“Thank you, Tristan.” Dexter stepped back behind the table. “It was a... monument to everyone’s childhood.”
Tristan nodded. Production assistants whisked the cake back to his station—since judging was over, Henry was far less concerned about it being destroyed—and when Tristan turned around, he was grinning. Not at anything in particular and he covered his mouth almost immediately, but Henry had definitely seen teeth and dimples. Goddamn dimples. Real, nonfictional people didn’t have motherfucking dimples.
“All right, Henry,” said Sylvia, “let’s see your cake.”
Henry lifted it on his own. Hauling it would be a struggle, but like hell he was leaving it to the crew. Then a second pair of hands appeared under the bottom board. Slightly rough, slightly reddened hands with flecks of dried buttercream sprayed across the knuckles.
“Now we’re even,” Tristan whispered from the other side of the cake.
Henry chuckled. “Except I’m the better baker.”
Tristan didn’t miss a beat. “You’re certainly the cockier baker.”
“Careful. Your mic might pick that up.”
“Rivalry’s good for ratings, right?” They delivered his white behemoth to the front of the room. Tristan nodded at him. His cheeks bore the slightest tinge of red as well. “Good luck.”
“I don’t need it.”
The red expanded over Tristan’s face. He shook his head as he walked away, and Henry felt the tiniest twinge of guilt for acting quite so much like himself. But now wasn’t the time to address that. He needed to be judged.
“I have to say, this is spectacular.” Sylvia backed up, making a big, theatrical display of taking it in. “Very bridal.”
Henry stood stock-still as the three judges swirled around his cake like sharks on the hunt. If there was some missed flaw—an uneven buttercream coating, or God forbid a gap or a crumb on his otherwise pristine white monolith—not only would they notice it, they’d ream him for it. On national television.
This thinking isn’t helpful.His stomach clenched and unclenched like his fists. Far too much sweat squelched in his palms.
Eli stopped and fixed his eyes on Henry. “How many flowers did you make for this cake?”
“About two hundred.” It was time-consuming, and he hadn’t actually counted, but a cake of this style and size should take that many. “Plus leaves and other little filler flowers.”
“It’s quite impressive. Some of these are not small flowers, either, and to get them so perfect.” He shook his head. “Admittedly I hate making buttercream flowers, so I’m biased, but this is so impressive.”
“It’s very clean,” said Rita. “Monochrome cakes are notorious for looking dull, as I’m sure you well know. White in particular. You almost always want to include another color like ivory or silver to give yourself some contrast. But I don’t miss it.” She reached out and stopped a millimeter short of actually touching his cake. “And you didn’t use any fondant for this?”
“No. It’s all a classic Swiss meringue buttercream.”
“Then that is particularly astounding. People use fondantbecauseit's so hard to get that flawless finish with buttercream. But you’ve done it.”
And Henry waited. Dexter made another full circle around, hand to his chin as his eyes raked over the cake. And then he finally stopped. “Beautiful. We have eyes, so we can see that. It’s technically wonderful, but it has to taste up to par too. What were your three flavors?”
“It’s spumoni. Cherry on top, pistachio in the middle, and chocolate on the bottom. And they’re all chiffon cakes.”
“Well, I hope you make a good chiffon cake, then.” Another clean knife appeared. Henry hadn’t seen them deliver that one. Maybe there was a secret stash somewhere under the table. Dexter slivered out a bit of each layer and laid them on one plate together. “You’ve got even distribution of your ingredients in all three layers, which I like to see. The colors aren’t so intense that they clash with the clean, classy appearance you had on the outside.” A muted green for the pistachio, deep brown for the chocolate, and a reddish pink on the cherry level.
The judges ate from each layer in turn. He had his simple white buttercream running between each layer. He’d considered adding in something more for moisture. A quick fruit reduction or a curd orsomething. But he’d syruped his cakes and his buttercream was far from dry. Hopefully the judges would agree.
“Ilovepistachios.” Dexter bore a bright smile. “I do. Pistachio gelato is my absolute favorite treat. I use it as a reward to bribe myself into doing things I hate.” He gestured to the muted-green cake with his fork. “That is a good pistachio chiffon. Better than the one I turn to. It’s not easy to get the flavor to stay strong all the way through with pistachio. It has a tendency to throw off the ratio of oil.” He nodded, twiddling the fork between his fingers. “The cherry isn’t overwhelming. I’m guessing you used maraschino syrup for your color and flavor in the actual sponge?”
“Yeah.”
“But only just enough. It’s not sickly sweet. And the chocolate, well... I think that’s your weakest point. It’s not a very intense flavor. When something looks this elegant, I also expect it to be decadent. The first two layers are, but the chocolate falls a little flat for me.”
“Don’t listen to him,” said Rita. “All of your flavors are refined, whichIappreciate. The subtlety is good in my book.”
I should have amped the damn flavors up.He knew it was one comment. He knew everything else was good, but it still burned to hear that, and from Dexter Wilson no less. That single comment introduced a niggling fear that he really didn’t appreciate.
Rita’s judging continued. “The balance of the whole thing is spot on. You could take a bite of each tier together and you wouldn’t lose any of the other flavors. I think you could make a brilliant marble cake with this.”
