Don’t. Puke. Henry did his best to appear presentable. He couldn’t keep track of that many cameras, so he’d have to stay en pointe the whole time.
“And cut!” The little man—apparently the director—piped up. “We’ll get your voice-over recorded later, Syl.” He turned toward the competitors. “From here, we’re live. Watch your language, get all your cussing out now. Make it easier on the editors.”
Nobody said a damn thing, except Sylvia, but he couldn’t hear her quiet response. The competitors were stone silent. Tension hung palpable in the air, lacing every breath Henry took.All I have to do is not forget how to make a stupid apple tart. That’s it.
He closed his eyes, waiting for some calm to drop on him. Of course it didn’t. It wouldn’t until they started baking. Henry opened his eyes again andsomehowthey ended up pointing at the curve of Tristan’s lower back.Goddamn it.Can’t catch a fucking break, can I?
“Okay, big roll starting! Quiet on set!”
Henry waited through the countdown, then Sylvia’s voice burst out. “Welcome, all you baking and pâtisseriewunderkind. I’m excited to see all your bright shining faces. And I’m even more excited to see what you pull out of the oven. I have my dietician on speed dial, so I’m all prepared.”
Henry offered a weak chuckle. He didn’t want to open his mouth too far in case vomit spewed forth.
Sylvia clasped her hands, her smile bright white and wide. “Now, today we want to really see your creativity, but also those superb baking skills we all know you have. The judges are expecting to be wowed. You’re some of the best bakers and pastry chefs in the country. We gathered you together to find the quintessential American baker, so we’re starting with the quintessential American bake: apple pie—and you don’t even have to start by creating the universe.”
That must have been a reference, but not one Henry understood.
“Basically everything is open to your own discretion. It can be double-crusted or open-faced. Any flavors you want to bring, any design. It can be in a tin or hand-raised. The only requirements are that it a) has a crust and b) is filled with apples. Beyond that, you’re free to fly as close to the sun as you dare.” Sylvia pointed to a massive digital clock above the judges’ table. Two hours filled in the blank space.
I can do this.
“Get ready.”
I can do this. It’s a pie.
“Get set.”
It’s a fucking pie, Henry. Do it.
“Get baked!”
Tristan didn’t run, but he certainly walkedbrisklyto the pantry. “Preheat the oven when you get back,” he whispered to himself. The last thing he needed was to make a rookie mistake. Especially during the first episode. He snatched one of the wire baskets from in front of the door and headed in, dodging the other bodies bustling alongside him. A block of butter, a container of flour, a little thing of salt. It would get him his basic pastry dough. Then apples. Golden Delicious. He’d get enough tartness from the cherries to counterbalance them. Some honey. Allspice berries. A cinnamon stick. A finger of ginger. And a couple of eggs. Then he took another “brisk walk” back to his station.
In his head, Tristan knew that two hours was more than enough time to make a stupid little apple and cherry pie. His heart and stomach disagreed, insisting he had all of thirty seconds left.
He popped the oven up to 375°F, then pulled out a mixing bowl and started dumping. Flour, butter, salt, crumble.
With his hands in the mix, Tristan’s doubts began to melt. He baked every day. This was the same as being in a tent out back of a wedding. Easier, really. He had air conditioning and a proper stove and range and all the ingredients he could possibly need and an audience of millions and he had to make the entire dish in one go and this wasnothinglike working at a wedding, oh myGod.
Tristan closed his eyes. How many cigarettes was too many? Surely one of these cameramen or judges or another chef had one he could bum. “Focus on the pie.”
His dough had turned to crumb. He popped into the miniature freezer for ice and dumped it into a second bowl, then filled it with water. A glance around told him he at least wasn’t behind the pack. But not significantly ahead, either.
The dough came together quickly, only taking five tablespoons of the ice water. He smacked it into some plastic wrap, then dashed it into the fridge. His oven chimed gently to say it was preheated. He pulled a high-brimmed skillet out of cupboard and popped it on the range.So far, so good.
“Tristan!” Dexter marched up to him and then leaned on the edge of his counter, smiling. A cameraman followed him. “How’s everything going?”
“It’s fine.” Tristan pulled his apples over. “I’m making good enough time.” He glanced at the clock—it had only taken ten minutes or so to get to the pantry and get his crust started. “I’m about to get going on my filling.”
“And what exactly are you making?” Dexter examined the ingredients, his dark eyes sparkling. “I see apples and cherries?”
“I’m from Washington. What’s more Washingtonian than that?” Tristan started peeling his apples, shedding off golden slips of skin, and hoping the conversation wouldn’t distract him enough to slice up his hands. “Rainier cherries are a nice pale color so they won't stain everything. And also very Washingtonian."
“I would have expected apples and coffee out of Washington.” Dexter winked.
“Well, you know.” People always seemed to associate coffee with Washington. Tristan may not be prone to state pride, but it was always a niggle when people overlooked things like cherries and potatoes for coffee.
“Well, it sounds like you have some good flavors going. It’s not going to be too sweet with those apples?”
