CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MARIE'S POV
"l love cooking."
I must have said this over a million times. And many who knew me have come to realize this too. The words of our main chef rang in my ears. We were to prepare a meal for someone to be drafted in the war but was drunk the previous night. And looking around now, I could see the other contestants already surfing through their tables. We all had our tables—each person per table. I looked away from them as I watched the hall, even though I was actually thinking while my eyes wandered.
The hall where we were packed was so spacious that I cannot believe that it housed us all conveniently. Yet, there were more leg rooms. Soft music was now playing from the projector. The ambiance was just perfect. My attention went back to the tables. Each table looked like it housed every material needed. Which I believe was intentional. The organizers made us think hard about what to cook, giving us no hint. And since everything was available, reaching for the wrong food item could get you out ASAP. I think that was the first test: the meals prepared.
I approached my table carefully. "Okay, I'm so up for this," I smiled while walking towards my stand. I looked at the items on the table, not touching anything yet as I hadn't made up my mind. There were spices, vegetables, rice, potatoes, and yam. Everything was labeled and in place. I knew a soup was probably the best for someone drunk. But there was the work he was to do in camp. This man was being shipped off to the army. Shouldn't he get an energy boost or something?
"What do we cook for you drunk bastard?" I muttered while scouting my table for the things I would need. I was going to make a bowl of hot peppered stew with garnished yam porridge. I don't know why Americans don't like solids. As a black American woman, I love my swallow. And I can literally see my mom shaking her head now at the thought that we wouldn't be making solid for this man. Left to her, she would have given the man a mountain of solid food to strengthen him.
I grew up in a home where we ate solid in the morning. My mother believes the most important meal of the day is breakfast. And as such, one has to be well-grounded to be active for the day. "What better way than good food that leaves you satisfied all day?" she'd ask. Nobody could convince her otherwise. Not that we minded. She had seven of us. Who would blame such a woman if she fed her kids a mountain of food for the day? We only had that one meal till night. Mama would never enter the kitchen to cook in the noon. So, we enjoyed our solid in the morning. Thank you.
And I could say my mama had a point. We were never hungry. Oh, unless we ate semolina. That swallow has a way of digesting too fast. We didn't like it. My sister had to make it thick whenever she made hers. That was better. We always voted her against mama when semolina was on the menu. So, solidwas a thing in my family. But there wasn't a single meal like that on my table or any others. And I understand this wasn't my black family back home. I was a chef—an international one. I needed to think outside the box.
This is why I will be picking yam over any meal here. Yam is the closest to solid that I have here. Rice and pasta weren't.Definitely, not indomie or spaghetti. Shaking my head, I mutter to myself when I checked out most of the chefs. They were making rice: some, pasta. I think Ava was making rice too. I don't understand why but I was disappointed. The lady had struck me as someone who knew what she was doing. And I was rooting for her here. But rice? I wasn't sure that was a good choice. But then again, this wasn't my home where solid is the right choice of the day. Perhaps, I was the one getting this wrong.
I paused to rethink. Yam? Maybe not. It was something chewy. Would the man be able to take that in the morning? After a hangover? Yams are carbs. Carbohydrate gives energy. The man needed that. Plus, the yam can be cooked to soft. And even if they were hard, he was a grown-ass man, and he can chew. The hangover didn't seal his throat, now did it? I nodded as I mentally approved of my meal.
If asked, that was going to be my answer. I chose my meal for that reason. There was the hot peppered soup he would be having first. That would clear his throat if it were stuck. I rolled my eyes at that thought. The hotness would wake him up for the day.
I hummed as I washed the yam I had peeled while paying close attention to my brewing soup. I added all the other ingredients to the boiled stew. Next, I added pepper, the already spiced chevon. Or is it mutton now? I looked at the label and smiled. There was mutton there. Chevon, mutton, potato, potato. The meat was goat's meat. And while some call it mutton, I called it chevon alongside a few people I know. I think we kinda just liked it better as chevon. I love my choice of meat, the goat meat, that is.
Goat meat, unlike beef, had a great scent. And the meat has a way of spicing up your soup. The smell is always enticing for me. Some people don't like this meat because, well, goats stink. And so those their meat if we are to count that distinct smell. But they make a great meal. Plus, that succinct flavor they add to the meal. "Hum, yummy," I said, dreamily closing my eyes. Even now, as the soup boiled, I loved the aroma already.
