“Hello, chefs, I am the head judge Hamilton Ramsfeld and the other judges in this competition are Lorenz Morelli executive chef and owner of a string of successful high-end Italian restaurants and Pete Gregoria, the publisher ofAmerican Foodmagazine.”
“We look forward to tasting the dishes you prepare for us,” Lorenz said in his heavy Italian accent. “Everyone on the left side of the room will come with me,” Lorenzinstructed. “Everyone on the right will stay here with Hamilton.”
“Good luck to you all,” Pete said.
The field of chefs here today was as diverse as he’d expected it to be and he wasn’t surprised when the judges immediately divided the room in two.
He saw Cupcake Girl go with the other group and gave her a mock-salute. She was cute and funny but he wasn’t here to flirt with women, he was here to prove he had the cooking chops to take over as Chef Patron at Gastrophile in New Orleans. His family name was legend in the food world and it wasn’t Stephens. He’d lied on his application.
It was hard to know how much of the praise heaped on his head was due to his last name and how much was due to his skills. So Remy Etienne Cruzel had become Remy Stephens. He didn’t know how long he could keep up the ruse, but on his side was the fact that none of the celebrity chefs were friends of his father and Remy had kept a rather low profile at the Culinary Institute of America and while working at Gastrophile.
“Welcome toPremier Chef—the ProfessionalsAudition. A love of food has brought you here today but we will only be accepting those of you who have real skill and ability in the kitchen. You might be the king of the kitchen back home, but here in this competition you will have to earn everything. Every new day will bring another chance to prove yourself and at the end of the 12 weeks if you have what it takes you will be the new Premier Chef,” head judge Hamilton Ramsfeld said.
Remy nodded knowing this was exactly what he needed to hear.
“Chefs, each of you will prepare a dish from our pantry in 15 minutes that demonstrates your culinary point of view. When the time is up your dish will be judged and only half of your number will make it onto the show.”
“Yes, chef,” was chorused by the cooks waiting to get in the kitchen. They’d set up a line of tables in a big circle around the room and Remy was anxious to get to his station and start hismis en place. He knew what he could cook well in 15 minutes and already he was prepping in his head.
Remy didn’t really care who the judges were as long as they scrutinized him for his dishes and not his pedigree, and by lying about who he was he’d ensured they would. They called start and the chefs all ran to the pantry to gather ingredients. It reminded Remy of a game his grandfather used to play with him when he was little. Hiding ingredients in the cupboard and then making him wear a blindfold to see if he could sniff out the items.
He had an image of Cupcake Girl in a blindfold and little else as he directed her around his kitchen back home. He shrugged off that thought and forced his mind back to the competition. It’d be embarrassing if he were sent home before filming even began.
He gathered his ingredients and prepared his dish, cooking easily under the pressure of the clock.
“Dude, this is intense,” said the shaggy blond guy next to him. “I’m used to working under the gun but not with this many people around.”
“It is crazy, but I think they do that to rattle you,” Remy said.
“It’s not shaking you,” the guy said.
“I’ve worked under some shouters in my day so it takes more than this to rattle me,” Remy said, thinking of his father who didn’t let blood temper his tongue when Remy screwed up.
“Me, too. I’m Troy, by the way.”
“Remy.” He didn’t want to chat but needed to get his dish finished and plated. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that he wasright on schedule.
Troy kept up a constant stream as he cooked and Remy had worked with talkers before and had to be honest and admit he didn’t like them. The kitchen was for cooking not for talking. He didn’t trust a chef who was busy rattling on instead of focusing on his dish.
“Time.”
Remy put his hands up and stepped back from his station. The judges came around to taste and he wiped his sweaty hands on his pants, as they tasted his dish. He couldn’t remember being this nervous since his first day at the CIA.
“Good. Nice balance of sweet and heat. I like it,” Hamilton said.
“Thank you, chef.”
The other judges also complimented him. And he realized he was good. He’d known it, but it was nice to hear it from someone else.
They called names of the contestants going home. Troy didn’t make the cut and gave Remy a wave as he walked out the door. Remy wasn’t surprised. This was a serious competition meant for those who were serious about their work. The other group rejoined them and he noticed Cupcake Girl in the center of the pack.
She was cute with her pixie haircut and her delicate features. Her hair was jet black and her figure petite but curvy. As Hamilton started talking to them again Cupcake Girl’s cute ass and the way her jeans fit distracted Remy.
“...teams,” Hamilton said.
Dammit. He should have been listening instead of staring at the woman. He had a feeling his sweet tooth was going to be his downfall. “What’d he say?” he asked the man next to him.
“We’re going to be put on two person teams and will cook against the other teams, at the end of the round half of us will go home and the remaining chefs will be going onto the show.”
