A Taste of Heaven Read online

All of the contestants turned to watch the turkeys running free in the pen. And eight light bulbs went off at the same time.

  Elliott laughed. A loud, booming, diabolical laugh.

  “You have to capture the bird,” the farmer answered. “Then bring it over here to butcher.” He pointed to the stumps lined up in front of them. “Watch out for the talons. There are gloves for you to use.”

  “Mon Dieu!” Helene grimaced.

  “By the way”—Mr. Smith shot an evil smile at the chefs—“you’ll be timed for this. The first pair to catch, kill, and butcher their two turkeys will have forty-five extra minutes for this challenge. Second fastest will have twenty extra minutes. Third fastest will have ten extra minutes. And the slowest team has no extra time.”

  Chef Johnson groaned.

  “And one more thing. This is a double elimination. Two pairs are going home today. And the last two pairs will be participating in our final challenge!”

  Chef Baldwin whispered, “Fuck.”

  Elliott smiled.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Sophia asked her partner.

  “I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. I’m not afraid of a little blood and guts. I’m not some pampered prima donna chef.” He turned to her and held out his hands. “This is who I am, Sophia. The real me.”

  “I think there are many facets to the real you. But right now, I’m blessedly happy one of those facets can kill turkeys. So I don’t have to.”

  “You’re welcome, sweet.” He leaned closer to her and whispered in her ear. “And thank you for last night.”

  She ignored him. He was taunting her. What a time to bring that up!

  All of the chefs put on the gloves. Covered with rusty stains that Sophia would rather not think about.

  “All right, contestants. The clock will start ticking as soon as I wave the flag.” Mr. Smith picked up the little blue and white flag. “Are you ready?”

  Only one voice answered. Elliott’s voice. “Hell, yeah. Let’s get crackin’.”

  The flag went down, and Elliott took off. He didn’t even bother with the gate to the pen. He hopped over the fence and began to chase the turkeys. One down, grabbed by its throat. Sophia and the others raced to the pen.

  “Stay out there, Sophia. I’ve got this!” Elliott yelled as he grabbed another bird, crushing its throat in his hands. He hopped back over the fence and raced to the stumps. Sophia followed.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Chef Baldwin was shouting expletives at Kevin. He had one bird in his arms, but it was twisting and turning. Helene had one slumped in her fist. And Brian and Herman were chasing the birds without success.

  Whomp!

  Sophia’s snapped her gaze back to the butchering area just as Elliott smashed a turkey’s head against the side of the barn. He held the other bird tightly against his chest and the stunned one got lowered onto the stump. With one booted foot holding the bird in place, he lifted an axe and cleanly sliced through the neck.

  “One down.”

  She watched, in equal parts horror and respect, as Elliott stunned and decapitated the other bird. She became vaguely aware of the crew and farmhands and past contestants cheering. Someone started to chant BEAST, and it caught on like wildfire.

  BEAST!

  BEAST!

  BEAST!

  She was appalled, but Elliott just smiled.

  And when he was done, two turkey heads lay at his feet, and two birds were ready to be butchered. Chef Baldwin was struggling with one turkey while his partner continued to run around the pen. Helene had one decapitated, but had to return for another.

  Sophia shook her head to clear it. She didn’t have time to think about the death. To think about the bird, still warm from the chase, heart pumping out the last bit of blood. The bird lying at her feet. Elliott needed her now. She took a deep breath and leaned over to collect the bloody parts.

  “What should I do?” she asked, trying to control her trembling limbs.

  “Let’s get these to the worktable. You okay?” His voice was gentle. A gentle beast.

  “Fine,” she answered. “Hurry. I want to win.” Her voice was shaking.

  “Try not to think about it, Sophia. They’re not pets. You can’t get attached. They’re food. Butchering animals properly is a skill. You show respect to the life sacrificed by killing efficiently and excellent preparation. Understand?”

  His expression was sympathetic but firm.

  “Yes.” She nodded. She could do this.

  He shot her a look filled with pride. She refused to be the squeamish woman on set.

