Hilary Fields - Bliss

“What do you call them?” Vanessa asked dutifully. For a moment Sera could see the doubt in her eyes, and a message. Seriously? This was the best you could come up with?

“Well, they’re traditionally known as biscochitos , but I’m calling mine Bliss -cochitos for obvious reasons,” Sera said.

The audience chuckled and clapped genially.

“The secret’s in the lard,” she rattled on, encouraged. She shot Blake a triumphant glance. Teach him to mess with my mise en place, she thought. What he’d probably thought was a useless, throwaway lump of fat was actually the key to making kickass biscochitos. Then she noticed the audience had gone silent, and she gulped. TMI, Sera. No one likes to know their cookie batter’s based in pig fat, even if it is the single greatest shortening known to mankind.

“Really, they’re pretty good,” she finished lamely.

Even Malcolm winced.

“All right, here’s the moment you’ve been waiting for!” Vanessa announced, glossing over the awkward moment. “Round one! Take a bite of both, everyone, and then we’ll vote!”

The PAs handed around plates containing both chefs’ offerings, and people started to nibble. Muted “yums” and “wows” went round the room. It was impossible to tell which dessert elicited what response.

Vanessa held up an applause-o-meter. Must have dug that one up from deep in the vaults of TV Land, Sera thought. “Okay, who’s for Chef Austin’s Green Chile Apple Crumble?”

The dial swung wildly as the crowd stomped and cheered. Sera, who’d managed to snag a plate, sneaked a taste herself.

Oh, fuck. It is good. Kudos to Sam Everett, because there was no way Blake had come up with that spicy-sweet blend of flavor and texture that melted in her mouth and left it tingling with pleasure. I honestly did not believe there was a place for green chile in the pastry spectrum, but I may have just changed my mind. Her heart sank.

“Now let’s hear it for Chef Wilde’s Bisco … ah, Bliss -cochitos. ”

For a moment Sera couldn’t believe it.

Her humble little spice cookies had the crowd shouting fit to shake the rafters. The dial on the device winged into the red.

Up front, Pauline and Hortencia were howling and stamping their feet, and the rest of the BRBs were grinning through crumbs as they clapped their hands as hard as they could. Asher was practically doing a Flamenco number, eyes shining with pride as he gazed at her over the heads of the BRBs. But it was the strangers—good citizens of Santa Fe and tourists alike, whose approval made Sera tear up. She glanced quickly at Malcolm, who’d gone a bit rosy in the cheeks. He patted her shoulder gently. “They really are that good, lass. Enjoy this moment.”

One of the PAs announced there’d be a short break while the kitchen was put to rights, and warned the crowd the lines for the bathroom were about to get pretty long. The audience began milling around, nibbling hors d’oeuvres, chatting, and generally getting in the way of the Food Channel’s crew. The camera guys took a smoke break, and Sera sagged against the counter.

I won. Round one, anyway.

She sneaked a peek at Blake. He was livid. And he was taking it out on Sam Everett, who was stoically absorbing the abuse. What else could the poor guy do? Blake was the boss, and Sam’s job hinged on keeping the man happy. Sera could have told him that was an impossible task. “What do you want me to say?” she heard him ask Blake when the senior chef wouldn’t stop berating him. “I did the best I could with that green chile crumble. It’s usually a big hit at the restaurant. But Chef Wilde’s biscochitos? I honestly don’t know how she did it, but that texture—it’s like angels came down and blessed it. She took one of the simplest, most old-fashioned recipes around and somehow… I don’t know… made it magical. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

Sera’s ears turned pink with pleasure. Then her cheeks did the same as Asher shouldered his way to the front. He had a half-eaten cookie in his hand. “Beautiful, Bliss,” he said simply. He kissed her gently. Just a hint of cinnamon sugar still lingered on his lips, and Sera had to fight to stop herself from licking them clean in front of God and everyone.

Vanessa looked at the tall Israeli, then looked some more, with obvious appreciation. She sized up how tenderly he was gazing at Sera, gave the shorter woman a “good on you, girl” look, and helped herself to one of the cookies still on the counter. She took a delicate bite and closed her eyes as the sugar, shortening, and spices melted on her tongue. “Heavenly,” she murmured. “Normally I wouldn’t allow myself a whole one, but…” With a wink, she popped the rest in her mouth and then looked around for her makeup crew to make sure her lipstick was still fresh.

“You’re going to win this, Bliss,” Asher said, stroking Sera’s cheek. She blushed again.

Muttering about how mush ought to be banned from kitchens, Malcolm busied himself clearing the mixing bowls and bossing around the Food Channel staff until he had the prep area arranged to his satisfaction.

“I hope so,” Sera said, kissing Asher once more before shooing him back into the crowd so she could concentrate. But privately she wondered what Blake had up his sleeve for round two.

She would find out in forty-five minutes.

The second round went by in a blur. The gong sounded, Vanessa gave her spiel, and suddenly they were off to the races. This time there were no trolleys, just the run of the kitchen for both chefs, and less than an hour in which to create over a hundred individual samples of their paean to the Big Apple. Sera nearly got in a boxing match with Blake over a block of butter, and the bugger wasn’t above throwing elbows with Malcolm either when it came to the sugar and eggs. Sam Everett tucked his head down and went about his business; it was his kitchen after all, and he knew where everything was. Conscious of the cameras, Sera resisted the urge to stick her tongue out when she managed to duck under Blake’s arm and snatch a bag of confectioner’s sugar he was going for (sometimes being short was an advantage). Instead, she smiled sweetly and hustled for her station.

Sera knew just what she was going to make. She only wondered what Blake was going to do to sabotage it. Short of swapping sugar for salt (she’d checked), or rigging her ovens somehow, she didn’t have a clue what he might do. But she couldn’t worry about that right now. She had pastry shells to shape, filling to whip. Still, she couldn’t help glancing over at Blake’s end of the counter periodically.

He was doing something with a series of small molds, while Everett stood ready with a nitrogen bath to flash-freeze the end result. Sera herself had considered the idea—it would have been nice to have a way to instantly chill her creations, as forty-five minutes was barely enough time to let most desserts set—but she’d rejected it as too dangerous under stressful circumstances like these. Might freeze my fingers off, and then where would I be? But Everett seemed willing to risk frostbite, or at least he valued his job enough to do so under Blake’s orders.

This time, the younger chef seemed to be taking more of a backseat, letting his employer take the reins. Guess ol’ Blake’s actually got a few recipes of his own up his sleeve. Who’d a thunk? The cameras were loving it, Sera saw; the operators clustering around her opponents like bees to flowers as Chef Everett carefully dipped Blake’s molds into the super-chilled bath. Considering the relatively mundane work her team was doing, Sera guessed the audience was probably more enthralled with her opponent’s, too.