Page 6 of The Golden Spoon
“Don’t worry, Gerald,” Betsy says graciously. “Now you are here, and we are delighted you made it. Please have a seat, a glass of wine. We’ve only just gotten started.” Gerald props his bags against the far wall and chooses one of two remaining empty chairs, sliding in next to Hannah. She wrinkles her tiny nose as he settles into his seat, wiping a bit of remaining sweat from his brow. The others introduce themselves to Gerald, who still looks a bit shaken and can surely tell by their empty glasses and crumb-strewn plates that they have not just gotten started.
There is the sound of a glass being dinged with a fork at the head of the table. Betsy stands up and raises her wineglass. The etched crystal catches the light from the chandelier, and it twinkles like a gemstone in her hand. “Bakers! If I could have your attention for just a moment?”
The chatter around the table ceases instantly, heads whipping to watch Betsy. My heart thuds against my rib cage. She beams down atus. Betsy is the only other person at the table as old as I am—older, in fact, by just one year. However, unlike me, an anonymous, gray-haired woman, Betsy has made a name for herself as the absolute authority on baking, “America’s Grandmother,” they often call her in the press. She’s made herself rich enough from her tarts and cookies to own and operate Grafton, the manor house she grew up in and probably a few other homes as well. She is an icon, the Julia Child of home baking. When my daughter, Molly, was a little girl, we’d watch her show in the evenings after I picked her up from day care. It was part of the reason Molly got so interested in cooking. “Can we bake a cake, Mommy?” she’d ask. It was hard to say no. We had so little then, and I barely kept us afloat with the money from my job at the hospital, but with only flour, sugar, butter, and cocoa, we could be happy. What was a little mess, a bit too much sugar?
Behind the table, the doors open once more and Archie Morris swaggers in. I feel a sharp intake of breath from the rest of the contestants asBake Week’s new cohost makes his way to the table. Archie Morris has a reputation as a bit of a bulldog. “Ugh, not him,” Molly had said when I’d found out he was joining as cohost. He even looks the part. He is shorter than he appears on television but solidly built. His face is young and full for his reported fifty-three years, his head covered in thick auburn hair that curls in gravity-defying loops straight up from his forehead and around his ears. His smartly cut suit skims his muscular arms and pecs and almost succeeds in hiding the slight curve of a belly under his shirt. His skin glows with a deep tan.
“Hey, team! Aren’t you all looking smart? How is everyone feeling? I, for one, am thrilled to be here hostingBake Week!” He smiles at us, flashing a row of teeth so artificially white and straight they are almost blinding. He doesn’t look like the sort of person who has spent his career eating decadent meals and desserts and certainly not toiling over dough. He moves confidently to the chair at the foot of the table, unbuttoning his jacket as he sits.
“Pass me one of those, would you? I’m famished.” He points at thecracker plate, and Gerald hands it to him, his mouth set in a firm line of displeasure. “Great, thanks,” Archie says, taking a noisy bite and giving the rest of us a little salute with the rest of the cracker.
“Now that we’reallhere,” Betsy begins again, wresting our attention back to the head of the table. I notice more than a hint of disapproval in her voice.
“I’d like to give a toast. It is an honor to have six of the country’s finest amateur bakers in my home for the tenth season ofBake Week. As you may know, it is customary for me to join you all for dinner on the first night, not as a judge but as a host. It’s a tradition I relish. You all have probably heard that baking came to me early, passed down from the many talented women in my family, as I’m sure is the case for many of you. What you may not realize is that it was in this very home’s kitchen that I shaped my first loaf of bread.”
Betsy pauses and looks around the table at us as we smile appreciatively. I’m sure we are all happy to be here, but it also feels a bit like a competition already, like we are all vying to be noticed by her. I wonder whether she is actually judging us based on tonight. She is certainly deciding which of us she likes, who is going to be easy to get along with, who is going to be difficult, and who is going to flame out. I press my lips into what I hope is my most genuine-looking smile as she continues.
“Grafton Manor is a special place for me. It is my ancestral home, and I hope during your spare time this week you’ll take some time to appreciate it and the beautiful grounds it sits on. As you all know,Bake Weekis not just a competition. It is also a therapy session, a comfort for those at home. You all have been chosen not only for your exceptional baking techniques but for your unique stories. This is a transformational journey for you bakers in the tent. You may learn things about yourself along the way, so be prepared to accept these discoveries, to learn and grow from them. That said, I will be judging this competition for baking and baking alone. As you all know I am deathly allergic to burnt crusts and doughy centers. So, let’s drink up and enjoy thebeautiful meal the staff here have created. Tomorrow I take a big step back and resume my role as judge, and you will begin the very important business of baking in the tent for all to see. Hats off to you all for making it here, and may the best baker win!”