  She dumped the birds on the table. “What now?”

  “Watch me. Copy me.” He dunked the birds into pots of scalding water and held them under for about a minute.

  “This will make the plucking easier,” he explained.

  He showed her how to de-feather the birds. And then the fun part started. Disemboweling the turkey by slicing open the abdomen. Out came the intestines, the gizzard, the liver. Sophia copied him exactly as she worked on her bird. Out came the heart, the lungs. Elliott showed her how to remove the windpipe and esophagus. She followed him like a robot, ignoring the gore and the stench. They hosed down their birds to cool them off and clean the carcass, then they cut off the feet.

  She refused to gag. She barreled through the butchering, keeping up with Elliott step-by-step. This was beyond sickening, but she would not let him down. A vision of her sweet garden popped into her head, and she longed for the feel of seedlings and soil. This challenge might just push her over the edge to vegetarianism.

  “How you doing, Sprite? Are you feeling faint?” Elliott tossed the feet into a garbage bin.

  “Don’t stop. I can do this.” She shuddered as her hand touched something slimy and red on the table. “We’re going to win this part. Hurry.”

  “You’re doing great. Poor Johnson is spending more time coddling his partner than completing the challenge. You’re impressing the hell out of me, Sophia. And everyone else, too.”

  She glanced at the audience and was surprised to see them cheering for her and her partner.

  She swung her gaze back to the bird. “What’s next?” She was anxious to finish.

  “Time to section the poultry.” Elliott handed her a medium-sized machete, and he grabbed the largest one.

  Whack! She followed his lead. Fast, efficient, clean. Wings off, sliced into sections. Legs removed, cut into thigh and drumstick. Breast sliced off, and split into halves. Elliott removed the back meat, too. They loaded up on the parts in a pan. Side-by-side, splattered with blood, Elliott and Sophia finished their task.

  He tossed the last piece of meat into the pan, ran over, and rang the “finished” bell.

  The other contestants were far behind. They had crushed the competition.

  The audience for A Taste of Heaven was out of their minds. Cheering, yelling, shocked by their performance.

  Elliott grabbed Sophia’s hand it held it over their heads in victory. The audience chanted “Beauty and the Beast!” and he laughed with abandon. It was the first time Sophia had seen him so relaxed and confident.

  They looked like a couple of serial killers. Covered with blood and bits of flesh.

  But Elliott was smiling. A brilliant smile, showing off those bright white teeth and genuine joy for a job well-done. His indigo eyes found hers and flashed with triumph.

  Elliott Adamson had just gotten his mojo back.

  She waved their arms in the air and shouted with the audience.

  He turned to her. “Now we discuss our menu. I plan to win today. We will be in the finals tomorrow.”

  Sophia laughed. “Don’t you want to clean up first?”

  He looked down at his gore-spattered uniform. “Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.” He chuckled. “You were fantastic. And I know that wasn’t easy for you.”

  “Thank you for mentoring me. I just followed your lead. You were a natural.”

  His expression
turned serious. “It’s the cycle of life. I guess I’m good at the basics. Like killing things.”

  She stepped closer to him. “You’re good at many things, Chef Adamson. And what you just accomplished was skillful and fearless. You have no idea how much I admire that.”

  “Thank you,” he answered softly. “Let’s get cleaned up. I have some ideas for dinner.” He removed his gloves. “But I want to know your ideas, too. Today we cook as a team. The team to beat. Got it?”

  She nodded, and they ran to a washroom in the main building.

  ❦

  “Time to talk turkey, Chef Brown. It should come as no surprise that I like a traditional preparation.”

  Elliott leaned against their worktable in the Vermont Culinary Institute kitchen and scribbled in his notebook.

  He was different today. More relaxed. The tension had eased out of his joints with each slam of the axe, each slice of the machete. As crew members came over to congratulate him and joke about his beastly performance, he issued them a genuine smile.

  And when the inevitable “Beauty and the Beast” reference was made, he turned to Sophia and laughed. “I told you they were going to say that.”

