Sizzle. Katherine GarberaЧитать онлайн книгу.
closer to their station. They had been directed to stand back from the table until the judges approached them.
Hamilton was the first judge to reach them. He motioned Staci and Remy forward with an arrogant wave of his hand. Staci remained where she was before Remy nudged her with his foot. She hated arrogance in a man. It was okay to be proud of what you accomplished but it was something else entirely for a person to act like such a jerk.
“Your dish looks interesting,” Hamilton said. “A little plebian.”
“Our taste is anything but,” Staci said.
Remy elbowed her. She glared at him.
“Once the camera crew is in place we will ask you about your dish, then taste it,” Lorenz said coming over.
The cameraman got into place, a make-up person arrived and brushed something off of Staci’s cheek. “What was that?”
“Flour,” she said, then with a final whisk of her make-up wand she walked away.
Great, Staci thought, she’d been standing there looking like a messy little girl with flour on her face. She wished she’d known … but then it was a good thing she hadn’t. It might have affected how she’d acted toward Remy and Hamilton and she didn’t want that. She was serious about her food and this competition and she wanted to let the boys know she’d come to win.
“I think we are ready,” the director said. “Go.”
“Tell us a little about yourselves,” Pete invited them. “Staci, you’re a baker?”
“Yes, I co-own a cupcake bakery in San Diego called Sweet Dreams. I was trained at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris.”
“And Remy?” Lorenz asked in that sexy Italian accent of his.
“I’m from Nawlins,” he said, combining the two words into one with his smooth southern accent. “I learned to cook at my granddad’s elbow. I’ve been working down there but am currently between gigs.”
“Staci, you were the leader on this dish, tell us what you prepared for us.”
“We combined what makes both of our culinary influences so great. A mixture of street food from the Big Easy and So Cal. Its a trio of po-boy tacos.”
“Remy, what did you make?” Hamilton asked as Lorenz cut the first taco into thirds.
“The filling,” he said.
“What’s in them?” Pete asked.
“Shrimp and andouille, lime crusted tilapia and Portobello mushrooms Vera Cruz style.”
“Sounds interesting,” Lorenz said. “We are going to taste now.”
All three men sampled the tacos and Staci felt her heart in her throat as she waited for them to give their critique. She’d tried the food. She knew that she and Remy had put together a good dish but now she was so nervous. She reached over and grabbed his wrist, as the silence seemed to grow.
Hamilton glanced at Lorenz and than at Pete.
“I really enjoyed this. The mixture of spiciness with the lightness of the bread. Well done,” Pete said.
“I liked it too,” Lorenz said. “The sausage was delicious and the seasoning layered and complex.”
“Well that’s three of us who’d come back for more of this. You two worked well together,” Hamilton said.
With that the judges moved on, Remy’s hand turned in her grasp and he briefly held her hand before dropping it. She wanted to jump up and down but Remy didn’t seem to think it was time to celebrate.
“What’s the matter? You look almost nervous.”
“I’m hardly that. I just don’t believe in counting my chickens before they’re hatched.”
“Um … all three judges liked our food. It’s a safe bet that we’ll be asked to stay,” Staci said.
“I want to hear what he’s saying to the others. This is a competition. Just because we made a good dish doesn’t mean the other competitors didn’t as well,” Remy said.
She nodded. And for the first time really looked at the other chefs and the dishes they’d put together. Everyone wanted this chance to make it to the next level. Everyone wanted to win and she had to remember that.
The chefs next to them had made a dry rubbed brisket that they had sliced thin and steamed. “Sounds iffy to me,” Staci said. “Brisket needs to be slow cooked.”
“I agree, but Pete seems like he’s enjoying it.”
She had to admit the restaurant critic did seem to be enjoying the meat. But Hamilton made a face and spat his portion back out. “Dry.”
“It is dry,” Lorenz agreed. “But it’s admirable that you tried to do a brisket in the time allotted and I love the spice combination in the rub. Whose recipe is that?”
“Mine,” the tall, skinny chef said.
“Good job, Dave. It really flavors the meat and to be honest makes up for the dryness,” Lorenz said.
“I enjoyed it,” Pete said. “The barbecue sauce you made covers up the lack of moisture in the meat.”
“Thanks,” Dave said.
The judges finished up their tasting and they were all told to clean up their stations while a final decision was reached. Remy was introspective as he worked quickly and efficiently. She watched him moving and then realized what she was doing.
She always had the worst timing in her infatuations and it seemed the worst taste in men. She’d let a man ruin her cooking career once. Was she really going to let that happen again?
“Don’t worry, chère, whatever happens today, you can cook and no one can take that from you,” he said. “I enjoyed working with you today.”
“Me, too,” she said.
They were all told to move back to their stations as a final decision had been reached. Remy stood next to her and this time he squeezed her hand as Hamilton started talking.
“We’ve sampled some truly fine dishes given that we asked you to work with a chef whose style was different from yours and gave you a time restraint. We know you can all cook; this competition is designed to take you beyond that. Therefore the winners of this challenge and staying in the competition are …
“Staci Rowland and Remy Stephens,” Lorenz announced.
Remy tugged her close for a victory hug but he held her a little longer than he should have and when she pulled back there was a new awareness in his eyes.
REMY MADE SURE HE WASN’T in the same Escalade as Staci when they left the studio and were driven to the Premier Chef house in Malibu. They were in a luxury home that overlooked the Pacific.
The water was bluer than his beloved Gulf of Mexico but the scent of salt in the air reminded him of home. There were production assistants in the house when they arrived. And they were all directed where to go in the eight-bedroom house. They’d be sharing two to a room to begin with and the producers had already assigned them into pairs. Remy was in a room overlooking the ocean with Quinn Lyon.
“Dude, do you mind if I take this bed?” Quinn asked.
Remy shrugged. “That’s fine. Where are you from?”
“Seattle. I’m the executive chef at Poisson … one guess what our specialty is?”
Remy smiled. There was an easy-going nature about Quinn and he reminded Remy of one of his Cajun uncles who was a shrimper. “Fish, right?”
“Hell, yes. Your accent says you’re from the south—where?”
“Nawlins’,” he said.
“Where