department after I eat.”

  “Would this fall into the school of molecular gastronomy?” Toby asked. “It’s tasty, but I’ve never quite connected with the foams and fumes and so on. How could a home chef possibly hope to reproduce it?”

  “That’s exactly the point, then, isn’t it?” asked Chef Adam. “To have people introduced to food they wouldn’t otherwise experience? Most people can throw a roast in the oven or whip up a skillet of tacos and call it supper. This kind of cooking goes way beyond that sort of thing.”

  “I’d rate it nine out of ten,” Sam Rizzoli agreed.

  In the background, Peter Shapiro was rubbing his hands, looking pleased and excited. He motioned for the final dish to be delivered. This appeared to be seafood in a red sauce, served on a tiny nest of linguine. I poked through the sauce with my fork, identifying a ring of squid, a small shrimp, and a mussel. I tasted.

  “Wonderful,” I said, closing my eyes to savor the spicy fra diavolo sauce. “This is the best so far. Hot enough to tingle the tongue without scorching.”

  The men weighed in, Chef Adam for and Rizzoli against—though I had the feeling he would have dismissed anything I liked. Toby waffled, enamored of the red sauce but unimpressed with the jumble of sea creatures.

  “That’s all there is,” Shapiro announced to the camera. “And now the moment of truth, in which our esteemed judges narrow the field….”

  After five minutes of debate, we settled on three dishes—the homey Key West–style shrimp and grits dish, the lobster with caviar salsa and jalapeño foam, and the sophisticated yet substantial Italian seafood fra diavolo.

  “Fabrulous, fabrulous,” said Shapiro. “Now we shall briefly meet our chef contestants.” He signaled to Deena, who ushered a gaggle of six chefs from the alley to the courtyard.

  “Thank you all for your participation in Topped Chef!” said Peter. “We so enjoyed experiencing your contributions.” One young blond man grinned but the other candidates looked solemn and nervous, maybe wondering as I was what was wrong with old-fashioned food tasting.

  “As certain as we are that all of your dishes were outstanding, our judges have spoken! Will the following individuals please join us here on the set: chef Randy Thompson!” The smiley blond man leaped into the air, clapping, and bounded up the steps.

  “Chef Henrietta Stentzel, formerly of Hola on Miami Beach, and now chef-owner of Bad Boy Burritos!”

  I blinked in disbelief. Then my heart sank with a hollow clunk as a fortysomething woman with a long braid climbed the stairs, looking everywhere but at me. Food was not the only thing we had in common—though I adored her small storefront burrito shop. Unfortunately, I’d suspected her in the murder of my ex’s girlfriend last fall—and from what I could tell, she had not forgiven me.

  “And last but not least, meet chef Buddy Higgs!” Peter crowed.

  A very tan man with a weathered face and a scraggly ponytail joined the other two as the rest of us clapped. Were Buddy and Randy currently not employed, or had Peter forgotten to mention that?

  “That’s a wrap. Chefs are dismissed. Be here tomorrow morning at nine sharp.” Peter turned back to face the judges. “Not bad for a first day.” Sam and Chef Adam got to their feet as Deena came forward to hand Peter a clipboard. “Listen up, people—I have a few tips for tomorrow’s taping. First—and this is very, very important, be here promptly at nine.” He glanced down at his papers. “No offense intended, but I have a few notes to pass along from our photography director. They are intended to help you show your very best sides.”

  First he turned to face Chef Adam and gave a little bow. “We all know you’re a real chef—not to be confused with Chef Boyardee.”

  Toby and I snickered, but the chef didn’t crack a smile. He adjusted his toque, looking as if he’d like to dive across the table and strangle someone.

  “Anyway, my camera people suggest that you lose the white coat. The camera does not love white and it washes out your color and makes you look sallow. And Toby”—he stroked his neck�
��“a scarf tomorrow maybe? Something salmon-colored perhaps? Our middle-aged quirks tend to show up more distinctly under the lights….”

  He smiled regretfully and looked at his clipboard again. “Mr. Rizzoli, watch the loud patterned shirts—they can be distracting to viewers, even make them dizzy. And if they’re dizzy, they are likely to flip to another channel. And Miss Snow”—he grinned and patted his belly—“you have an adorable shape; shall we say plump like a guinea hen? Perhaps choose something less formfitting for the next episode? Less, yellow? But definitely no horizontal stripes, darling.”

  Sam Rizzoli snickered loudly enough so that everyone on the set heard him.

  As color and heat rushed to my face, I felt myself shrinking into a puddle of humiliation. Then I got mad. The Key Zest shirt might very well be a fashion faux pas, but it was my faux pas. And that of my friend and ally Wally, who’d stood up for me this morning in the face of a raging bully.

  “You wanted someone to represent Key Zest on your show,” I heard myself say. “The shirt comes as part of the package.”

  Peter looked stunned but then he burst out laughing. “Brava! I didn’t think you had it in you.” He tossed his head, the white mane flying. “That’s it, people. Until tomorrow.”

  I plastered on a smile, then gathered my backpack and sunglasses, and walked out. Wally owed me big-time for this.

  4

  I’ll have what she’s having.

  —Nora Ephron

  I was already antsy about having dinner with Detective Bransford later this evening. But even though I’d stood up for myself in the end, Peter Shapiro’s “guinea hen” comment magnified my nerves times ten. I tore through most of the items in my closet before settling on black jeans and a black sweater. According to my mother, who knows these things, sticking to one color was supposed to be slimming. And then I added my lucky red cowboy boots, which, as far as I was concerned, went with everything and took five pounds off, too. At least six times I checked my phone to reread the exchange of text messages I’d had with Bransford last night.