  He wasn’t in the slightest bit upset. In fact, he seemed to revel in this new role on the show. A beast from Scotland—driven, angry, talented. Fierce. And Sophia was no longer the pretty little doll or the garden fairy with a wreath of flowers in her hair. She’d been right next to him the whole time. Hacking, butchering. Blood-soaked and victorious.

  Now came the real test. Could Sophia and Elliott find some middle ground and cook a meal together? If not, this would be the end of the line for both of them.

  “What is a traditional Scottish preparation for turkey? Do you cook that for Christmas?”

  “Aye. Also roast goose from time to time. But my turkey recipe is fantastic.”

  “Tell me, Elliott. Do we have enough time?”

  He nodded. “Absolutely. Especially since we won the extra minutes.” He winked at her and she laughed.

  “Yes, we did, Beast. So what’s on the menu?”

  “We soak prunes in whisky and tea, dip them in honey, and stuff them with walnuts. These are mixed with sausage for the stuffing. I usually soak the prunes for several days, but we’ll make do.”

  “My God. That sounds fabulous.”

  Elliott nodded, but said nothing. He was staring at her intently.

  “And . . .”

  “And . . .”

  What was he waiting for? He started to fiddle with the pencil.

  Finally she realized he was waiting for her input! He had no idea how to banter back-and-forth or to brainstorm creatively.

  She broke the awkward silence. “Elliott, are you waiting for my suggestions for dinner?”

  “Aye. I’m waiting.”

  “I think . . . we should go with the honey.”

  “I use heather honey in North Berwick. But I’m sure the honey here will be fine.”

  “My favorite is from the Akins Apiary. They have delicious apple honey. It’s rare, but I’ll see if they have some in the pantry.”

  “Excellent. What . . . what else do you like about the honey?”

  Sophia tried not to laugh out loud at Elliott’s stilted and awkward attempt at conversation. The give-and-take was clearly not a natural process for him.

  “Let’s use the honey in all our dishes. How about roasted vegetables in a balsamic-honey dressing? With thyme? I think rutabaga and turnips would be a nice side for the turkey.”

  He scratched something on his tablet. “Keep going.”

  “And how about a bitter green salad? Maybe arugula and dandelion greens with a honey vinaigrette. That will cut the richness of the bird.”

  Elliott nodded. “I like both of those ideas. This meal will showcase the best of both of us . . . a traditional Scottish roast bird and various preparations for the vegetables and greens. Let’s search the pantry and see if we can find that honey.” He cleared his throat nervously. “Sophia.”

  She waited for him to continue. She ached for him, the strained look on his face.

  “I know . . . I haven’t been the easiest partner. I want you to know I appreciate that you chose my amuse-bouche the first day. I appreciate that you’ve put up with me and my less-than-stellar personality.” He shrugged. “I appreciate all of it, sweet.” She knew exactly what he was thinking about at that moment, and it wasn’t cooking.

  “And I appreciate your talent, your fearlessness, your devotion to Scottish tradition. Let’s make this meal sing. We can do it.” She smiled at him and hoped it was reassuring.

  He leaned over and kissed her on the side of the face. Half-way on the skin just beneath her ear. And partly on the lobe. And before he moved away from her, he bit her. Gently.

  “Don’t even think about it, Adamson.”

  “I deserved that for decapitating the birds.”

  “We have a job to do. Focus.”

  “I’m pretty damned good at multi-tasking, Sophia.”

  She narrowed her eyes at his wholly innocent expression.

  “Behave yourself, Elliott.”

  “I haven’t behaved myself since I was a wee laddie. No fun in that.”

  “Let’s look for honey.” She tried to ignore him. It was like ignoring a mountain.

  Not remotely possible.

  The investigation for the honey distracted him and they discovered quite the stash. She collected bottles of amber liquid and he collected mace and walnuts and onion for the stuffing.

  As they assembled their ingredients, Sophia heard a high-pitched chirp.

  Jenny the Blogger.

  “Well, well, well. Look who it is. Beauty and the Beast. I think the television viewers are going to eat you two up. With a spoon.” Jenny leaned over their table and rested on her elbows. Her blouse gaped open to reveal a sheer bra and two erect nipples.

