A Taste of Heaven Read online

  The older gentleman nodded without smiling. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back. He wore faded blue jeans and sneakers with a traditional white chef’s apron. He looked like somebody’s grandfather. He looked like he had no sense of humor.

  “Next up is the uber-popular Tarquin Bailey, our representative from the UK. Classically French-trained, now immersed in cutting edge cuisine. His restaurant, Wind Chimes, has won countless awards, and his television show, Impress Me, has just been re-signed for its fourth season. Chef Bailey is always opinionated, always entertaining.”

  Sophia also knew that Tarquin Bailey was the first black chef in Britain to win the coveted Celtic Culinary Award.

  Bailey smirked at the contestants and sent a jaunty little wave to everyone. His “costume” was flamboyant and designed to attract attention—tight peg-legged pants, a crisp white shirt, a navy blue bowtie. “So very nice to see all of you today. I can hardly wait to taste your creations.” His British accent was buttery soft, but his eyes were sharp. As he scanned the room, Sophia was sure the judging had already begun. How would she stack up?

  “Finally, we have our ‘amateur’ representative.”

  Another giggle.

  “Jenny Curtis, popular blogger who runs the site Dress Up Your Dinner, will be joining us this season. She is the quintessential American food blogger, in touch with her fans daily via social media. She has her finger on the pulse of the amateur cook. Please offer a warm welcome to Jenny!”

  The contestants clapped politely, and Jenny smiled hard enough to crack her pancake make-up. Sophia knew she was being petty, but her fast assessment was . . . fake tan, fake boobs, fake hair-color. This woman would be judging her?

  She was doomed.

  “We’re doomed.” The Scot hissed it under his breath and Sophia turned to him in stunned amazement. “She . . . is . . . fucking . . . giggling.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing. Doomed.”

  “You’d better hope that Jenny likes flowers, little garden fairy.” The Scot’s gaze remained straight ahead.

  “Time for our critique to begin. Jonathan, Tarquin, and Jenny will be tasting your amuse-bouches and ranking their favorites. Here we go!” Mr. Smith wiped his forehead with another clean linen handkerchief. He stepped aside as the judges moved to the table.

  They whispered and nodded and laughed. Spoons dipped into ramekins, and plates were lifted and inspected. Jonathan speared his food with a knife like a mountain man. He looked the part with his white beard and weathered face and large, hardened hands. Jenny popped morsels into her mouth and then bit her lip. Sophia had no doubt this was a practiced gesture. Sexy. For the camera. And Tarquin Bailey was all business. In spite of his flashy clothes and celebrity personality, he seemed completely focused on the food. In fact, much to Jenny’s irritation, he seemed to be ignoring the other judges completely.

  After an interminably long period, they finished.

  To her right, the Scot stood completely still, like a rabbit facing a predator. Unsure of where to move, what to do. The Chinese woman on her left tapped her foot in a rhythmic beat. Tap, tap, pause, tap, tap. Shaggy black hair hung over her eyes, masking her thoughts. But the nervous foot tap gave her away.

  Sophia scanned the plates and felt completely overwhelmed. Those plates showcased techniques she knew nothing about in calculated displays that elevated a piece of food into a work of art. Her simple way of cooking suddenly seemed vastly inferior.

  Mr. Smith clapped his hands. “What a delicious feast! So much variety, so much creativity . . .”

  “And a few duds as well,” Tarquin interjected.

  Jenny and Jonathan nodded.

  “Shall we start with those? The bottom of the barrel? Everyone gave it their best effort, but some didn’t quite cut it.” Mr. Smith turned to Jonathan. “Which amuse-bouche failed in your expert opinion?”

  As Jonathan began to enumerate the myriad ways the contestants failed, Sophia wondered if this was how a beauty queen felt as the names got called. Were you just good enough, were you the cream of the crop, were you lacking? She always felt sick for the women in those pageants. They must feel so vulnerable, balanced in stiletto heels and covered only with the tiniest of bikinis. Facing the firing squad almost naked. Were these chefs any better? The ones whose names were announced and criticized were not all good sports. Some argued. Others shot off sarcastic comments. Some questioned the judges’ palates. The remaining contestants released a sigh of relief as the two eliminated chefs were escorted from the set.

