“It should be fine.” When was Dexter going to leave Tristan in peace to work? And why was it so fucking difficult to work and talk and be on camera? TV chefs did it all the time. “The cherries will help balance it out, but I do like my desserts sweet.”
Dexter nodded. “I’ll let you get on with it. It’s fairly simple, so make sure you’re hitting your flavor balance.”
Lucia’s words from before played through his mind, and in his distraction, they shot out of his mouth before he could censor himself. “I didn’t make it in because I’m bad at baking, right?”Fuck, just had to smart off.Dexter was a judge. But Tristan’s mouth had gone too dry for him to correct himself, so he simply had to stand in his shame, peeling apples.
“No, you’re not here because you’re bad at baking.” Dexter laughed, low and loud, then knocked on the counter and moved on, taking the blasted cameraman with him, thankfully. When there wasn’t a stupidinterviewhappening, Tristan could focus. He got his apples peeled and cherries pitted, then tossed some butter into the skillet. Allspice went into the grinder, then into the foaming fat. Same with the cinnamon. Soon their strong, heady perfume wafted up. Once again, a wave of calm pushed through him as he settled into familiar territory. Tristan dropped in his apples, and they immediately began to sizzle. He tossed them in the butter and added honey, waiting for a little softness in the flesh before adding in his flour-coated cherries.
This was nothing. Not the kind of thing he made every day, but wedding pies had a bit of a cult following, and living in Seattleof coursethere were people who wanted them, if for no other reason than to be contrary and shock their mothers-in-law.
He’d do it today, in this fake kitchen with all the cameras, and the air perfumed like a spice market on a hot summer day. He’d do it well enough to make up for his smart mouth. He’d do it in spite of Henry behind him, smelling of coconut and—Tristan looked over his shoulder—slicing apples into thin strips without even watching his hands, the blade of the chef’s knife gliding cleanly against the edge of his knuckles.Maybe I’ll even do ittospite him.
Tristan did his best to focus in the time remaining. He added his cherries and cranked the heat down on his pan so the flour wouldn’t scorch or thicken too quickly. The cherries created a new plume of steam, fragrant and sweet and only slightly acidic on the nose. He stirred and tasted and adjusted with salt and a dash more honey, then stirred and tasted and finally ran a spoon through the liquid collecting in the bottom of the pan. It was a perfect nappe, coating the back of the spoon and, when he ran his finger down the center, it didn’t flow in to fill the empty space. A slight smile pulled at the edges of his lips.Maybe I actually will pull this off.
His filling went into a bowl, and that went into the fridge. It didn’t need to be stone-cold, but putting hot filling into his pie case would melt all the fat and leave his crust stodgy. There were a lot of moving pieces, and with the clock above them ticking down, Tristan felt like he could see each one ten times more clearly than usual. The chilling of the fat in the dough, blooming the starch for the filling, controlling the heat of the fruit against the need for structural integrity in the crust. From a bird’s eye view, pie was simple, but when a quarter million dollars was on the line, when taking care of himself and his family was on the line, each detail became a monumental hurdle to leap.
While he waited for everything to settle, he prepped the rest of his ingredients: sanding sugar and egg wash and extra flour to roll out the dough.
He also couldn’t resist checking behind him to see what the competition was bringing to bear. At the very back, Ricky was... hopeless. He was struggling to manipulate the crust into the pan. Bits of apple scrap littered his station, and flour caked his apron. Plus that dullness in his eye... Tristan wasn’t prone to bouts of confidence, but even he felt a little more secure in his position looking at Ricky.
But the real source of interest lay in front of Ricky. Henry was carefully arranging his apple slices into his tart shell, overlapping them like rose petals as he circled inward. It was impressive, that was for damn sure, and Tristan couldn’t help noticing the serenity on his face, the calm set of his jaw, and focus in his eyes. Henry truly was lovely, and when he wasn’t talking, his ego and his pastry shop were much easier to forget.
“You know, I may not be some highfalutin caterer like you, but I’d be using my time a little more efficiently than just watching me arrange my tart.” Henry didn’t lift his head, but his eyes flashed upward to Tristan as he spoke. “I admit I’m pretty, but you’re going to rob my victory of any actual value if you don’t try.”
And there came that ego, as soon as Henry fucking Isaacson opened his mouth.A highfalutin caterer? Really?“Right. You want to trade? You can be Carlita’s pastry bit—lackey and I’ll run my own pâtisserie in the U District. Done deal.”
