Page 19

Fo od Battle the First

“O kay, this is a little bit more than ‘underground,’” Cindy said as they entered the high school gymnasium, dragging their suitcases and backpacks with them. “I was picturing an impromptu rave-like thing in a basement, or s omething.”

Helena nodded. “I think that’s where they started, but things like this, they have a way of growing quickly.”

The doors had been standing open, welcoming any and all into the vast room. The bleachers in the gym were fairly full of people all chattering away which made the gym space thrum with sound. Tables were everywhere, covered in white tablecloths with cooking equipment, including toaster ovens and hot pads, still in the process of being set up. On the furthest table were several bins and plates of unprepared ingredients as well as three mobile refrigerators lining the wall and even an ice cream maker. Amongst all this were several people in different colors of culinary wear, ranging from perfectly correct to incredibly ironic, all with numbers pinned to their backs. They were talking, laughing, sharpening knives, or review ing notes.

“Wow.” Helena breathed as she took it all in. “Okay, this is a thing that has legs.” She laughed as she swept her gaze over the organi zed chaos.

To Rafferty, a sense of coming home washed through him. This was familiar, no matter what era he was in. It was the feeling he most looked forward to whenever he had been summoned. It was why he was almost unsurprised when his eyes locked with Eleanor’s.

They both held that stare for too long before Eleanor sighed and made her way from the middle of the room to the gaping trio near the door.

“So you came to check it out?” she asked, offering her hand to him to shake.

“A long way to go for a cooking competition,” Helena noted, and Eleanor’s smiling eyes tighte ned again.

“We’re near one of the bigger culinary schools in the area, so you know, it makes sense,” she countered. “And who are you?”

“Oh, hi!” Helena said, offering her own hand with her smile. “I’ m Helena.”

Eleanor didn’t take the hand, only looked at it like it offended her. “Yeah, I know,” she sai d instead.

“This is my girlfriend,” Rafferty said, covering the aw kwardness.

The other chef arched an eyebrow. “Gi rlfriend?”

“Yes,” he said. It felt good to actually claim that, and his ears burned a little at the admission.

You’d think I was a youth again , h e thought.

The other chef sniffed again, not finding his answer as amusing as he did. “Fine, whatever,” she muttered under her breath, then crossed her arms. “So you jumping in?” She addressed the questi on to him.

“Jumping… in?” he repeated, trying to parse what she meant.

“The registration table is over there,” Eleanor said, gesturing to a folding table with a green tablecloth tucked into a corner of the gym. Two people sat at it, talking to each other with a bunch of clipboards and numbers sitting on the surface before them waiting to be used. “I hear there are still a couple of sl ots left.”

“Can he just do that?” Helena asked, glancing over her shoulder at the table.

Eleanor sneered. “Yeah, why not? You just have to throw in for the prize money: $100 participa tion fee.”

“I have… I have no equipment,” Rafferty said, directing his gaze poignantly toward the other co mpetitors.

“That’s fine. Everything you need is provided. People just like to bring their own equipment if they can. Because of the gym, the challenge is all based on things that can be made in a toas ter oven.”

“We were just here to check it out, but if you want to, go ahead, Rafferty,” Helena encouraged, setting a hand on his arm. He could tell she wanted him to do it.

“I’ll find us good seats,” Cindy said, offering her hand to take his rolling suitcas e for him.

He relented, and Eleanor nodded with satisfaction before turning around and heading back to her prep area. “G ood luck.”

He followed Helena over to the registration table where she picked up a clipboard. “Hi, he’s participating,” she said to the two figures wait ing there.

They broke off their conversation with an air of annoyance, but one of them pointed to the surface of the clipboards. “Fill this out. The fee is $100.”

“Got it,” Helena said, already reaching around for her backpack.

Rafferty stopped her with a hand. “What are you doing?” he asked softly, trying to cheat away from the two contest officials, who were now more interested in the potential drama be fore them.

“I got you covered. Don’t worry,” Helena said, then she winked. “You can make it up to me later.”

His mind went to exactly what she was implying, which made him blush, and then he chuckled when he realized he was blushing. She grinned, very pleased with herself as she paid the fee. They needed to laugh after the events at Cindy’s house, especially since Cindy had made it very clear she didn’t want to think let alone talk about it. Full stop.

Even when Helena offered to abort this plan, Cindy insisted that they go anyway. And so here he was, signing up for this very competition. Not the strangest turn of events in his life, but he wondered if he had had days like this in his first life or this was just how things were in this time.

With the fee paid, it only left the clipboard, which he did mostly himself, only pausing when he got to the line asking for his culina ry school.

“I don’t…” he said to Helena, indicating the line with a finger to finish the sentence.

“Hey, is it necessary for him to be from a school?” she asked the officials.

“No, you can leave it blank. The bare minimum of what we need is his name, email address, and the fee. The challenge is baking something involving a toaster oven. You can do anything else you want, but something in the dish has to come out of a toaster oven,” one of the officials said. “Oh, also since you’re the odd number, you get a pass on the first round. We’re cutting off applicants now, so you can just sit in the stands and watch. Congrats.”

They went to join Cindy, who had indeed found a spot on the less crowded side of the gym, mostly near the front, but with enough space to tuck their suitcases between two bleachers. Suitcases they didn’t need now that they weren’ t staying.

