Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Friday morning, Madison met Gabe in the elementary school parking lot where he had parked his truck in a reserved space. Like her, he was dressed in dark jeans and a T-shirt.

"I'm ready," she said eagerly, as he opened the door. "Put me to work."

"It's not going to be like cooking in your kitchen," he warned.

"Of course it won't be like that, but obviously you can make great food in the truck. You have a never-ending line of customers. Right?"

"True." He stepped back and waved her inside. "We'll start with prep. We'll need to begin grilling by eleven, ready to serve at eleven thirty."

"Yes, Chef," she said with a smart-ass smile that seemed to relax him.

"It's good you know your place," he returned with a grin.

"You're so tense, Gabe. I feel like you're more nervous now than you are in the competitions. Why? Do you think I'm judging you?"

"Maybe not me, but the truck needs upgrades."

"You know what I see?" she asked as she waved her hand around the interior of the truck. "Perfectly organized spices, labeled and organized drawers, a refrigerator filled to the brim with high-quality ingredients, as well as a super clean workspace and grill. I can't wait to start cooking. Just tell me what you want done, and I will do it. I'm pretty good, you know."

"Better than anyone who has ever been in this truck, I'm sure."

"Besides you," she said, meeting his gaze. "Where do you want me to start?"

He pointed to the cutting board. "Onions and tomatoes."

"Got it."

For the next two hours, they worked in surprising harmony. It was close quarters, and they bumped into each other on more than a few occasions, which was distracting because she was so attracted to him.

She wanted to sneak a kiss or a touch, but this was his business, and she wouldn't take it less seriously than he did. So, she kept her hands to herself, even though it was much more difficult than she would have thought.

When the bell rang for lunch, they were ready. Because the truck window was higher than the height of most of the kids, they'd set up a table in front of the truck, and Gabe sent her out to serve the food.

It was a relief to be out of the hot kitchen. Seeing the kids' happy faces and their big smiles made all the work worth it. The joy with which they received their tacos and quesadillas touched her heart. The kids could choose between a chicken taco, beef taco, or cheese quesadilla. Their choice of entrée was accompanied by a cup of sliced apples and berries, along with four baby carrots and a homemade dressing dip.

When every kid had been served, Gabe came out of the truck to speak with the principal, a middle-aged Hispanic woman who had nothing but complimentary and grateful things to say.

Madison was reminded then that Gabe did all this for free. He bought the food. He gave up his time. And he did this every Friday for a different school. That had to add up.

"Thanks for your help, Madison," he said, when all the kids, teachers, and staff had gone back into the building, and it was time to clean up.

"I should be thanking you. That was the most fun I've had cooking in a while."

"I find that hard to believe," he said dryly. "But you were an enthusiastic chef, I'll say that. I do pay my assistant chefs. It's not a lot?—"

"Stop." She put up her hand. "You're not paying me anything. I wanted to volunteer. And seeing those kids so happy to get your food, it was worth every minute of my time. You didn't just fill their stomachs; you filled their hearts with your generosity. I could see some of them were overwhelmed that they were getting something special." She felt a little emotional as she finished speaking, and she thought Gabe might feel the same, because he was suddenly looking away from her.

Then he cleared his throat and said, "We better pack up. We have a competition to get to."

She let out a little sigh. "You had to remind me. That won't be nearly as much fun as this was."

"What if they ask you to make the perfect roast chicken?" he teased. "I bet you'd find that fun."

"Good point. Wouldn't it be wonderful if that were the challenge?"

"Not for me."

"Well, I don't think they're going to have us make hallacas, so I doubt either of us will be making our last meal."

"Hopefully, it's not our last meal in the competition. Whatever the challenge is, we have to crush it."

"Agreed. One last thing, Gabe. I told you I don't want money for this, but I want something else."

"What's that?"

She grabbed his hand, pulled him into the truck, and took the kiss she'd been craving for the last few hours.

Gabe kicked the door shut, as he backed her up against the counter and kissed her until she was breathless, and every nerve in her body was tingling.

"Damn," he muttered as he gazed into her eyes. "We shouldn't have started this now."

"I know. I should say I'm sorry, but I'm not."

He shook his head, gave her one last kiss, and then stepped as far away from her as he could, which wasn't that far, considering how little space they had. "We're going to finish this later."

The promise in his eyes sent another shiver down her spine.

No matter how much she wanted to finish things now, they had to clean up and get to the competition. Everything else would have to wait.