Henry paused for a second, just long enough to shake his head, then went back to arranging in silence. Tristan turned and bent down to the fridge.All the snobby caterers out there in the world, and he callsmehighfalutin. I wish.Highfalutin caterersdefinitelystruggled to pay off their debts and support their families. Anyone who knew a damn thing about Tristan wouldn’t call him highfalutin.
His dough was chilled enough, and his filling was on its way there, so Tristan got back to work. He split the dough and made a quick case, shearing off the edges with a paring knife. His filling was down close to room temp now. Close enough, anyway, so he piled it in and smoothed it out, then placed his top on and crimped it shut. His crimping took a lot longer than usual, or at least it seemed to. But he wanted perfection: evenly spaced finger waves along the edge. He sliced a vent in the top and then brushed on the egg wash and sprinkled chunky, coarse sanding sugar over the whole pie before getting it in the oven.
Then it was all finished, save for waiting. He tidied up and watched as more and more chefs joined the waiting game. Ricky was the last man standing, and even when he got his pie in to bake, an almost palpable miasma of disorder and anxiety crept up from his station. This was the sort of mess Tristan would have normally cleaned up, but that wasn’t his kitchen. So he took the time to quickly whip some cream, lightly sweetened. A bit of fat to counterbalance the tart cherries and all the sugar.
Somehow, the waiting got worse. The kitchen was all but silent before long as the clock ticked away. Tristan resisted every urge suggested by his nervous energy. No needlessly opening the oven. No extra whipping of his cream. Certainly no adding extra elements to a fully complete pie.
And no thinking about the coconut that, in spite of all the wonderful spices and fruits filling the air, crept up from Henry’s station and into Tristan’s nose. No thinking about that at all.
Finally the first timers started to go off and pies came out. Less than ten minutes remained, barely enough time for the pies to cool, then get touched up. The cameramen pushed forward as each chef pulled their work from the oven, vultures ready to snap up the carrion of a failed pie. Tristan’s stomach churned at the thought, and when his timer joined the symphony, he had to hold back his guts from flying out of his mouth.
But when the pie was revealed, his crust was solid, sanding sugar sparkling like crystals on bronzed pastry, no visible leakage, steam gently wafting up from the vent hole. His body relaxed as soon as he had it on the cooling rack, and the camera moved on, seemingly unsatisfied by his lack of failure.
Henry also pulled out his tart. It had a beautiful pattern, but seemed dry. However, as soon as he glazed the surface, it took on a sheen under the fluorescent lights that made it infinitely more appealing. The studding of lavender buds helped as well.
“You all have five minutes left,” Sylvia’s voice projected from the front of the set. And sure enough, the clock up above ticked right past the five-minute mark. Tristan forced his thoughts to run smoothly. He took his whipped cream out of the fridge and dished up a healthy portion of it into a ramekin—couldn’t serve it on top of a hot pie. He wiped down the sides to make sure everything was neat and silently prayed that his pie was fully cooked. There was no knowing for sure until it was cut.
“One minute remaining!”
The other pies were garnished and finished and moved off the cooling racks, onto the counter for presentation. Tristan couldn’t resist a peek back at the train wreck of Ricky. He had his pie out, but the crust looked utterly unappetizing, a splotchy cream and brown color. That glance back also let Tristan see Henry’s tart again in its full, shining glory.
A loud buzz filled the space as the clock flipped to zero. There was nothing they could control anymore. Now it was down to Dexter, Rita, and Eli.
Henry waited motionless at his station as the judges meandered back, dragging the camera crew with them. Ofcoursethey started on the opposite side, and spoke quietly enough that he couldn’t hear what was said. But nobody burst into tears, so the results couldn’t betoobad.
Now Dexter, Rita, and Eli stood around the station at the front of his row. Still too far away for him to hear, so he watched as they examined Willa’s offering. It was a big damn pie, hand-raised with a crumble on top in place of a crust. Dexter tapped the outside and Rita scratched one of the golden forks through the crumble. Then finally, Eli grabbed the knife from the counter and sliced in. When he transferred it to a plate, it held together. They ate, they nodded, their mouths moved, and Henry wished he’d learned to read lips at some point.
Then they moved one station back. This time, Henry could actually hear their conversation.
“Tristan.” Eli smiled at him. “Let’s see what we’ve got. Apple and cherry is one of my favorite flavor combinations.”
Rita picked up the knife and tapped the tip against the top of the pie. “You have lovely decorations, a firm crust. You work for a caterer, right?”