“Well, I guess that’s lucky,” Helena said as she settled down next to h er friend.

“I do not think so,” Rafferty murmured as they sat down.

“What happened?” Cindy asked, tucking her mobile phone away when they a pproached.

“He’s in, but he’s the odd man out, so he gets a pass on the first round,” Helena reported to them. “Though I think he’s disappointed; he wanted to cook.” She cast teasing ey es at him.

“How is this a contest if I get a pass?” he responded, following her lead and playing up his disappointment to comical levels. “I tell you it is a fraud!”

The two wome n giggled.

Satisfied with his joke, he cast his gaze over the contestants. After several moments of observation, he realized he could beat most of them with skill alone. And yet, in his mind, each of these cooks were far worthier to be called such th an he was.

I’ve got to stop thinking like that. I won. This is my reward. I get another chance, he tol d himself.

Still, it was fascinating to watch the process. The drama before them played out as some dishes succeeded, while others were utter disasters and everything in between. Once the plating was finished, they were taken to another official who numbered the plate the same as the contestant before setting it on a table to wait for tasting. Eventually a timer went off, and all the remaining contestants, no matter where they were in the process or whether they started over again or not, had to either turn in their dishes or forfeit. Two chose the second option, yielding the ir rounds.

“Looks like Eleanor is moving on,” Cindy said, nodding over at the whiteboard they had rolled in to keep track of the brackets.

Sure enough, Eleanor’s name moved to the next rung.

“A lot of desserts,” Hel ena noted.

“Well, yeah, it’s hard to make much else in a toaster oven,” C indy said.

“No, it isn’t,” Rafferty countered, as he studied the dishes listed on the board.

“He’s right. Eleanor made a lasagna,” Helena po inted out.

“That’s not that spectacular,” Cindy sniffed. “At least according to my mother.” She folded her arms as she said the last. Rafferty got the impression she was stewing about the fight she had just had.

Helena eyed her friend, then gestured over to the table. “She even plated it like she’s in a re staurant.”

“Looks are as important as taste,” Raffe rty added.

“Sure, but we’re not even getting that . I can barely see it from here and they’re definitely not letting us try it,” Helena noted. “There should be an emcee or something. Or let the judges talk about e ach dish.”

“For twelve dishes, that would take forever,” Cindy commented.

“Well, okay, but highlights then? The unusual or the interesting, with like a film camera or something. Have it up on a big screen,” Helena said, gesturing with her hands as if that would make the screen in her mind appear along the wall. With enough power it would, but Rafferty was relieved that she seemed to finally take the incident at Cindy’s parents’ house to heart. On reflection, he realized that there had been a strong degree of unspoken negative feeling already there, like methane gas building up in a cellar. Helena’s spark s et it off.

“I don’t think they have the money for that,” Cindy retorted, her sharper than necessary words pulling his attention away from his thoughts to the present. This would get tiresome if she kept being angry at everything that had nothing to do with h er mother.

“ALL THOSE PROGRESSING TO THE NEXT ROUND, YOU ARE NOW FREE TO SET UP YOUR PREP,” an announcer declared over the gym speakers.

Helena pointed at the ancient-looking thing in the corner. “See, they have that, they could be doing a lot more with all this.”

Rafferty only grunted as he stood and shed his coat, handing it to Helena, who smiled as she took it. “Go kick their butts,” she said, wrinkling her nose in that cute way.

Their fingers touched briefly. Before he could think better about it, his other arm went behind his back, his feet came together, and he bowed over her hand with all of the gallantness he would have been expected to show to a high lady who had come down to compliment one of his dishes. Maybe too gallant as he would not have been allowed to touch her hand like this, but historical accuracy be damned.

Now, her cheeks burned pink, and her eyes flashed gold, marring the picture. He let go of her a little too quickly. Their fingers snapped. He corrected with another apologetic smile, which she returned, probably assuming the action had come from nerves, and then he turned to walk straight to choos e a table.

Before he could decide, Eleanor appeared at his side. “You ready?” she asked before he could swivel his head very far.

“I…” he hesitated, still trying to lo ok around.

“There’s no point in trying to pick the best station. There isn’t one,” she said, crossing her arms, which wasn’t smooth as she held a long piece of cloth in one of her hands. She aborted the habit and thrust it toward him instead. “Here, I have a spa re apron.”

“Oh. Thank you—” he said so belatedly that she didn’t even let h im finish.

“Good luck.” Then she turned her back to him to go back to he r station.

Rafferty’s cheeks burned as he watched her walk to a table right next to where he stood, resolutely not looking at him. The apron was of heavy-duty material with leather straps that went over his neck and tied in the back. Sturdier than he would think necessary for an apron, but it felt like armor as he donned it. Then he fastened the number they had given him with his copy of his registration, fixing it to the large pocket in front with the provided tiny s afety pin.

“You claiming this one?” An official gestured to the table set up ne arest him.

“Uh, yes,” Raff erty said.

“Okay, once you claim a station, you can’t switch until the round is over,” the official said even as they walked away, then added as he addressed everyone nearby. “We’re breaking down the empties and removing them, so make sure you’re satisfied with what you have.”

That forced Rafferty to do what he had always done when he entered a kitchen, put aside everything else that was happening in his life and just focus on th e cooking.

A wicked grin split his face as a shiver of delight coursed th rough him.

“Time to cook.”