not, our contract with the Pastry Channel spelled out that we were to provide the visiting chefs a functional workspace and nothing more.
I reminded Marco of this fact more than once, and had to jump in when he started berating Stephanie for not bringing him the proper flour. He clutched his worn notebook like it contained the arm code for a nuclear weapon.
“This could be a long week, guys.” I huddled the team together when Marco stepped outside for a break, which was probably code for pulling out the bottle of liquor. “I know he’s being demanding. Trust me, I’m used to working with chefs like this. If he bothers you, come get me. I’ll step in. Just try to focus on your tasks for Torte as much as you can.”
Sterling craned his neck toward the windows to steal a look at the chef. “That dude is a celebrity chef? Right. Only if he met his celebrity clients in rehab.”
Everyone chuckled. “Once you get to his level, he probably has a whole team of sous-chefs doing all the work for him,” I said.
“I’d say your odds of winning this thing are looking better by the minute, boss,” Andy chimed in. “He’s not even gonna be upright by the time you start rolling. Plus, have you seen that mess of a cake he’s working on—disaster.”
Stephanie twirled a strand of purple hair around her finger. “Total disaster. I wonder what Elliot’s going to think.”
Sterling’s jaw stiffened. “I better get back to the front. I see a couple OSF people heading this way.”
“Just remember, let me be the bad guy, okay?”
Everyone agreed and returned to their stations. I tried to placate Marco as much as I could. Andy was right. Marco was already in bad shape. He slurred his words and nearly fell over twice. His cake looked like something a first-grader put together. The tiers were uneven, the frosting looked way too thick, and the piping work was a joke.
Comparing our entries side by side I knew mine would win in an instant. My four-layer cake sat perfectly round and level. I’d frosted it in a dark chocolate icing and piped it with white French buttercream. Each layer showcased a different style of piping. I was pleased with the final result. As to how it would stack up against the other competitors I wasn’t sure, but Chef Marco’s cake wouldn’t win at a grade-school bake-off.
We packed up our cakes late in the afternoon to trek up the hill to the Black Swan Theater. Andy stayed behind to close up shop. I was worried that neither Marco nor his cake would make it up Pioneer Street to “the bricks.” That’s what we call the large courtyard in front of the theaters.
Somehow Marco managed to stumble up the steep sidewalk to the Black Swan. The smallest theater in the OSF complex, it’s used by the company for workshops and classes and as a space for writers and actors to test new material. Philip’s crew had transformed the space for the show.
Huge banners reading TAKE THE CAKE hung from the ceiling, and lighting and screens were angled toward the set, a temporary kitchen complete with appliances—none of which actually worked. Thanks to the magic of television, viewers at home would never know.
Elliot Cool paced back and forth, speaking into a lapel mic. He spotted us and flashed me a toothy smile. His smile evaporated as Marco wobbled in behind me, nearly knocking me and my cake off my feet.
He stormed over to Marco. “Man, no! You are not messed up again. This is ridic. Where’s Philip?”
Marco’s response ran together in one long unintelligible sentence.
Elliot tapped his foot and scanned the room. He yelled to the lighting and sound crew. “Where’s Philip? Someone needs to get him now.”
Marco rocked unsteadily from side to side, his sloppy cake tilting with him. It reminded me of trying to move during heavy seas on the cruise ship.
“Can I put this down somewhere?” I asked Elliot, nodding toward my cake.
Elliot glared at Marco. “You stay right there. Jules, follow