It was one thirty when Gabe arrived at the Lazure Hotel. He'd sent Madison off earlier as he had to drive the truck back to his parking spot and then pick up his car and get to the competition. He needed to get his head in the game and stop thinking about Madison and all the things he wanted to do with her. This round would be tough, and he couldn't go into it distracted.

After leaving his car in the lot, he headed into the hotel and saw Madison in the lobby. She was off to one side and reading something on her phone. Her stance was tense and so was her expression. He hoped that didn't mean she'd gotten another bad review.

They'd agreed to keep things strictly professional once they arrived at the hotel, but the competition hadn't started yet, and he didn't like what he was seeing. Instead of heading into the ballroom kitchen where they'd get their challenge, he moved toward her, very aware that there were members of the media in the lobby as well as judges and food magazine columnists. Any interaction between him and Madison would be noted, so he had to be careful. He shouldn't be talking to her at all, but he had a feeling she was so distracted by what was on her phone that she was unaware of the people looking at her.

"Hey," he said quietly, as he drew near.

She glanced up from her phone, a stressed look in her eyes. "Is it time?"

"Almost. There are people looking at you right now, so whatever is going on, you should hide it with a smile and follow me to the ballroom as if you don't have a care in the world."

Her gaze darted past him. "I didn't realize," she muttered, forcing a smile on her stiff face. "Let's go."

They walked toward the ballroom but instead of heading inside, he led her out a side door to a small empty patio.

"What's wrong?" he asked when they were alone.

"Nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing."

"My parents are coming to town tomorrow night for dinner. They'll be meeting Larry at La Marée. They want to celebrate me making it into the finals, so I better not let them down today and make their trip a waste of time."

"I'm sure they didn't say that."

"My father did." She turned her phone on and handed it to him.

As he read the text, he realized the message from her father was even more harsh than she'd said. Madison's father obviously believed that a tough, shaming pep talk would somehow inspire greatness, but he didn't know Madison at all if he believed that would work.

She wasn't someone to respond to negativity, to do better if she was reminded of how many times she'd failed in the past and how this was an opportunity she could not screw up, that it wasn't just her neck on the line, but also his. He'd gone out on a limb for her and with the restaurant yet to take off, she needed to win to give Larry confidence in her.

He handed back the phone, looking at her watery blue eyes and feeling like he wanted to kick her father's ass. "You can't let him get in your head."

"He's always in my head. Every time I try to succeed at something, his voice is there, telling me I better do it this time because I've messed up before, and his children don't screw up."

"I'm sorry," he said. He couldn't, and shouldn't, say what he really thought. "Look, this is nothing new, right?"

"No, it's not new. But this time it isn't just about me losing; it's about his friend not being impressed by his daughter. And that friend is my boss. If I don't give Larry a reason to keep believing in me, he may not even give me another three weeks."

He could see the pressure mounting in her gaze, in the pitch of her voice. "You can't think about any of that right now."

"How can I not?" she asked, a desperate note in her voice. "I don't care about disappointing my father, but I do care about the restaurant. I can't lose it."

He was beginning to realize how much of her identity was tied up in the restaurant. "You can't think about everything that might happen if you lose. You have to focus on the challenge, whatever it is. Today is just about cooking, and you can cook with the best of them. That's all that matters. You can't control the judging."

"I know that." She took a deep breath and let it out. "I can do this."

"Of course you can. Instead of making everything big and overwhelming, keep your focus narrow, stay in the moment," he advised. "Whatever happens, win or lose, you're still going to be a talented chef. That's all today is about—showing off your cooking skills."

A small smile lifted her lips. "That's a much better pep talk than my dad delivered."

"That text sounded more like a threat than a pep talk."

"That's his style. He believes tough love takes a kid further than coddling and handholding."

"Well, I don't agree with him. He's also not a chef, and he has no idea what he's talking about. I doubt he knows anything about the restaurant business."

"He eats at a lot of award-winning restaurants."

"So what? Just because you eat good food doesn't mean you know anything about making it or running the restaurant that makes it." He checked his watch. "We better get in there."

"Thanks, Gabe." She gave him a quick kiss. "You need to win, too."

"Let's both come out on top," he said as he opened the door, and they headed into the ballroom.

Madison tried to erase her father's troubling message out of her mind once she donned her chef's coat and got into line with the five other chefs competing to make it to the finals. She was actually starting to get used to the lights and the cameras and wasn't nearly as aware of them as she had been the previous rounds. She was more concerned with the challenge.

