Tristan nodded. “In Seattle. Suffice it to say pie isn’t demanded all that often, but I’ve still made my fair share.”
“And Washington is known for its apples, of course.” She chuckled softly as she cut the tiniest, most delicate sliver of pie. It also stayed intact, a brilliant red because of the cherries. “You used Golden Delicious, right?”
“I like the sweeter flavor. It balances out well with pie cherries.”
Rita dropped it onto the plate, then scooped out whipped cream and placed a gentle dollop next to the pie. “It holds up nicely. The apples aren’t dissolving or collapsing, which can sometimes happen with Golden Delicious, and it’s got a lovely aroma.”
They dug in, chewing quietly as the camera zoomed and shifted around. Henry was maybe too interested in this, since one of the cameras focused squarely on him. Then again, why wouldn’t he be focused? Tristan was competition. Real competition.
Dexter spoke up first this time. “I was suspicious of your apples, which is not a sentence I ever foresaw myself saying. But you’ve pulled it off. Your crust is buttery and delicate, and the cherries pop against the honey and the apples. This would be a star at a Fourth of July picnic.”
Tristan hesitated a few seconds before finally responding. “Really?”
Dexter smiled and chuckled. “You shouldn’t sound so surprised. After all, you didn’t get here because you’re bad at baking, right?”
Tristan’s head jerked around so he was fully facing Dexter. His mouth hung open slightly, and he ran his fingers through his hair. “I, umm... Yeah.” That brief show of embarrassment struck Henry right in his middle.As though he needed help being a sexy son of a bitch. But the way his expression put his lips on display, the way his hair parted around his fingers, the shy smile that toyed across his face as they passed him by ...
As they passed him by. Shit. That meant Henry was next. Suddenly he judged his pie all over again, pointing out every flaw to himself. An uneven lip of crust here, a misplaced bit of lavender there, an unintended pool of glaze that he should have evened out.
Dexter first. They must have been taking turns to keep the footage fresh and interesting. “Now that is something to look at, isn’t it? What exactly is in here?”
“It’s traditional apple-pie flavors infused with lavender.”
“With lavender? It’s such a delicate flavor, can it really hold up to all those spices?”
Henry winked, putting on the best show he could. “I guess we’ll find out.”
Dexter chuckled and Eli started slicing yet another sliver of pie. “Your crust is firm, not too thick. The apples aren’t holding together quite as well as I would have liked, but they aren’t completely collapsing. A shape like this is normally held together with caramel or toffee or frangipane, so the fact it’s holding at all is pretty good.”
Henry did his best to stay chill as they continued to pick his tart to pieces. He’d considered a stronger base, of course, but toffee or caramel both seemed too sweet and would have covered up the delicacy of the Braeburns he’d used, and certainly would have masked the floral notes of the lavender.
Rita broke Henry from his thoughts. “I am impressed. You’ve set your flavor bar high. It takes skill to handle lavender like this, and it’s a hell of an opening card to play.” She put a hand to her mouth. “Can I say that?”
“They said it on Disney, we can say it here.” Dexter sighed and leaned forward. “I don’t like lavender, so this was always going to be a hard sell for me. But it’s a good apple tart. The lavender isn’t perfumey in a bad way, though it’s definitely present. I could do without it, but it doesn’t ruin the tart.”
Henry sighed with relief. They liked it. “I wanted it present, being from Seattle and everything.”
Eli’s head tilted to one side. “Lavender in Washington?”
Yes, lavender in Washington. Where do you think it comes from?“There’s lavender fields all around Seattle. I grew up in Sequim, so it was all over the place.”
Eli nodded. “I might have to make an excursion. Dexter may not enjoy it, but I love lavender and rose and violet. Done well, at least, and this was done well.”
That was apparently all they had, because the posse moved on. Henry slumped back on his stool. It was only the first hurdle, and apple pie wasn’t exactly ahighhurdle to clear. But he’d still put out a strong showing, a gay boy from Seattle. And although he wouldn’t know for sure until the end of the day, it felt as though he’d been deemed worthy.
Once the “competing in front of judges and a million cameras” dam had broken, the other rounds moved quickly for Henry. His lemon meringue was solid, though unfortunately not nearly as photogenic as Tristan’s. He didn’t run into any great problems with his three-course pie meal, either.
After each round, the remainders of the pies had been carried up to a large table off-camera, where contestants and crew alike could taste them between shootings. Henry gazed longingly at that collection of baked goods. At the start of filming, he hadn’t wanted that much sugar, afraid it might leave him jittery. Twenty pies wasn’t exactly a balanced meal, and while craft services were decent, those sandwiches weren't enough to overcome that influx of sweetness.
Now, as he stood drenched in the smells of roasting meat and vegetables, his stomach growled.I’ll eat next time. I’ll definitely eat. The hotel must have a gym, right? I can make use of that duffel bag.
In spite of his growling stomach, the time slipped by faster than Henry liked. Soon enough, all their pies were out and he had to wait for final judgment. He had to be through. His pies were all beautiful. A “potato soup” pie, full of bacon and potatoes and onions and all sorts of good, hearty fare. His beef wellington pie with the flaky layers of rough puff, because who the hell had time to make full puffandthree pies? And his dessert pie, because of course one of his three courses would be dessert. Peach and hazelnut with a thick amaretto syrup drizzled over the top. It certainly looked impressive... though not as much as Tristan’s.
Everyone went to the judges’ table one at a time, with cameras and production assistants trekking behind, carrying the pies up to the front and then disappearing before the judging began. Henry’s whole body tightened as he watched them, the way they walked without watching where they were going. Even though it wasn’t his pies yet, that level of carelessness didn’t instill confidence. At all.
After a remarkable critique—“impeccable decorations” and a “command over classic flavors” in a boeuf bourguignon pie—Tristan walked back to his station, smiling. Tristan rarely smiled. It suited his face: pushed his cheeks up and revealed all-too-charming dimples.Not that I noticed. Stupid caterer. Stupid sexy caterer.
A few seconds’ waiting, then the cavalcade of staff arrived at Henry’s workstation. They stood just out of shot as Sylvia smiled wide. “Henry, come on up and wow the judges.”
