Hadley Beckett's Next Dish, page 23
Max looked down at his countertop and smiled. She was good. He directed his eyes upward to discreetly glance at her as she took her place at the separate kitchen island beside his and caught a sheepish grin on her face. She was good and she knew it.
Hair and makeup surrounded her and prepared her for the harsh studio lights while Marshall crossed to them and laid out instructions for the day.
“As you’re aware, chefs, yesterday we discussed which dish should be prepared today, and you both agreed on risotto. And then you were each asked to provide the recipe for a risotto you wished to make, so we could acquire the necessary ingredients. Are we all on the same page thus far?”
Out of patience with Chef Simons after the events of the day before, Max replied, “It’s tough, but we’re trying to keep up.” Once again, he saw a subtle smile dance across Hadley’s lips.
Ignoring him, Marshall continued. “We decided, however, to try something new and have a little fun with the two of you. As a tribute to your competitive cooking history, you might say.” He turned to Max, eyebrow raised, and said, “Not as simple as you thought, perhaps. But don’t worry about a thing. Just make the best risotto you can. If yours is better than your opponent’s, you win. Simple as that. There will be a few little twists thrown in there, but since we’re running behind schedule, I’ll just explain them to you as I explain them to our audience.”
Hadley and Max shot quick glances at each other, and then back to Chef Simons. It was a trap. Max knew it had to be a trap of some sort. From the expression on her face, it seemed Hadley realized it too. At the very least, he assumed Marshall Simons was bound and determined to get some traction from their America’s Fiercest Chef history.
“Are we ready?” Lowell called out from his chair as Marshall took his mark in front of the camera.
Nope. They weren’t anywhere close to ready. But Max just wanted to get it over with. The past week and a half had felt like the longest year of his life.
“Today, in the Renowned kitchen,” Marshall said as soon as the cameras were rolling, “Chefs Hadley Beckett and Maxwell Cavanagh are going head-to-head, each of them putting their own unique spin on the same dish: risotto.”
They each stood behind their individual islands, aprons on, knives at the ready. She was facing Marshall and smiling, while Max was doing the best he could to remember the cameras were rolling and that he couldn’t just stare at her the entire time.
Marshall approached her and asked, “Chef Hadley, why did you and Chef Max choose risotto as your competition dish? It seems a bit simple, does it not? For two of the greatest living chefs?”
“In fairness, we didn’t know it was a competition dish,” she began, accompanied by a rather nervous-sounding laugh. “But risotto’s simplicity is actually why we chose to make it, Chef Simons. Chef Max is still learning, so . . .”
She flashed her eyes toward Max, and he was taken off guard by the twinkle in them. She was teasing him? He’d thought those days were over.
Max cleared his throat. “All joking aside, we chose risotto because it’s one of the most deceptive staple dishes out there. It’s tricky to make a truly great risotto, but it seems so simple that everyone tries. As a result, there are a lot of horrible risottos being served in restaurants around the globe. I suppose we wanted to prove that none of those horrible risottos will be found in our restaurants.”
“And hopefully our risottos won’t be as dry as our reason for wanting to make risotto,” Hadley added, apparently feeling the need to turn Renowned into an open mic comedy night.
“Chefs, you were asked for your ingredient lists yesterday, and the ingredients from those lists are in the baskets in front of you. If, by chance, you forgot any of your ingredients or wish to make any changes, you may choose from anything available to you in the Renowned kitchen—but only twice. Additionally, one of your requested ingredients has intentionally been left out of your basket—it may or may not be an ingredient that can be found in this kitchen. You may be forced to improvise and make a substitution. Regardless, that is a total of three ingredients you may pull from the Renowned kitchen, but no more.” He turned to face them. “Are you ready?”
“Ready, Chef,” Hadley answered enthusiastically, doing everything but saluting and clicking her heels.
“And Chef Maxwell?” he asked.
“Sure, why not.” He stifled the miserable groan that wanted to break free.