  “Please don’t lean on our table. It’s unsanitary.” Elliott glanced up and looked directly into Jenny’s eyes, avoiding the obvious show. “You don’t want to get sick on our food, do you?”

  “You’re joking, right? You served us black pudding, Chef Adamson. I don’t think sanitation is an issue.”

  “What did you think about the turkey farm, Jenny?” Sophia attempted to change the subject before Elliott exploded.

  “Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. I’m not surprised Herman vomited. I wanted to vomit too.”

  “It’s sometimes shocking to see where your turkey cutlet comes from, right?” Elliott continued to chop onions without making eye contact.

  “I know exactly where my turkey cutlet comes from. But I don’t think that our viewers are interested in so much graphic detail.”

  Sophia piped up, “I guess the producers disagree. Or they’ll edit that part so it’s not so disconcerting.”

  Jenny shrugged and stood up. “Well, I think the viewers would rather see you picking flowers and herbs in the garden, Mrs. Brown. You’re a natural.” She smiled at Sophia with less-than-genuine enthusiasm. But at least it wasn’t all-out-hostility.

  The look she shot Elliott wasn’t quite as warm. “And there always has to be a villain on the show, right, Mr. Adamson?”

  “That’s Chef Adamson, Jenny. I earned that title. Don’t forget it.”

  Jenny clenched her hands, and Sophia wondered if the fake nails hurt as they punctured her skin.

  As the blogger walked away, Elliott whistled under his breath. “Twenty bucks says the producers are regretting that decision.”

  “Just remember, she’s judging us today.”

  “So are a lot of talented chefs. I trust them not to throw us under the bus.”

  The hours raced by. But Elliott never got flustered. He worked through his checklist in a calm, organized manner. He assembled the stuffing, dressed the turkey, and basted the bird as it roasted. Sophia worked on the vegetables and greens. When she asked Elliott to try her dressing, he nodded. She held up a spoon to his lips.

&
nbsp; “Delicious,” he said.

  The heated look in his eyes made her think about heavy breathing and rocking against a dormitory door.

  That single word made Sophia tremble.

  A few minutes later, Elliott nudged her with his elbow. “Sophia. Would you . . .” He held a spoon in his hands.

  “What is this?”

  “The glaze for the bird. Lots of good whisky in here.” His expression was oddly blank. Unsure. Exposed. Elliott was asking for her approval.

  She swallowed the bite. “My God. That is so good. You have a way with sauces, Chef Adamson. And whisky.”

  “Well, I’m Scottish.” He cleared his throat.

  This was a big step. He’d trusted her. He’d solicited her opinion. Even if he considered her a lowly serf in his kingdom, he was trying his best.

  And when the time finally came to serve their dish, which smelled like heaven and boasted bold, rich flavors, the judges couldn’t contain their enthusiasm.

  “The Beast has outdone himself this time.”

  The remaining eight contestants watched as their future was decided. It was an odd scenario. Sophia had been judged many times in her life. As a wife, as a mother, as a woman. As a student, as a daughter, as a sister. As a friend. But this was different. As these people shoveled food into their mouths—food that was sustenance for their bodies, art on a plate, uniquely inspired, hopefully satisfying—her future would be decided. Would this really make a difference in her life? Would she return home and fade back into obscurity? Would she become a minor celebrity and offer autographs to strangers?

  Would she take a chance and host a television show? Completely change her life? Was she fearless enough to try?

  Strangely enough, that option did not appeal. This whole false veneer for the camera was uncomfortable for her. The old dream of opening her own little bistro still lingered, however. In a sweet corner shop, with window boxes and crates of wine and her daughters laughing with her in the kitchen. Could that fantasy come true?

  And why did that fantasy suddenly include a hulking Scottish chef with poor manners and a chip on his shoulder the size of Loch Ness?

  “Well. This was quite the feast.” Tarquin patted his lips with a napkin and saluted the remaining chefs. “Well played, ladies and gentlemen.”