“Our top dish—for what?” Cheryl asks. “You have a great menu, what do our dishes have to do with anything?”
“Well, to put it simply, I need to decide which one of you is going to be my sous chef for when he's here. I can't have you both, so I figured we could make a little competition out of it.”
“You're joking, right?” Cheryl asks. She flaps her hand in the air and laughs. “I mean, I've been here forever, and she just started. I don't really see the point in this.”
“It doesn't matter to me who's been here longer. What matters to me is who can cook better. I need to know, because when he's here, I can't afford to fail. This is either going to make or break this restaurant.”
“I'm fine with it,” I say as I look at Cheryl. “But if you're not, if you're afraid—”
“I'm not afraid,” she says sternly. “I can cook circles around you.”
“Looks like the competition's already started,” Monroe says with a laugh. “How much time do we have left?” he asks out loud as he looks at his watch. “Two hours until we open. Think you guys can do it?”
“I know I can,” Cheryl snaps as she veers her stare in my direction. “I don't need a lot of time at all.”
“Yeah, I can do it.” I'm not nervous as I say it, I already know what I'm going to make.
Monroe claps his hands together, sending a plume of flour into the air. “All right, let’s get cooking then. You both have thirty minutes to cook me something great.” Cheryl and I stand still. “Come on, go, time's wasting.”
We both scatter, moving quickly through the kitchen to grab our ingredients. I don't pay any attention to her at all. I don't really care what she's cooking. If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's worry about what you can do, not what someone else can do.
I grab an onion, a couple garlic cloves, dry white wine, a bunch of cavolo nero, pancetta, and the rest of what I need. The ingredients topple out of my arms as I drop them on the counter.
I'm in the zone. I know this dish like the back of my hand, and it's always been a hit whenever I make it. My mother loves this recipe. She has me make it for family gatherings and holiday parties.
My knife moves quickly up and down as I chop the pancetta and toss it into a frying pan with a tablespoon of olive oil. It sizzles as it hits the hot oil, popping and snapping. I cook it until it's caramelized, draining the fat and setting it to the side.
I catch Cheryl tossing romaine in some vinaigrette she put together from the corner of my eye. I can smell the acidic tang of apple cider vinegar and the earthy scent of spices as she flips it.
Salad? That's the best you have?
I almost feel bad that she's taking the simple way out. Salad is something anyone can make, and it doesn't stand out. Monroe seems like the type of guy who wants bold, not expected.
The chicken stock splashes into the pot as I pour it. I turn the flame on low to bring it to a simmer. Everything is coming together exactly as I want it to. The onion is sizzling, the stock is bubbling lightly.
I spoon the risotto into a bowl, garnish with some fresh grated Parmesan cheese and set the bowl on the counter in front of Monroe.
“Here you go,” I say. “Risotto with cavolo nero and crispy pancetta.”
“Risotto, that's brave. It isn't easy to get the consistency right, and if the seasoning or flavors are off, it's dead in the water.” His eyes examine the bowl. “Good presentation though, and it does smell amazing.”
“Her risotto has nothing on my dish,” Cheryl says as she sets her plate down next to mine. “I made a grilled romaine salad with glazed flank steak.”
Monroe looks down at her food, then up at her under hooded eyes. He doesn't say anything about her presentation, he just picks up her fork and takes a bite. He chews silently, swallows, and then takes a sip of water.
“The steak is over cooked, and you cut it wrong. You're supposed to go against the grain, not with it. That's something you should have learned in school.”
“Oh, yeah, of course I did. I just thought it made for a better presentation.”
“Well, you're wrong on that.” He turns his attention back to my dish. Lifting the spoon out of my bowl, he takes a bite. Again, he chews silently, not giving me any clue to if he likes it or not.
Cheryl looks at me, I look at her, and we both glare at each other like rabid dogs. She kicks her hip out impatiently and clears her throat. “Well?” she asks.