Hadley’s head snapped in his direction, and he looked at her and shrugged in response to her wide-eyed—but seemingly amused—dismay.
Marshall stepped to the side of Hadley’s island. “Tell us about the risotto you will be preparing, Chef Hadley.”
“I’ll be preparing my attempt at Chef Max’s signature wild mushroom risotto.”
Marshall laughed while Max did a double take.
“I admire your pluck!” Marshall exclaimed through his laughter. “What, may I ask, compelled you to attempt Chef Max’s signature dish, in competition against Chef Max?”
“Again . . . didn’t know it was a competition. But it’s a tribute, actually. He and I do not always agree on food—in fact, we rarely do. But the first risotto I ever attempted was this one, from Chef Max’s very first cookbook.”
“Tell us your thoughts, Chef Maxwell.” Marshall crossed to the side of Max’s island. “Chef Hadley is preparing her dish in tribute to you. I can’t imagine you expected that.”
“No,” he replied softly. “I didn’t.”
What in the world is she up to?
Max weighed his options. If he had been the one with the plan to prepare Hadley’s signature dish, everyone would have thought he was being manipulative—and let’s face it, not all that long ago he probably would have been. And not all that long ago, he probably would have assumed that was what Hadley was attempting as well. She wouldn’t have been, but he would have taken it as an attack and responded in kind. The problem was how well he knew her now. There wasn’t an ounce of manipulation in it, and that made it difficult to know how to respond.
“I’m genuinely moved by this.” He hated that he had to reveal his true feelings about it all to Marshall and everyone else, but he needed Hadley to know. “I had no idea that Chef Hadley ever used any of my recipes.” He turned to face her and smiled. “I am a little depressed, however, at the thought of how old I must be now. Either that or you were shockingly late to the risotto party.”
“A little bit of both,” she countered with a smirk.
“And as for you, Chef Maxwell? What will you be preparing in competition against your own recipe?”
Well, he’d planned on preparing his signature wild mushroom risotto, of course. It was a lose-lose. Hadley was a brilliant, remarkable chef. He had come to know and truly believe that. But she wasn’t going to beat Max at that dish. He didn’t doubt her abilities for a moment, but he’d had ten years of perfecting that recipe before it ever appeared in the cookbook where Hadley found it. And he was shocked by just how much he didn’t want to upstage her that way.
At the same time, the thought occurred, she had to have known she couldn’t win. Was it some sort of olive branch? Did she want him to win so they’d be one-and-one in head-to-head competition? Was it all about balancing the playing field between them?
Except we didn’t know it was a competition! he had to remind himself. It was more than a little bit worrisome to him how quickly and easily he fell into the competition mind-set. Especially when Hadley was his competition, it seemed.
But as he prepared to say something that would hopefully be ambiguous enough but also somewhat realistic, one final thought popped into his mind. What if she hadn’t submitted ingredients for wild mushroom risotto, but had decided at the last minute to make use of her three allowed wild card ingredients from the Renowned kitchen? And she was banking on being able to find some wild mushrooms?
No, Hadley wasn’t manipulative, but she was driven and unexpectedly fearless in certain circumstances. Was it possible that she actually believed she could out-Max-Cavanagh Max Cavanagh? He didn’t have a difficult time believing that she could have rolled out of bed, ready to take him down—even if she hadn’t known they’d be competing.
“I’ll be preparing a Southern, down-home, comfort food risotto, Chef Simons.”
It was Hadley’s turn to whip her head around in surprise, and Max had to admit to himself that he was very gratified by her reaction. Whatever she’d expected him to do, that wasn’t it.
“Well, well, well,” Marshall reveled. “This is a fine turn of events!”
Max glanced over at Hadley, who was attempting to neutralize her expression, but it was plain as day. He’d taken her element of surprise and upped the ante.
“Chefs, you have one hour until your risotto dishes will be judged by a panel of experts. You may now begin.”
