Stir It Up (7 page)

“You know it, Chef Rob!” she laughs back. She tells us, “That’s Rob. He’s the head chef of the test kitchens.”

Ahead of us a canvas curtain blocks the rest of the space. When we follow Brenda around it we see that, from the other side, it’s a backdrop of the city to make it appear as if we’re looking out of the window of a high-rise. The “window” is part of a false wall that
makes up one side of the large kitchen where we’re going to cook.

Three identical workstations are lined up side by side. Behind each one, an oven in pink, blue, or avocado green is built into the wall. The opposite walls have school lockers and chalkboards. I guess the space is supposed to look like a schoolroom, but it’s not like any school I’ve ever seen.

“Where do they film
Power Chef
?” asks Jimmy as we walk into the space.

“Right here,” says Brenda. “This whole studio is taken down and reassembled for each show. We film a series over the course of days or weeks and we store the sets in crates until we need them. You see them weekly, but they are really filmed over just a few days, a long time before.”

“Wow,” says Jimmy, looking around.

Just then a plump woman with curly shoulder-length black hair walks by.

“Hey! Sam!” Nyla touches the woman’s arm.

I recognize her right away. She’s Sam Vitelli, one of the Food Network stars and a judge on a lot of the cooking contest shows.

Sam looks pleased to see Nyla. “Nyla,” she says. “How you doing, woman? What brings you here?” Nyla and Sam hug each other.

Nyla puts her arm around me. “I’m here with my student who is one of the
Super Chef Kids
finalists,” she says proudly. “Anjali, this is —”

“Sam Vitelli,” I blurt. I’m totally gushing inside. If I die right now, I will be happy.

Sam’s checking me out. “I’m one of the judges,” she tells Nyla. “And I see they have our judges’ table set up! I’ll catch you later!”

“How do you know
her
?” I whisper.

Nyla says, “Believe it or not, we went to high school together. Her dad is a big-time publicity agent for restaurants and chefs and he got her this gig.”

I’m still ready to fall over from meeting Sam when Brenda comes in.

“Okay, folks, here we are,” she says. “This is Alfie. He’s going to walk you through what will happen on the set, and Roger here will mic you guys. The judges will be sitting in that corner.” She points to the long table where Sam Vitelli has parked herself next to a
slender woman who looks like a model, and a kid a few years older than me.

“Hey, judges, stand up for a second,” Alfie calls out, and they all get up. Now that I can see them better, I realize the lady who looks like a model is Daisy Martinez, another Food Network chef and one of my heroes.

“Not that any of these folks need an introduction,” Alfie calls out cheerfully, “but allow me to formally acquaint you.” He pauses to laugh at his own dumb sense of humor.

“We have Sam Vitelli, star of
The Culinary Tower.
Sam — give a wave,” he says.

“Our next judge is another one of our most popular stars, Daisy Martinez,” he continues as Daisy smiles big. “And a very special guest, Connor Sebastian, from the Sebastian Boys!”

Connor gives us a small finger wave, then slumps back in his chair.

“Thanks, judges!” Alfie calls out, then turns back to us. “Parents, you can have a seat over there.” He points to some folding chairs set up on the other side
of the set from the judges. Nyla gives me a thumbs-up.

When Brenda comes by to make sure everything’s okay, she does a double take and stares hard at me like she never saw me before.

“What’s that on your shirt?” she says.

“What?” I say, looking down.

“That writing,” says Brenda. “What does your shirt say?”

I smile proudly. “That’s my family’s roti shop — Island Spice.”

“You can’t wear that,” Brenda answers flatly. “You can’t wear a shirt that has advertising. It will look like the network is giving you free advertising or an endorsement. Do you have another shirt with you?”

Why would I have another shirt?
I shake my head.

A production assistant runs up with a bag. “Who needs the T-shirt?” she calls out. I raise my hand.

“Here you go.” She tosses the shirt to me.

I go into the ladies’ room and find a stall. I unclip the microphone, letting it hang down while I take off
my Island Spice shirt. The new T-shirt is bright yellow — my absolute worst color. And it’s so big that I look like I’m wearing my father’s clothes.

