Lee says, “Chefs. Both families will make butternut squash agnolotti with a sage brown butter sauce, roasted asparagus with whipped ricotta and honey, and an almond cake with pears and crème anglaise.”
Aaron chimes in, “You have ninety minutes.”
I hold on to my stomach, trying to still the butterflies raging within. What fresh hell is this? I thought I’d imagined the exchange between Knox and Chef Buccola before, chalking it up to my overactive paranoia. I’m famous for it actually, but not this time. The fix is in. Knox knows I suck at pasta. I’ve never been able to make it perfectly like he does.
We huddle on the other side of the kitchen, whispering. “Mama, you have to make the pasta. I can’t.”
“Baby, I’ve never made pasta from scratch in my life.”
I glance at Wyatt.
“Don’t look at me. I can handle the asparagus and get the squash ready.”
Mama grabs my hands and looks me in the eyes. “Pull yourself together. The cameras are watching. All you can do is your best. I’ll get the cake going but I need directions.”
She’s right. Even if I’ve been set up to fail, I still have to do what I did all through school—my best, whether I win or lose. My best is all I can do.
I write out instructions for the almond cake as quickly as possible, and then get started on the pasta dough. It’ll need to rest at least thirty minutes so I don’t have a lot of wiggle room.
Knox making pasta is a thing of beauty. His long fingers knead the dough with care and precision, handling it like a pianist tickling the ivories. He knows just how long to work the dough and his pasta is perfect every single time. His technique is downright sexy, and he knows it.
I try to capture my memories of Knox with the pasta dough and attempt my own creation. I haven’t made it since school where I failed more times than I succeeded. When it comes to pasta, I can’t quite get out of my head. I mix the eggs in and work the dough until it feels right. When I move to get a bowl from across the kitchen, Knox is standing against the wall near his table. He tries to convey something in his look, but I have no idea what it is nor do I have the time to entertain any more of his foolery. No more distractions from Knox Asshat Everheart.
While the dough rests, I start the filling. As promised, Wyatt has chopped the butternut squash, shallots, and onions. I toss them with oil, thyme, and red pepper flakes, then stick them in the oven.
Mama is where I head next to see how she’s doing with the cake. She already has it ready for the pan and the batter looks perfect. I stick my pinky in and taste just to make sure. “Really good, Mama.”
She nods and pours it into the pan, then puts it in the oven.
I check the time. Good, just enough time for the cake to cook and cool before splitting it and adding the pears.
Wyatt has peeled the asparagus and is in the process of puffing some wild rice.
I nod at Mama and she picks up the ricotta and some heavy cream to whip it for Wyatt’s dish.
The squash has another fifteen minutes, so I leave the crème anglaise for Mama and work on caramelizing the pears and making the sage cream sauce. I finish up right as the timer goes off on the squash. While the squash mixture is cooling, I set to work on the pasta dough.
Knox rolls the dough by hand, the thin sheets flowing like waterfalls in his capable hands. I’ll use a machine. When I pull the dough out of the bowl and onto the counter, my hands begin to shake and tears prick the back of my eyes. I run it through the machine but it’s not elastic, not in the least resilient.
Mama must see my plight because she comes over to help me and working together, we’re able to run it through the machine enough to pass. I finish the pasta dish and top with the sauce, but I don’t need to taste it to know it’s tough. Mama’s cake is perfect and Wyatt’s vegetables are fine as well. My agnolotti is the only disappointment. I can only hope that the Ortiz family, with their Puerto Rican specialties, had the same trouble.
*
I’m a classically trained chef. I went to a distinguished four-year university specializing in the culinary arts, not fifty miles from here. I run a restaurant, albeit my mother’s, but still. I run it, lunch and dinner, daily. How the fuck did I forget about the pasta dough window test?
Hope of a new restaurant big enough to serve our rapidly growing customers. A kitchen large enough to expand our menu. Being able to keep Sue. All of it is speeding out of my grasp. And it’s all my fault. I have no idea why I thought I could do this anyway.
I need a drink. I tear out of my room and head to the elevators, vodka Sprite calling my name. I’m so far from the middle of the hotel that I have time to run all the events of this afternoon through my mind several times by the time I get there. Instead of punching the down button, I pass the elevator banks and head over to three doors on the right, and take a deep breath and knock.
When he opens the door, his face is haggard and weary. Knox knows I’ve come for a confrontation.
I point my shaky finger into his chest, backing him into his room. “This is all your fault. You planned this from the beginning.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, standing tall. “Why do you think I have some grand master plan