I notice several pairs of eyes glowing wetly as we stand. I pick up my glass and lean in to join them. A chorus of “Cheers!” breaks out around the table, and I clink with as many glasses as possible.
“ToBake Week!” Betsy says.
“ToBake Week!” we shout in unison.
I wonder if anyone can tell my hand is shaking.
Day OneBREAD
BETSY
Betsy Martin looks out at the contestants for the first time. The rows of baking tables are staggered slightly so that from the front she can see each of their faces. They wear identical half smiles to mask their nerves. Each one of them is completely distinct, but she still has trouble telling them apart. It’s always like this at the beginning of filming before their individual personalities crystallize, before the cracks and eccentricities start to shine through. Everyone starts out almost the same, all on their very best behavior for the cameras, but it won’t take long for a bit of adversity and competition to bring out their true personas. Of course, for one of them it will be too late. Betsy likes to make a little wager with herself about who will go home first. She scans the contestants.
Up front there’s Hannah, from the middle-of-nowhere Minnesota. She’s very pretty and very young—there’s always at least one of those, the producers make sure of it. Likely talented as well, someone like her must be or they’ll look like they are just chosen for show. Across from her, Gerald from the Bronx looks stiff and uncomfortable in another linen suit. His fastidiousness may be his downfall in the future, but not today. In the next row is Peter, who is from nearby New Hampshire. With his plaid shirts, he reminds her of a small, handsome PaulBunyan. His relaxed confidence makes her think he will do well with challenges and be a good baker as well. Next to him is Stella from Brooklyn, a thirtysomething former journalist who is by all accounts extremely new to baking, not having baked a single cake until this year. It will be interesting to see how she fares. The final row is Pradyumna, a stylish entrepreneur who lives in Boston, and Lottie, an older woman who lives in Rhode Island and, if experience with others like her is any indication, will likely blow her competition out of the water at the beginning and then fizzle out. The older contestants just don’t have the stamina, she thinks harshly. For the moment Betsy’s money is on Stella going home first. You do not simply teach yourself to bake and then winBake Weekall in one year. Next to her, Archie Morris rubs his palms together, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet as though he is waiting to start a race.
It is Betsy’s first time sharing the front of the tent, ever. She doesn’t like it one bit. It had been a shock to her when the producers suggested Archie Morris as the cohost ofBake Week. For the last nine years she has been the only one behind the judging table, the sole anchor and mascot of the show. The very concept ofBake Weekwas hers, after all. The idea came to her over twelve years ago. She’d just finished her sixth cookbook and wanted to try something different, when her agent Francis had gotten a call from the producers of a new streaming service. The people at Flixer were looking for new programming, and they’d wondered about Betsy’s interest in repackaging her old cooking show. She’d mulled it over. Back when her husband was around, the idea of filming a show at Grafton would never have flown. He’d hated her celebrity and found the idea of televised baking to be a “supreme bore.” He may as well have been describing himself. But it had been six years since her divorce from Roland Martin. Grafton Manor needed repairs, and this could help pay for them, she told herself. The idea of making the show a competition had hit her like a bolt of lightning. Back then the concept was fairly novel. But this wouldn’t be just any competition. Betsy’s show would be gentle, with a focus on the craft,not a bunch of runaway egos forced to bake things you’d never even want to eat, as was so often the case with these things. And most importantly, it would be held at Grafton Manor, Betsy’s childhood home.
Archie Morris is known for hosting a very different style of show. Betsy had watched only one episode ofThe Cutting Boardand was not impressed. It was the polar opposite ofBake Week, a macho, cutthroat competition where the contestants rushed around in a mad panic insulting and undercutting each other along the way. If Archie was anything less than thrilled with their finished dishes, he would push their plates away in disgust and unleash a torrent of abuse. It would be ridiculous, Betsy thought, to make something like baking into a sort of martial art. She was positive that Archie did not have in him what madeBake Weekso special. To be a good host in her eyes, you need to show you have the right combination of humility and nurturing—two qualities that brash Archie Morris is not known for. When the suggestion of adding him as a cohost first came up, she had set up a meeting with her producers and voiced these concerns. She had expected the idea of Archie Morris to be dropped immediately and for them to, at the very least, suggest other more suitable cohosts.