  Sophia, the Scot, and her Chinese neighbor were still standing.

  “Well, now for the fun part!” Jenny giggled. “The food we liked the best. Sure, I didn’t go to culinary school like my two buddies over here—”

  Sophia noticed Jonathan Rutgers cringe.

  “—but I know what tastes good. And we had some big surprises today, didn’t we fellas?”

  “We certainly did.” Jonathan raked his gaze over the remaining contestants. His hands were still clasped behind his back.

  Sophia wondered if a bottle of Cab would lighten him up.

  “Not only surprises, but some truly remarkable food. I can’t wait to match the dishes with each of you. Especially my favorites.” Tarquin winked.

  “Let’s start with the best. Tarquin, what impressed you most today?” Mr. Smith asked.

  “One hour is not a lot of time to create complex flavors. Some of these bites were spectacular, rich, and satisfying. I’m amazed the chefs could accomplish this so quickly. But for me, I always look for contrast. Tart and sweet, soft and hard, rich and light. And presentation is important.”

  Jenny the blogger clapped her hands. “Oh, I agree! That’s why my blog is called Dress Up Your Dinner. Folks who just slop some food on a plate are missing a big part of the dining experience. People need to put the same amount of energy into creating a gorgeous dish as they do with their make-up and accessories and shoes. It’s all about the details.” She smiled for the camera, flashing the brightest, whitest teeth Sophia had ever seen.

  Jonathan Rutgers looked like he was about to choke on his tongue.

  Mr. Smith nodded at Jenny’s inane observation. “And Jonathan, what are your thoughts about this first challenge?”

  “I like simple. Simple flavors, taking the fresh bounty around us and using it in inspired ways. Adding a bit of surprise.”

  “So, judges, what was your favorite dish?” The producer stepped back so the cameras could pan over the long table.

  Tarquin answered.

  “A crisp almond tart.”

  Sophia’s heart began to pound.

  “Smooth lemony custard. Light as air.”

  She clenched the edge of her worktable.

  “Only one person chose the boysenberries as an ingredient today. They were ripe, juicy, bursting with flavor. But somewhat difficult to wrestle with in terms of tartness. This contestant made a truly inspired syrup, infused with basil . . . and lemon thyme, I think.” Jonathan shrugged. “I can’t wait to find out how this syrup was created.”

  Sophia started to sway.

  The blogger smiled. “I love lemon. It’s bright. It’s sunny. But I don’t have a big sweet tooth. This dish was not too sweet. It was lovely.”

  “And best of all,” Tarquin interrupted, “a little surprise under the tart. Hidden. Using the organic bittersweet Vermont chocolate we provided. Well played.”

  “And the flowers!” Jenny sighed. “This plate captures the very essence of summer. Sprinkled with flower petals.”

  The Scot tensed beside her. “You have got to be fucking kidding me . . .”

  The judges lifted her plate.

  Her plate.

  Her plate.

  My plate!

  “Take a breath, lassie. Or you’re gonna fall over and wreck the big reveal.” The Scot’s rich voice snapped her out of her trance.

  She slowly inhaled.

  “It’s a rare day when a non-savory offe
ring catches our attention like this,” Tarquin said. “But this single bite was phenomenal. Tart and sweet, crunchy and smooth, making the Vermont local ingredients shine.”

  “So who is Number Three? A professional chef or an amateur?” Mr. Smith swung his gaze over the contestants.

  Sophia took a shaky step forward. She was keenly aware of thirteen sets of eyes glued to her back. “An amateur. A very shocked amateur.”

  Mr. Smith grinned. “Well, isn’t that exciting? An amateur won our first contest! Judges, this is Sophia Brown.”

  Tarquin shook her hand. “An amateur bested the competition. I love it!”

  Jonathan introduced himself. “A courageous first step. You took a big chance preparing a non-savory dish. Keep it up, Ms. Brown. So how did you make the syrup, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Or snatching the recipe, right?” Tarquin joked.