"Today, you'll be serving a meal to a panel of twelve judges, representing media, food critics, and award-winning chefs," Francine said. "All twelve judges will rank the dishes from one to six, with six being the best. Today's challenge will be two-fold: the food and the plate. Both have to tell the same story. It can be any story you want to tell, but there has to be a narrative that is represented by the ingredients and the way they are placed on the plate. The chefs with the top two dishes will move on to the final round on Sunday."

It was a broad challenge, which in some ways made it more difficult. Being able to do anything was almost worse than having rigid parameters.

Gabe was standing next to her, and for the first time, she could feel his tension. Being judged on his plating was his biggest concern. And she doubted he'd ever told a story with his food on a plate. She'd only done it a few times during some of her cooking classes. It was a tough challenge because it wasn't just about the food.

They would have two hours to prepare and plate their dishes and would be serving them to the judges at four o'clock. Two hours wasn't much time to not only come up with the idea for a dish and a story as well as make it happen. But the countdown was on, and they were sent to the kitchen where they would have to choose from the available ingredients.

She decided to pick her protein first and build her plate around that. There was a lot of bumping between the chefs as they ran to the fridge to grab what they wanted to cook. She was thrilled to get halibut as she envisioned a sea theme for her plate.

Gabe seemed unfocused, looking at various proteins, not settling on anything, and they only had a limited amount of time to figure out their dish.

As she moved through the produce section, picking out the rest of her ingredients, she saw Gabe continue to pick out proteins and then put them back. She made her way back to the fridge.

"Go with what you love to cook," she said.

"Whatever the hell that is," he muttered. "I'm not a theme-oriented cook. I don't know how to tie the food in with the plate and tell a story."

"Tell your story, your grandparents' story…the humble ingredients, the struggle, the restaurant, the legacy," she said, the words flying out of her lips. "And cook the food that inspired you."

He straightened, gave her a sharp look, then said, "You're right. That's my story."

She gave him a smile and moved away, knowing she needed to focus on her own story, which now didn't seem as good as the one she'd given to Gabe. But she didn't have family inspiration or a legacy. She just had herself. She was going to do her own version of a surf and turf, combining the sea and the land with fish and the most perfect vegetables.

The time flew by. Before she knew it, she was fifteen minutes away from her service and starting to plate. She'd chosen a light-blue plate with ridges to reflect waves. She wanted the plate to portray a journey from the ocean to the earth with balance and harmony.

She started with a generous dollop of cauliflower purée and spread it in an elegant swoosh. Then she placed a halibut fillet, crispy skin side up, slightly overlapping the purée. After that, she arranged baby carrots and asparagus spears around the halibut, intertwining zucchini and yellow squash ribbons into delicate nests that she placed among the other vegetables. She scattered fresh peas around for a burst of color and freshness and then finally drizzled an herb oil to add a vibrant green hue and aromatic lift to connect the land with the sea.

It was one of the prettiest plates she'd ever done and maybe one of her best dishes ever. She didn't know if the story was as good as anyone else might tell, but she felt confident she'd expressed the vision in her head. Hopefully, that vision was good enough.

She had no idea what Gabe had pulled together. He was plating on the other side of the kitchen and would go in front of the judges after her.

With the assistance of several servers, she made her way out to the long table that was the focus of the cameras and the lights. She was presenting with Chef Art, whose pork loin looked monochromatic to her, but she had no idea how it would go over taste-wise.

Francine asked them each to tell their story, and she got a little nervous and sweaty when it was time to talk. But when she looked at her dish sitting so beautifully on the table, she was able to compose her thoughts.

"My idea came from the belief that we're all interconnected, and that starts with the world we live in," she said. "My dish will take you on a journey from the sea to the land and show how the elements of nature flow together in a perfect harmonious balance that nurtures all of us." She blew out a breath at the end, barely hearing what Art had to say about his dish. She was more focused on seeing some of the judges studying her plate with interest. Hopefully, she'd pulled it off.

They were excused and made their way back into the kitchen.

"How did it go?" Gabe asked.

"Okay, I think." She looked at his plate, surprised by how good it was. "Wow, that's amazing."

"It's an arepa with beef medallions. From humble to sophisticated…I hope."

"Good luck," she said as he headed into the dining room.

She hadn't been lying when she'd said his plate was really good, and she thought his story would be intriguing. He'd taken a humble ingredient in Venezuelan culture, an arepa, made from ground maize dough and paired with the highest quality beef, surrounding it with microgreens and even a drizzle of something. The colors were bright and vibrant, and she was quite sure the flavors would be the same. Most importantly, it was his story on a plate, and he'd not only taken his food to a new level, but he'd also taken his plating skills in the same direction. She really hoped the judges would like it. And they would like hers, too…