But later that day she’d gotten a call from Francis. He told her that despite her position on the matter, they’d hired Archie. The show needed “livening up,” they’d said. She’d taken that as code for what they were really trying to say: she’d gotten too old, and they were worried she could no longer carry one of Flixer’s most streamed shows alone. To add insult to injury, the producers had demanded that Archie stay with her in a guest suite in the East Wing of Grafton. “They want to keep the judges and the contestants separate,” Francis had relayed to her. “Then let him stay in a hotel,” Betsy had shot back, only to be on the receiving end ofthat look, the one he gives her when she’s said something particularly difficult that he prays she won’t say to anyone else.
So, she’d tried to accept Archie Morris as gracefully as possible. At least on the surface. Besides, she knew she had no choice. She neededthe money the show brought in to keep the manor running. WithoutBake Week, what would keep Grafton afloat? Her cookbook royalties weren’t enough to keep a full manor house alive. Much like herself, an older building must be maintained in order to function properly. There is always something that needs looking into, repairs both small and large to contend with. Along with the aesthetic work—it was unending—there was always a room that needed painting, a floor refinishing. She couldn’t hope to keep up without the money from the studio. Aging is not for the weak. Or the poor. Betsy had swallowed her pride and hoped for the best, even though she did not think he was the right fit. Both of them—Grafton and her—would have to endure Archie Morris to survive. Melanie signals from the back of the tent as the camerapeople make their final adjustments.
Watching the bakers come into themselves is one of the joys ofBake Week, something that sets it apart fromothercooking shows where some angry chef barks out insults and orders. AtBake Week, the goal was not just to win, not just to bake well, but to be human in the process.Thatis what makes compelling television programming. That is what makes viewers tune in in droves. Not to see how fast you can make a blini while someone barks out the seconds left on a ticking clock. It was one of the tenets Betsy had insisted on when she created this show over a decade ago, that it be truly inclusive. And so far, it has been. She creditsBake Week’s massive success to the way it treats people. No yelling, no scolding, just good-natured competition and respectful defeat. Father would have appreciated that part.You must know how to lose, and to learn when you lose, he’d always told her.It’s the only way you can come back to win.She pulls an index card out of her pocket and cups it in the palm of her hand one last time before the cameras start to roll.
Archie has no notecard with names to memorize. In fact, he’d pushed her arm away when she’d tried to give him one the day before. “Don’t need it.” He’d tapped smugly at the crown of his head and winked. God, she’d wanted to stab him with a cake tester, but shebreathed deeply and tried to let it pass, focusing instead on the indisputable knowledge that this is her show.
She can feel the irritation begin to well up again as he starts to work the bakers like the warm-up act at a bad stand-up club. He ambles from table to table, chatting with Hannah and gently poking fun of Gerald’s lovely suit, palling around with Peter and Pradyumna. She watches as each contestant he speaks to melts under the gooey warmth of his attention.Disgusting.Finally, having made a full round, he comes back around to the front, giving her a cocky little wink as he takes his place next to her, a bit too close, as though he might be trying to inch her to the side of the screen. His head is truly too large in size, like an overfilled balloon.
She looks to the side of the tent where Melanie confers with several of the crew. She points to something on her clipboard, appearing to scold a young woman holding the boom mic. The girl’s face falls, and Betsy wonders if she needs to speak with Melanie about her manner. She’s noticed a change in the last few seasons that coincided with her climbing rank. Her look has become more intimidating, much more polished and put together. Melanie has always been a bit of a perfectionist, which Betsy appreciates, but sometimes that tendency has her veering a bit too close to control freak for Betsy’s comfort. Betsy inspects a gold button on her jacket. They are already a half an hour behind schedule. Time to get started already.
Then a signal finally comes from Melanie. Filming is about to begin. The glow of the lights is familiar on her face, and she steps into them, embracing their warmth. She raises her arms, a gesture welcoming the bakers to the tent and, if she’s judged the cameras correctly, blocking Archie’s face from the shot entirely.
HANNAH
I lean forward on my toes, my fingers resting lightly on the top of my baking table, ready to launch myself into action when I hear our instructions. I feel my stomach do a little somersault as Betsy begins to speak.
“For our first baking challenge, the bakers are asked to make two kinds of bread. We are looking for one sweet bread and one savory, and at least one must be made using yeast.”