  Jonathan actually blushed! Sophia wanted to laugh out loud, but she composed herself.

  “I used orange basil and lemon thyme. I wanted to bring out some citrusy notes in the syrup.”

  Jonathan patted her hand. “Very nice.”

  Jenny gave her an awkward hug. “Oh, I just love the pretty flowers. Your dish was so charming. Very well-dressed.”

  The forced intimacy was uncomfortable. And Sophia was squirming under the intense scrutiny of her fellow contestants. She could feel their hostility. The back of her neck turned hot.

  “So what inspired you to make a dessert for your amuse-bouche? How did you approach this challenge? And were you intimidated by the thought of competing with professionals?” Jonathan asked.

  “I just decided . . .” What did you decide Sophia? To be brave? To be daring? To be carefree? To crawl out of your hole, that safe place, that quiet place, that place with no taste? What did you decide? “. . . to try something different. To be honest, I didn’t think about the master chefs cooking around me. There’s no way I can compete with their experience. I just created something I knew my daughters would love to eat.”

  “Well, it certainly worked.” Jonathan shot her a small smile.

  Sophia had the odd sensation her answer had pleased him somehow.

  “What flowers did you use for a garnish?” Tarquin asked. “Just curious. I’ll let the contestants know right now I insist that everything on your plate is edible. And that includes flowers.” He was no longer winking at Sophia.

  “Johnny Jump-Ups. Viola tricolor. Completely edible, with a mild, slightly sweet flavor. I use them all the time in salads.” Sophia’s voice was soft, but firm. She had no intention of bowing under pressure from the judges. Not about plants. They could criticize her cooking all day long, but no one could trip up her botanical knowledge.

  Tarquin nodded. “Excellent. I look forward to tasting more of your inspired creations, Sophia.” His British accent had become more pronounced over the last thirty minutes. There was more to Chef Bailey than the actor mugging for the camera.

  Mr. Smith motioned for Sophia to move closer to the table. The crew rearranged the dishes into two groups. “And now our winner gets to pick her partner. These are the professionals’ selections. You need to choose your favorite. Choose wisely. Someone whose cooking style will complement your own.”

  Sophia glanced at the remaining contestants with trepidation.

  They stared back, not bothering to hide a host of emotions. Animosity, doubt, impatience, vulnerability.

  Time for the moment of truth.

  Would she be able to taste their creations?

  Chapter Five

  Seven plates.

  Green and brown. Red and orange. Saucy.

  Deconstructed gazpacho with chili peppers. Heat, but little else.

  A delicate dumpling with sesame and ginger. Overwhelmed by salt.

  Vegetable bruschetta. The crunch of asparagus. Texture, but no taste.

  Was this a futile undertaking? Should she bow out now? Concede defeat? She looked over her shoulder and caught the Scot’s gaze.

  Taunting her.

  She kept going.

  Sweet and salty. Bitter. Muted, but there. When would her sense of taste kick back in? Hell, it better be soon. Clunky and heavy. Underseasoned and much too subtle. Was it her defective taste buds, or really a lack of flavor? She wasn’t sure.

  Some daring bites, and others that tried too hard to impress. Sophia liked simple. The dishes with foams and gels were not her first choice. Someone else could partner with those chefs.

  One after another, she tasted and moved on.

  One after another, she waited for something to jump off the table and shake her.

  Two plates left.

  Second to the last, and it was brown. And dull. No color. No texture. She lifted a piece of sourdough bruschetta slathered with seafood and a light-colored sauce. She bit carefully into the creation.

  Her mouth exploded with flavor. Prawns and lobster swimming in the most delectable sauce. Buttery and layered, with whisky and leeks and onions and simple herbs.

  Sophia moaned.

  There was more than just one bite on this plate. Thank God. Not strictly a true amuse-bouche, but Sophia didn’t care.

  Was it bad form to lick the plate in a cooking competition? This drab little plate had miraculously fixed her taste bud deficiency. Unbelievable. The moment had just shifted from black-and-white to color, like a scene from the Wizard of Oz. Who had created this dish? Someone with a sophisticated palate but no eye for visual presentation.