I think of Dad then, and Deema, and how I’m letting down my family
and
lying to them. I start to cry at how much I want all of this — and how much they
don’t
want it. Then I remember my TV makeup.
Don’t cry,
I tell myself. I tuck the oversize shirt into my pants as best I can. The short sleeves reach my elbows. Pulling the microphone wire up through the neck, I clip it to the collar and step out of the stall. When I get back to the group, Alfie is barking orders.

“Okay, kids, listen up.” Alfie’s clapping to get our attention. “Each one of you will have your own cooking station. The pullout refrigerators under the counter have all the perishables you’ll need to cook your dishes. The drawers have dry goods. The drawers on the side here have utensils and knives.” He points to a shelf just under the stove, where there are pots, pans, and mixing bowls. “You’ll notice there is a food processor and stand mixer on the counter. We’ve thought of everything you’ll need to cook your dishes.”

I try to concentrate on what Alfie’s saying. I should be excited to use all of this new equipment, but I still feel crappy and embarrassed about the T-shirt — and upset about going behind my family’s back.

“After you cook your own dish, we’re going to unveil a market basket,” Alfie is saying. “This is a tray of ingredients from which you have to create a dish on the spot. You can use any of the staples in your cupboards or anything left over from your own specialties, but you have to use all the items in the market basket.”

I hadn’t expected the market basket.
Breathe,
I tell myself,
just breathe.

“How long will we have?” He Kyong wants to know.

“Half an hour for your dish, and half an hour for the market basket,” says Alfie. “There will be a fifteen-minute break after we unveil the market basket so you can use the bathroom, get some water, and think about what you want to do with those ingredients. Everyone clear?” He looks at the three of us. We all nod. “We’ll be getting started in a few minutes.”

I mentally go through the order of preparation for what I’ll be making — my shrimp burgers. I’ll have to make the roti dough first. While it rests, I’ll make the shrimp paste, then do the jicama slaw. It shouldn’t be too hard. I’m worried about that market basket, though — what if it’s something I can’t work with, like beef or pork?

The start signal has been given.

Quade Jerome, one of the Food Network’s emcee personalities, is running around the studio, weaving between the cooking stations like a basketball star on the court.

“So, tell us where you’re from, Anjali.”

“Richmond Hill,” I answer, not looking up from the shrimp I’m trying to quickly peel and throw into the food processor with the pureed green seasoning.

Quade flicks a switch on the microphone with his thumb and leans in a little. “Come on, little sis, you gotta give me more than that,” he says pleasantly. He’s a light-skinned black man with green eyes. “Look at me and smile, show the camera some love!”

He switches the microphone back on. “For our
non—New York viewers, tell us about Richmond Hill, Anjali!”

I try to smile, though he is really annoying me. “It’s in Queens. There are a lot of Indo-Caribbeans there, like my family.”

“Keep on cooking!”

I jump and go back to the shrimp.

“Are you making an Indo-Caribbean treat for us today?”

It’s hard to cook and talk. I nod. “Um, well, yeah, we eat rotis like I’m going to make for my shrimp burger,” I say, glancing nervously from my shrimp to Quade. “You can see the dough over there.” I nod over my shoulder to the roti dough on the counter. The cameraman pans to my dough ball. “And we curry just about everything.”

“Great! Can’t wait to try it — if the judges leave anything!” Quade says.

Quade runs over to Jimmy next and asks what he’s cooking.

“These are my grandma’s famous smothered Italian pork chops,” he says, smiling at the camera. “I’m from
Bensonhurst — that’s in Brooklyn. And it’s Italian country!
Mangia!
” Jimmy leans toward the camera, one hand on the spoon and stirring tomatoes in a fry pan. He’s all showbiz.

I try not to pay attention as Quade runs over to He Kyong, who knows how to smile at the camera. Quade doesn’t even have to ask her what she’s cooking. She just starts talking.

“I’m making a simple five-mushroom salad that I’ll nestle on a bed of rice noodles,” she says sweetly to the camera lens. “It doesn’t take a lot of effort but it tastes like a million bucks!”

I roll my eyes.
What does a million bucks taste like?

Next, I make the jicama slaw. I look around the kitchen for a grater but I don’t see one here. Opening some drawers, I notice a shredder attachment for the food processor. It means I’ll have to wash the bowl.

