Page 83 of Challenged By You
“She’s more than at the top of her game,” Sterling comments wryly.
“Oh?” Palazzo queries with a raised brow.
Quickly outlining my idea, my stomach twists until Mia Palazzo barks out a laugh. “God, it’s brilliant. Jonas Rice is going to be buried alive by the food served tonight anyway. Why not send him on his way happily with a twist on dishes I’ve eaten at a few wakes?” She claps her hands together. “Carry on, Chefs.”
“This may work,” I murmur to myself as I gather the apples into a bowl to rinse them.
“Yes, Chef Paxton, it just might.” I’m startled when Chef Palazzo answers me. Her chin jerks up. “So far, I’m impressed. Keep it up.”
“Yes, Chef,” I answer automatically. But the night is still beginning. Just because I came up with the idea, I still have to execute my portion of dessert.
And while Jonas may hate the other foods, there’s a reason he despises apples—one he’ll never get over.
* * *
So far,there’s been no yelling from the dining room. The first course of bison and pork meatballs served over polenta with a grape jelly barbeque sauce was served followed by a lighter, but still in theme, tomato, peach, and white bread panzanella salad made with a light vinaigrette dressing. The third course of gumbo—featuring the Rocky Mountain oysters—is about to be served while I finish up dessert.
“If that cake tastes half as good as it smells, this restaurant deserves six stars,” Elle declares loyally as I start to frost tonight’s chef’s special—apple buttercup cake.
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” I voice distractedly as I begin applying the scratch coat to the outside of the cake.
“At least to a certain food critic’s fingers?” Taking a tasting spoon, she dips the tip into my bowl of frosting. “God, this is delicious. It tastes like spring exploded on my tongue. What did you use?”
I pop the cake into the blast chiller for a few minutes and use the white towel tucked into my apron to wipe the sweat off my brow. “It’s just vanilla frosting.”
“My ass,” she snarks, then suddenly straightens as Chef Palazzo strolls up to my station.
“Chefs,” she greets us and then grabs her own spoon. She dips it into the bowl of frosting, and I hold my breath. As much as Jonas’s opinion, this woman’s opinion weighs just as heavily on me. “Orange, lemon, almond,” she hums. Her eyes snap in my direction. “Trying to hide the apples, Chef?”
“Not at all,” I say smoothly. Reaching behind me, I grab a smaller bowl with finely minced apples integrated with the frosting.
Chef Palazzo grabs a new spoon and dips it in. Finding the crunch of the Gala apples, she smiles. Then her face takes on a puzzled cast. “I taste them, but they’re not as earthy. What did you do?”
“I rolled them in orange sugar.”
“That’s…” I wait anxiously while she licks her spoon clean. “Brilliant. It enhances the sweetness while removing the clingy flavor apples can often leave on the palate.”
“Thank you, Chef.” I want to collapse in relief, but I can’t because the night’s not over.
Not for me anyway.
“Is the frosting the only place you used the apples?” She’s reaching for a clean spoon to dip into the filling frosting. “Divine,” she murmurs.
Elle does a fist pump in the air which causes both Chef Palazzo and me to laugh. My tension alleviated somewhat, I turn to the blast chiller and remove the triple-layer cake. I’m gratified by Chef Palazzo’s moan of appreciation. “No, Chef. The apples have been incorporated into the cake itself.”
Quickly, I grab the top coat and swirl it on, leaving generous peaks of frosting along the top. Just as I’m about to reach for a scraper to smooth it, I feel a strong hand stay my fingers. “Even it out, but I’d recommend leaving it as genuine as possible.” Chef Palazzo’s comment stills my movements. Facing her, I absorb her words. “Every night, we seduce people with all their senses. Tonight, you found a way to do it in the best way possible: you went after their hearts.” And with that, she drops the spoon in my dirty-dish bucket and walks away.
Elle’s silent as I stare at the peaks and valleys of frosting. Every instinct as a pastry chef is telling me to scrape off what I don’t need. It’s warring with the one as a woman telling me to listen to my heart. Just like I’ve been doing all night.
My hand hovers for just a second before I reach into the bowl for the rubber spatula and to even out the frosting. Without stopping to question myself, I ask Elle, “Can you get me a few Valencia oranges out of the fridge?”
“Yes, Chef.” Elle scampers off.
A few moments later, I use the planer to zest a few times across the top of the completed dessert. Carefully, I slide the cake onto the wheeling cart Baptiste has waiting with a carafe of coffee, creamer, sugar cubes, and a crystal server to cut into my creation at Jonas’s table. “Take it away,” I whisper.
With a nod, he carefully wheels the cart past the line of prep cooks, expediters, line cooks, and out the door. Once it swings shut behind him, the room erupts into applause. Elle wraps her arms around me. “You did it,” she whispers fiercely.
Suddenly tired, I lay my head on her shoulder. “No, we all did.”
