He grabbed the entrée, like he’d been instructed, and the two assistants snatched up his dessert and soup course. Henry suppressed a cringe at how close their thumbs got to the top of the pie, wrapping too tight and threatening to puncture the crust. Together, they all moved to the front where Henry would face his final judgment of the day. So far, things hadn’t gone well for the majority of the contestants. The judges had loved Tristan’s, Willa’s, and Finn’s spreads, but the rest all sounded middling at best. At least one girl had royally fucked herself over. Fish pie didn’t seem appetizing. Sure, it would have been impressive to see someone pull it off... but she hadn’t. She’d served some overdone catfish monstrosity that wasn't likely to be salvaged by her other two pies. You didn’t make Dexter Wilson spit food out into his napkin and stick around very long.
Once his pies were arranged on the table, Sylvia cut back in. “So, tell us what you have here. Whet my appetite.”
Henry nodded. “The first pie is all the flavors you’d get in a traditional potato soup. Then the entrée is my take on beef Wellington, and you’ll end with a peach and hazelnut cream pie, which is a riff on the traditional sort of peach and frangipane.”
Dexter cut thin slivers and put them on individual saucers. The judges ate a bite of each without comment, and Henry watched for any tics or tells or foaming-mouthed collapses. But nothing.
Dexter set his fork aside. “You definitely emulated the potato soup well. I wasn’t sold on the texture of a soup in a pie, though, and I’m still not. If it had been pot pies, maybe, but even with it thickened up, it’s making more mess than I would have liked.”
Eli nodded and Rita twiddled her fork between her fingers as she started in. “But the beef wellington was great. The crust was perfect, and your meat had a lovely flavor. I particularly enjoyed the tarragon. You used a lot of it and I was nervous, but it seems like you knew what you were doing.”
Of course I did. I know how to cook. But Henry nodded and looked over to Eli, because after one day he’d gotten it figured out—they were going to talk in order.
And Eli did exactly as was expected. “Now, I think all of us know what that peach and frangipane tart is supposed to taste like. It’s a summery little dish. There’s a French bakery in New York. Barely a door with a hallway. They make the best galettes in the summer, and that was one of my favorites to order.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “This is something else, and I like it. It feels... Christmassy. The hazelnut is something I always associate with the holidays, and I do love it with the peach. It’s different, a bit deeper than almond. And doing it set into a cream filling makes it feel more decadent than frangipane.” Leaning back, he nodded. “It’s good. I don’t have any better notes than that.”
Henry waited for any extra comments. When none came, his pies were whisked back to his station and lined up on the counter, uncut sides facing front. He followed shortly behind, sliding into place. They were nearly finished, now. Before long, one of them would walk out the doors for good.
Tristan and the other chefs stood behind their stations, waiting in silence as the judges continued to deliberate and scribble notes at the café table. They were at it for a good five minutes before they finally called Sylvia over and slipped her a piece of paper. She checked it and nodded, then stepped up to the front.
And in case that wasn’t enough strain on his nerves, the coconut smell still lingered, forcing Tristan’s thoughts onto Henry when they should have been fully focused on his own anxiety.
Sylvia sighed, rolled her shoulders back, then smiled out at the room. “There were of course some real hits this week, and some misses.”
It wasn’t obvious what or who she was referring to, as they stood there in person. On TV, Tristan imagined the cameras zooming in on people’s faces and dramatic sting music playing. Nothing of the sort now. Just nerves on top of nerves.
Sylvia clapped her hands together. “First, the good news. The best pies of the week. These came from a very experienced baker, someone who knows how to utilize simple, classic flavors to the best of their ability.” She paused a moment, then gestured to the station at the front of Tristan’s row. “Willa, you had the best pies. Congratulations, you’ll be coming back next week. And that was a fantastic apple pie.”
Willa nodded. Tristan did his best to shut up his own thoughts. The screaming doubt in his skull wouldn’t do any good and wouldn’t change a damn thing now. So he stood there and let it scream and pretended as hard as he could that it didn’t bother him.
Sylvia shook her head. “It’s only been a week. Unfortunately, only the upper crust can stay after making these pies.” She paused and Tristan did his best not to vomit all over his shoes. When she finally broke the silence, her words cut clean through the adrenaline clouding his brain. "We'll have to say goodbye to Ricky this week."
With a snap, the screaming stopped and Tristan had to hold back a laugh of relief. They hadn’t said his name. He was safe. He was staying. Ricky had struggled the entire time, barely seeming to hold himself together well enough to getanythingout for the judges. Objectively, Ricky made sense. And more importantly, he wasn’t Tristan.
Ricky stepped out from his station, smiling. It took every muscle in Tristan’s face to avoid smiling along with him. Tristan wasn’t going to provide the crying zoom shot, so distraught about Ricky leaving. He was too relieved to still be around, still bringing in that extra money and publicity.
I hope it’s not this stressful every week. I don’t think my heart can take it.
Sylvia put on a good show. She wrapped her arms around Ricky. The experience so far wasn’t nearly as brash as Tristan had been expecting. In large part because of Sylvia’s general joyful demeanor. She was the sort of person who would... well, hug a perfect stranger in front of God and everyone.
Cameras swung past the embrace and the director stepped out from backstage. Not into the shot, but he stepped up, waited for a few seconds, then his voice burst out: “All right, we need to get a final shot of the losing pie, and then we’re clear.”
Dexter shook his head as he walked over to Ricky’s station, carrying an impressively large cleaver in one hand. A single camera followed behind him, along with a couple of production assistants. They coaxed Ricky’s entrée pie, a coq au vin pie that had immediately leaked all over when it was sliced, onto the cutting board. A little quiet back and forth, then Dexter raised the cleaver high and brought it down with a satisfying, all-too-final thud. Ricky had been cut. Maybe the metaphor was a bit literal, but it got the message across.
He’d seen the play of it in the trailer, of course, but somehow Tristan hadn’t thought they would actually take a cleaver to anyone’s work. But when you lost... you lost.
“All right, then.” The director waved his arm through the air. “We’ll call that a wrap. Ricky, we’ll get your exit interview before you leave. Everyone else can do their weekly confessional now or in the morning. Your call.”
Production assistants carried all the pies up from the stations to the café table, and all of the previous rounds’ pies out from backstage, as Dexter slid around to the front. “You all did exceptional work. I know this isn’t what any of you are used to, so we were impressed with what you managed to pull off under the circumstances.” He clapped, then gestured behind him. “If you all want to take a run through everyone else’s final pies, you’re more than welcome. Everything else is going home with the crew.”
That, Tristan would take part in. He moved forward, right alongside Henry, who hadn’t bothered to taste anyone else’s pies during the rest of the day. Probably didn’t think anything was up to snuff for his refined fucking palate.
They stopped at the same pie first. A giant pastry parcel filled with butternut squash and walnuts that Katherine had banged together. Tristan served a small slice onto one of the provided plates, then reached out with his fork, addressing Henry as nonchalantly as he could. “Finally decided to join the party?”
Henry said nothing, just carried on around the table, staring at the pies laid out.
Tristan put the squash and walnut pie in his mouth and chewed rather than sniping off. It was a pretty decent pie, nicely balanced flavors. They were only slightly marred by Henry’s dickishness.
Tristan swallowed and scanned over the other pies. What looked good? People were milling all around, and he couldn’t just stand there. His stomach tightened, thinking how close this crowd was about to be to him if he didn’t move his ass. Too close, too handsy. He knew from experience that he didn’t always behave with the best decorum if someone got too close to a scar, and he wouldn’t risk some irrational reaction. Not here.