  The last plate beckoned, but she already knew it was a lost cause. There was no way it could best that seafood stew. It was a lovely crepe, packed with grilled eggplant and goat cheese. And now that Sophia’s taste had been awakened from hibernation, she was able to enjoy every bite.

  But it still wasn’t enough to out-shine the prawns.

  Those prawns sang to her, and they needed her. They demanded color and brightness. The sauce was bold and rich. That plate clamored for the balance of her garden. She could imagine a prickly little salad to offer texture and bite, to complement that exquisite sauce.

  Those prawns needed her.

  She turned to the contestants and hid her trembling hands behind her back.

  “Quite a range of offerings, right?” Mr. Smith nodded at her encouragingly. “Any favorites?”

  “Yes. I definitely have a favorite.”

  “Don’t keep us in suspense, Sophia! Who will be your partner?” Jenny squeezed her arm.

  Sophia gently extricated herself from the overly-enthusiastic blogger and stepped to the table. She walked by the dumplings and the crepe and the deconstructed gazpacho. She stopped in front of the drab little plate. Brown, humdrum little plate that had awakened her senses and demanded attention. “My favorite dish was the prawns and lobster in this luscious sauce.”

  “Ahhhh. The American fell for the seductive whisky sauce.” Tarquin said.

  “Nice choice, Sophia. The sauce was divine,” Jonathan added.

  “And not a flower in sight.” The Scot’s voice rumbled over the set, dripping with disdain.

  “Oh dear Lord. Is that Elliott Adamson’s dish? Good luck to you,” Mr. Smith whispered to Sophia.

  She looked over the sea of faces—the tense Chinese woman, the bohemian hipster with his perfectly creased bandana, the French professional with her tight smile. The Scot wore a deceptively lazy expression, but his hands were fisted at his sides.

  Oh my God. Not him. Anyone but him!

  “Mr. Adamson, is this your dish?” Jonathan asked.

  “Yes. I’m the proud owner of the seductive sauce. Who knew I would snag a bonny American garden sprite?”

  That elicited a sprinkle of tense laughter.

  “Can you tell us about your plate? Your inspiration?” Jonathan returned his hands behind his back and waited for the Scot’s response.

  “Of course. It’s my take on a traditional Scottish recipe, prawns in whisky sauce. Typically it’s cooked in a ramekin, but for the amuse-bouche I served
it on sourdough toast. My inspiration today is the same as every day. The rich history of Scottish cuisine.”

  His look dared anyone to argue with him. Dared her to argue. Those startling indigo eyes found her staring at him, and he glared back.

  “Do Scottish people care about presentation, Mr. Adamson?” Jenny seemed oblivious to Elliott’s contemptuous mood.

  He turned to the American blogger with a face as still as stone and grunted.

  “Well, the sauce was beautiful, and clearly impressed our amateur winner, Mrs. Brown. Sophia, please join your partner while we announce the next finalist.” Mr. Smith gently nudged her in the right direction.

  Toward the scowling, angry Scot.

  They stood, side by side, neither speaking nor acknowledging the other. The tension rolled off Elliott Adamson in furious waves. She pretended to watch the rest of the competition, but her attention was focused solely on the man to her right. What had she done? Inadvertently chosen the worst possible partner? His food was exquisite, but how could she work with a man who refused to even look at her?

  Doomed.

  The old Sophia—the “David and Sophia” Sophia—would have nodded and smiled and played along, quiet and accommodating, always appropriate and thoughtful and kind.

  But David was gone. And perhaps it was time for that old Sophia to die a gracious death, too. Even though she’d been dragging it on, somewhere in purgatory for the last twelve months.

  This man standing next to her would expect submission. This man would expect her to comply with his demands. But she was the one who had won today. And no one here knew David. No one here knew “David and Sophia.”

  This was a chance for a fresh start.

  The hell with doomed.

  Finally, they were all paired up. A few of the professionals were gracious with the amateurs, but most of them could barely conceal their contempt. And the amateurs looked completely overwhelmed. Sophia wasn’t sure this concept was going to work. It would be tough for the amateurs to exert any sort of creative control in the kitchen with a group of egotistical pros.