Max opened up his basket and quickly surveyed the ingredients. He was desperately hoping that the mushrooms were what was missing, so he could pick out all three of his wild card ingredients for his new dish, but alas, no.
“Which ingredient are you missing, Chef Maxwell?” Marshall asked.
He sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “That would be rice, Chef Simons.”
“Ah. That will most assuredly be needed.” He nodded and flashed a smarmy smile. “And you, Chef Hadley?”
She was already digging through the kitchen, on the hunt, while Max was still standing over his basket, attempting to figure out what two ingredients he needed to get—along with rice, of course—in order to have any hope of turning his gourmet plan into comfort food.
“Well,” she drawled with a bit of a frustrated tone. “I’m missing wild mushrooms, Chef Simons.”
“I believe I spotted canned mushrooms in the pantry,” he contributed, most unhelpfully.
“Yes, Chef. I saw those too. But I would sooner turn this into a dessert risotto than ruin Chef Max’s legendary recipe that way.”
A smile spread across Max’s lips and he turned to look at her. She was on her knees in front of the open refrigerator, digging through the crisper. He glanced down at his own basket and the bowl of beautiful, fresh wild mushrooms he wasn’t going to use.
“Here, Had,” he called out as he set the bowl on her island. “Take mine.”
He’d shown her his hand and made it very clear that he’d had every intention of making wild mushroom risotto, but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered apart from the expression of pure, unadulterated gratitude on her face as she climbed out of the fridge.
She ran over and quickly kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Max.”
Okay. That mattered too.
Of course, Marshall didn’t want to let it all be that easy. “That’s very generous of you, Chef Maxwell, but I’m afraid the rules state—”
“These rules, which supposedly exist for this impromptu competition, state she can take three separate ingredients found in the Renowned kitchen, I believe. My basket is sitting here in the Renowned kitchen, so . . .”
Marshall nodded, not looking at all pleased. “Of course.”
“But you’d better believe that counts as one of her three,” Max added, resulting in another beautiful grin from Hadley.
Max pulled out a Dutch oven as his comfort food plan began to come together in his mind and placed it on one of the burners. He hurried over and grabbed rice from the pantry, and then gathered chicken breasts from the refrigerator. His basket already had vegetables he could use and plenty of Parmesan cheese, and of course some white wine, so he decided to err on the side of caution and save his third ingredient for any potential inspiration that might come along. Bacon, perhaps.
But his mind was quickly changed when Hadley appeared in the open refrigerator door beside him. “You need butter,” she whispered.
“I’ve got olive oil.”
She nodded. “I know. But no brilliant comfort food has ever been created by a chef who said, ‘I don’t need butter. I’ve got olive oil.’” She shrugged. “That’s all I’m saying.”
And just when he’d almost stopped thinking about trying to kiss her every moment of the day. But he didn’t want to give Chef Simons the satisfaction of letting him air it on Renowned.
“Do you have any idea how much I adore you?” Max asked her, staring straight into her eyes, grabbing her hand with his free hand, and raising her knuckles to his lips. “Thank you.”
Hadley responded with flushed cheeks, and then Max released her hand, grabbed the butter, winked, and returned to his station. Her own return to her station was slightly delayed, but since the refrigerator was behind him, Max could only hope that had a little something to do with him. He made a mental note to pay special attention to that moment when the episode aired on Sunday evening.
For a few minutes they each paid silent, diligent attention to their dish preparation. Max couldn’t remember the last time he had cooked in silence. On his show he was talking to the viewers the entire time, and on Renowned he and Hadley had spoken to each other—of course the way they spoke to each other had varied greatly—or Marshall had blabbered on about something to try and fill the awkward pauses. Even in his kitchen at home, he rarely cooked without music blaring in the background. The silence felt unnatural.
“How’s it going, Chef Beckett?” he asked her. “Are you putting me out of a job?”
She chuckled. “Not likely. My food is probably a little too flavorful to ever make it onto your menu.” He grinned and stirred in his shallots. “And you, Chef Cavanagh? Have you found a way to ruin your risotto by adding tofu yet?”
