Page 6 of Bringing Home the Bacon
April gives our light and sound technicians the signal. A second later, the curtain lifts. We walk onstage, and the voice of our show announcer floods the auditorium.
“Ladies and gentleman, welcome to Yes, Chef! the cooking show where anything can happen! Allow me to introduce you to our contestants.”
Thirty minutes later, the whisk flies out of my grip and lodges itself directly into the cleavage of our voluptuous host while chocolate splatters all over her skin. Her sequin dress is speckled too.
“Goodness!” She winks at the camera. “No one told me I was standing in the splash zone!”
This gets a solid laugh from the studio audience.
Our host, Mairin Stapleton, was an actress on a teen show back in the late 90s and now makes the rounds hosting reality shows like this one. She has a lot of practice charming a live audience. Me? I can’t get my heart to stop pounding or my hands to stop shaking.
She visits each contestant at least once per episode for some banter while we cook.
I know these chats are a good opportunity for America to get to know me better; I just can’t help wishing I could skip this part and cook quietly. Unfortunately, that’s not what I signed up for with Yes, Chef!
Despite what people say about reality shows being one-hundred percent scripted, that’s not the case with this one. I’d give anything to have a script right now because this awkward bit of physical comedy was definitely not planned.
“I’m so sorry,” I grab a dish towel from my workstation. Before I can think better of it, I start dabbing at her chest.
She takes that opportunity to wink into the camera and say, “Buy a girl dinner first, will ya, Bacon?”
I pull my hand back like I’ve been burned, cueing another roar of laughter from the studio audience.
My face turns ten shades of red.
Why am I like this?
I love cooking, but I’m more of a behind-the-scenes kind of guy. It’s always been the easiest way for me to take care of people and show them my gratitude.
Cooking for votes feels strange.
“So, Bacon,” Mairin says. “As you know, this is a big show. How you perform during today’s challenge will determine if you make our Top Ten.”
“Well, I guess we can kiss that goodbye then, huh?” I gesture to the chocolate still coating her silver sequins.
The audience laughs.
“Don’t be silly. I never object to a handsome guy splattering me with sauce.” Mairin gives another wink to the camera.
How she’s pulling off all this obvious innuendo on a network show is a mystery to me, but I guess what they say is true: sex sells.
Mairin continues. “Over the past nine episodes, you’ve shown a particular affinity for ‘comfort foods.’ Your chicken potpie in our series premiere had the whole country clucking. And viewers are still writing in asking to sample your Sloppy Joe sliders. Who do you credit for teaching you how to cook?”
“The streets of Philadelphia,” I say, then realize how stupid that sounds. “The actual streets, not the Bruce Springsteen song. Though damn, that’s a great song. Gotta love Bruce, am I right? Shit, can I say damn on network TV?”
Mairin smiles tightly. “Damn is debatable. But shit is definitely not allowed.”
“Oh fuck, I’m sorry.”
“Whoo-eee!” she says to the studio audience and garners another laugh from them. “Good thing we’re not broadcasting live, friends! As they say in showbiz, ‘we’ll get it in post’!”
I’m a deer in headlights at this point.
Mairin takes pity on me and whispers, “You can head back to your workstation, sweetums.”
I nod gratefully and haul ass back to my oven. I place my bowl on the counter and run the chocolate-covered whisk under the faucet. To my left and my right, my fellow contestants are a flurry of activity. They’re mixing and sautéing and flambéing at warp speed, but I’ve shifted into slow motion.
It’s no surprise I rambled about Bruce Springsteen a moment ago. He’s been on my mind lately. I read this great interview with him once where he said he still gets nervous before every show. He explained that the nerves aren’t a negative thing. They’re just an indicator that he cares. According to Bruce, we all have a choice when stage fright hits us. We can call it nerves, or we can call it excitement.