Dashing over to the processor, I twist the bowl off the base and head to the sink to rinse it out. This takes up time I don’t have. I run back, wiping the bowl with my side towel as I go. That’s when I notice
a spare bowl sitting on the counter a little ways away. This is the bowl I should have used.

I can feel my face getting hot and I’m hoping against hope that no one noticed my silly mistake — but, ugh, here’s that pest Quade at my station.

“Feeling leisurely, huh, Anjali?” he says cheerfully. “I see you have time to wash dishes!”

“Maybe she’s just not used to a real professional kitchen, Quade!” He Kyong calls out. The camera pans back to her. She bats her eyelashes and winks at the viewers.

What a piece of work. I’m so furious I don’t answer either of them but fit the bowl back on the processor along with the shredding blade.

“Anjali, what are you making?” Quade asks. “The audience wants to know.”

What is he talking about? There’s no audience. Just the parents and the judges.

“I’m going to make a special slaw with jicama and watercress,” I say, pulling out the jicama from the fridge. I peel it and slice it into chunks that I shove into the funnel of the processor.

“Fifteen minutes to service!” Brenda calls out from where she’s standing behind the lights and cameramen.

I quickly grate a carrot. I chop an onion as fast as I can. I remember back to when I learned how to chop from Deema, her soft arms wrapped around me, guiding my hands. This memory soothes me under these hot lights, with the time clock ticking. I mix everything together with my hands and top it with the sweetened vinegar dressing I’ve already prepared.

Next come the rotis. I look wildly around for the flat iron griddle called a
tawa
I brought in.
Where is it?
I finally see it at the edge of the counter out of the camera’s sight. Someone has rested a half-empty can of soda on my
tawa.
I move the can and grab the
tawa.
I run back to where the camera is and plunk the
tawa
down on the stove, turning the heat on medium.

By now the too-big T-shirt is chafing my underarms and starting to itch. I can’t fuss with it. The most important thing right now is to get the food done before my time’s up.

While the
tawa
is heating up, I put a frying pan on
the burner beside it and add some oil. I pull out the shrimp mixture from the refrigerator and form it into fat cigars. I’ve never worked this fast, even on the most packed days at Island Spice.

Out of the corner of my eye I see He Kyong sitting at the big stool at her counter, talking to Quade and the camera. She’s pointing to her finished dish and explaining something. Next to her Jimmy is spooning his sauce over the pork chops on three plates. I am nowhere near done. My heart is slamming. I still have to finish making the rotis!

“Two minutes!” Brenda calls.

Pulling the first roti off the
tawa,
I quickly oil up the
tawa
again and throw the second roti on it.

I race as fast as I can — adding shrimp to each roti, slicing tomatoes, sprinkling slaw, rolling up the whole thing like a cone. I reach into a bag of plantain chips and decorate the plate by plunking a mound next to each roti sandwich.

“Time!” Brenda yells.

1 pound large shrimp, peeled and deveined

2 teaspoons green seasoning (see recipe below)

1/4 cup heavy cream

1 shallot, minced

1/2 teaspoon salt

freshly ground pepper to taste

1/4 cup canola oil

1 cup cornmeal, or more as needed

4 large pita breads or small rotis

tomato slices for garnish

1. Place the shrimp, green seasoning, and heavy cream in the bowl of a food processor and pulse to achieve a thick paste, about 1 minute.

2. Remove the shrimp mixture from the bowl and add the shallot, salt, and pepper, and mix well. Chill the mixture for 15 minutes.

3. Heat a large frying pan over medium-high heat and add the canola oil. Remove the shrimp mixture and mold it into patties if using pita, or “cigars,” 5 inches long and 2 inches wide, if using rotis.

4. Dredge the shrimp patties in cornmeal and then place them in the frying pan, turning the heat down to medium-low. Cook until lightly browned on all sides, about 3 to 4 minutes. Remove from oil with a slotted spoon and place on a plate lined with paper towels to drain.

5. Place each patty into a pita and garnish with tomato slices, and jicama watercress slaw (see recipe below). If using rotis, place each shrimp “cigar” on a roti, garnish with tomato slices and slaw, and roll up. Serve with cassava or plantain chips on the side.

Makes 4 servings