“Well, it’s deep-fried tofu covered in gravy, so I think it will work perfectly.”
Now that was natural. They were natural. Who would have ever imagined?
He glanced up at her—she was adding her rice, right on schedule—and looked at the way she connected with the cameras. Even when she wasn’t looking at them or speaking toward them, or even acknowledging them in any way, she seemed to be instinctively aware of them. And of course, they also seemed to be instinctively aware of her. You talk about natural. Hadley Beckett in front of a camera was perhaps the most natural thing Max had ever witnessed. It was her tool, and she used it masterfully, and Max felt like an imbecile for ever having questioned her.
He didn’t labor under the misapprehension that he and the camera shared any such magnetism, but he began to wonder if he could make it work for him this time.
“Chef Simons, I fear I’ve been a bit obstructive when it comes to talking about some of my past struggles.”
“I’d say obstructive is an understatement, Chef,” he replied as he approached and stood behind Max’s island. “But it’s certainly understandable that you wouldn’t want to dwell on mistakes of the past.”
It’s understandable, is it? You didn’t seem quite as understanding yesterday.
“Thank you for understanding that,” he muttered, as kindly as he could. “But I think I’m now ready to discuss what caused my . . . what did you call it? ‘Destructive cycle,’ I believe? You know, that finally reached a boiling point that day on America’s Fiercest Chef.” Hadley was trying to act uninterested, it seemed, but her head kept tilting in his direction as she tended to her mushrooms. “I’m not sure if this is the time—”
“Au contraire,” Marshall said, most pretentiously—undoubtedly desperate to keep his big scoop from slipping away. “You know as well as anyone, Chef Max, that Renowned is about capturing the chef as an artist and as a person.”
Max shrugged with nonchalance as he finally added his rice—running a little behind, unlike Hadley. He took a deep breath. He was willing to do what needed to be done, and the fact that he was even considering talking about any of it cemented in his mind, once and for all, that he was not the same person he once was. But actually saying it . . . actually allowing Hadley and Marshall Simons and the entire world to see inside the most damaged, sheltered parts of him. Not even Buzz or his Discovery Journal had been told this story yet . . .
Don’t think about that, he lectured himself. You’re only letting Hadley in. Everything else is just the means of allowing that to happen.
“Well, it was a couple things, actually.” He attended to his sautéing chicken breasts. “I had just proposed to my girlfriend at the time, and she turned me down because I was going to insist she sign a prenuptial agreement.” Hadley’s subtle tilts had been replaced by her full attention. The emotion in her eyes was almost more than Max could endure so he turned his focus back to the risotto. “It was all for the best that she said no, of course. We’d only been dating a few weeks, and I was drunk when I met her, truthfully. And when I asked her to marry me, come to that. But when she said no, for the reason she said no—straight out saying the entire relationship had been a colossal waste of time, once she figured out I wasn’t going to make her rich—I guess I took it kind of hard.”
“Max . . .” Hadley breathed his name.
Max cleared his throat. “That was two days before Fiercest Chef. And then one day before filming started, my dad called me for the first time in . . . oh, about eight years, I guess. His wife—not my mother, but the one he ‘actually loves,’ he says—needed surgery. He wanted money, of course. The timing wasn’t great, I guess you could say. I wasn’t feeling very charitable.” He chuckled bitterly as he removed his chicken from the heat so it could rest. “So, when I refused to pay for my stepmother’s nose job—a stepmother I’ve never met in my life, mind you, and who is nearly a decade younger than I am—he disowned me for probably the fifth time in my life.”
He looked up at Marshall, who looked positively giddy with only just-contained excitement, and then he looked over at Hadley, whose eyes—focused entirely on him—were brimming with tears that seemed like they were barely managing to hang on.
“I think your wine has reduced, Had,” he told her, his heart threatening to burst with the affection he felt for her. But no amount of affection, in his opinion or hers, he knew, justified a destroyed risotto on Renowned.