Having covered the pot to let the ingredients steam together, I moved to the yam. I was done peeling now, and diced the yam into small cubes. The water for the yam was almost boiling. I scooped the spiced water I earlier drained from boiling the meat with cow tail as I needed to add that to the porridge. I was adding prawns and crayfish also. That drunken bastard was one lucky man, and I teased myself.
There was my secret ingredient. I picked some and crushed them in the small mortar and pestle available. I watched one of the handlers moving closer to me with a knowing smile. I wasn't scared of what to say. If anything was asked about my dish, I had my answers ready.
"I see you are making yam."
The handler was one of the women. I nodded and smiled at her. Dropping the small mortal, I looked up to see she was staring at what I had crushed. "Yes, ma'am. I'm making yam porridge."
"And you're adding crushed scent leaves."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Why crush them? You could have just cut them as if you have the other vegetables," she said, nodding at the small dishes I hadwith me.
Yes, I was adding other greens: broccoli, spinach, lettuce. But I didn't crush those. I simply diced them. The handlers were paying attention. I proceeded then to educate her proudly. She might know this anyway. "The other vegetables supply enough of their nutrient once added," I explained. "Scent leaves, on the other hand, do two things. It has its nutrient, and it also addsflavor to the meal. To get the best out of the leaves, I'm crushing them to get their juice out." I can see her nodding impressively.
"And what do you intend to do with this juice?" she asked
"I'll add that to the food." I watched her make a few notes. Since she was busy, I looked around to see other contestants being drilled. The ones who weren't were either fanning what's not or doing one petty thing or the other as they awaited their turn. It was obvious their attentions were divided. I opened my pepper soup pot. And I stirred gently.
"That smells nice." Commented my handler.
"Thank you. I added scent leaves too."
"I could tell. Nice thing you have going."
"Thank you, ma," I replied. I hope she really means that.
KIRSTIN'S POV
I don't know why the handler chose this topic, but I knew I would ace it. And my secret I would divulge only after I win this round, and hopefully the others. Well, I'm a self-taught chef. And oh, before you roll your eyes, trust me, I'm good at this. For one, my father owns a restaurant that I now run. His old cooking techniques, which he got from his great, great dad, were what he started with. The place was rocking well until recently when he realized the customers were beginning to dwindle. Do I blame them? No!
It took my father a while to realize his customers were not just dwindling. They were all gone. Some had moved over to the city to stay with their rich kids. A few had married and left town. And there were the ones who were now late. The few left still patronize him and always have high praises for his cooking. But they were the few who did.
My name is Kirsten Holmes. I come from a small town in Berlin, Charlottenburg. In this suburb, we love what we eat. And just as my father's age range categories were living the place, others were coming in. Young people would especially find Charlotten a great place because we have the best views, companies, and job opportunities there. Once, Apple and some big phone companies had their stores in the area. Apple still does, as are so many others. There is so much to look forward to on this side. I was always on the internet, so I knew we hadtourists settling down here. So, I told my dad to let us upgrade our cooking.
Initially, dad won't let me. I started trying new dishes on YouTube. When I got them right, I chipped them into our menu. I realized we had younger blood and people from all works of life. So, I supplemented our old dishes with familiar recipes online for most people. Sometimes, I erred. Sometimes, I got it right. I was impressed by how much I had learned so far. Now, I do most of the cooking at the restaurants. We had fixed meals now. People can pick what they want from the menu, and we make something real quick. There were times when I had to swap their meals with what we could provide, and it's been good so far.
Dad finally saw I could do the job as the customers are back, though he doesn't know most of them. Their praises about my cooking are what made me apply for this competition. I could easily win this. If I did it at home, I could do it here. And making a meal for a drunk? I smiled as I rubbed my hands, ready to cook. This was going to be easy, peasy.
It's like this when you wake up in the morning, you get something hot to awaken your voice. Some take hot tea, warm water, and hot coffee. It's the same for a drunk. He needs something to wake him up. A soup was the best for this man. I watched the table for my ingredients and smiled when I found my vital tool. I went over to the cooking gas, got my pot, and began cooking.