#FYI this will bonk around among the cooking show as it unfolds on TV

[apparitionism]

Confection

For the holiday this year I offer you a culinary AU I’ve been thinking about for basically forever but only now started to write down. It’ll be in parts, as I chip away in the spare minutes, with littler bits of story at a time, as when I first ventured contributions to this surpassingly wonderful fandom, years ago. I miss those long-gone Bering-and-Wells days: the speed, the inventiveness that so many brought to bear... anyway, however many parts this ends up being, it’s all just for fun. (And maybe a little ontological inquiry. Also just for fun.)

In any case, on this random Sunday, I wish everyone their preferred form(s) of activity and/or rest, as appropriate. Good feelings. Whatever it is we’re here for.

Confection

“Cutthroat.”

So says the talking head on screen in response to the offscreen question, “Describe your style in the kitchen in one word, Chef Helena Wells.”

****

“Chef Myka Bering, describe your style in the kitchen in one word.”

“One word? That’s a challenge. Diligent? I’m really diligent. Or, no: focused. I definitely think ‘focused’ is more descriptive.”

Senior Producer Claudia Donovan, upon viewing this footage, had said to the editor sitting next to her, “Can you cut that to ‘focused’ and make it sound decisive?” But then she let herself have a second thought. “You know what? Leave it all in. Compare and contrast.”

Cutthroat Wells first, indecisively diligent and/or focused Bering second... the third competitor’s response had been, in retrospect, hilarious. Claudia did appreciate how radically his pronouncement had failed to match his performance: “Awesome,” Walter Sykes had described himself, with no sense of irony whatsoever. He’d been cast as a sacrificial lamb in the first place, but Claudia still snorted at the completely useless dudebro swagger.

The fourth chef, Artie Nielsen, had been brusque rather than bro, but with no less swagger. “Classic,” he’d said, like the idea of anybody even asking the question was a “don’t you know who I am” insult. The editor angled a glance at Claudia and said, “You were real with him about what show he was on, right?”

“The old-school thing sets up the B plot,” Claudia told her. “He’s known all three judges for decades.”

“Don’t you think the A’s a lot more fun?” the editor said. She clicked quick on the Wells “cutthroat” clip—and Claudia had never in her life heard such an all-facts no-swagger saying of a word—followed by a bit of the Bering: “I definitely think,” Chef Myka said, as if in answer to the editor’s question.

“I definitely think,” Claudia echoed decisively.

****

“The name of our show,” Steve Jinks explains, as he does every week at the start of the program proper, after the contestants have described their styles, “is ‘This Without That.’ What this means, contestants, is that in each of three rounds, you will be asked to prepare a classic dish... but without its defining ingredient.”

****

“You gotta do it,” Pete Lattimer had said. “Because it’d be so cool. Gottagottagotta.”

Myka was leaning against the at-last-closed-for-the-night door of the restaurant where they both worked—Myka as sous chef, Pete grilling and frying—and she wanted to ignore him, for her fatigue weighted her such that she could barely convince her spine to support her head. Forcing that head to lift, accompanied by actually working her jaw, felt well beyond possible.

And she would have ignored him, but she was the idiot who’d made the mistake of telling him about “it”: a producer from “This Without That,” the wildly popular cooking competition show, had called to express interest in having her compete next month (next month being August) for their Christmas championship, to air in December.

Having been that idiot, she couldn’t ignore him, but she was regretting the telling, so now she said, “No I don’t. I don’t ‘gotta’ do anything.”

“But you wanna.”

“I don’t ‘wanna’ do anything either. And as for this, I don’t want to do it.”

First, television. Second, a competition. Third, a Christmas competition. In August. She didn’t want to. In fact she’d rather have gnawed off her knife hand than do it. But then Pete moved from “gotta” and “wanna” (Myka hated those pseudo-word elisions) to “hafta,” adding “for the restaurant”—the one they planned to partner to open someday, when they had saved enough money and/or could talk investors into believing in them—and Myka gave in. “I’ll try,” she told him, and she meant she’d try not to tank her upcoming interview with the producer, Claudia Donovan. She told him that too... but for integrity’s sake, she added, “I hate the whole idea of that show. ‘This Without That.’ It seems so dumb.”

He waved a hand at her, but slowly, showing that he was tired too. “Little piece of non-tanking advice: don’t say that to this producer. Besides, a hugeity-huge-huge audience loves it, which means it’s smart. Say that instead.”

That, she did ignore. “Smart? It’s insipid.” Mimicking Steve Jinks, the show’s host, she quoted his dismissal of each round’s losing contestant: “Unfortunately, this competition will continue without you.”

“I knew you watched it,” Pete crowed.

Ugh. “Once.” She didn’t tell him why. “But it bothered me.”

“Bothered you because you knew you could do better at making a thing without its major thing, right? Say that’s why.” He added, “And by the way, I know you could too. So you should say it twice.”

His faith was sweet, but she told him the truth: “No. It bothered me ontologically.” She didn’t expect him to understand, but she tried to explain anyway. “Beef Wellington without the beef, for example, like they did in the one I saw. That’s just... Something Else Wellington. And then at the end, the judges pick whose Something Else Wellington they like best. The beef part—the constitutive element!—falls by the wayside. The thing itself doesn’t even matter anymore.”

Pete shook his head. “It’s like you don’t understand games. Something Else Wellington is the whole idea. If it isn’t Something Else Wellington, then it isn’t Beef Wellington without the beef. You’re just ticked that the judges don’t spend all their tasting time splitting ontological hairs about how close to beef that Something Else really is. Or isn’t. Whichever way makes you happier, but it doesn’t matter, because that isn’t what they’re there to do.”

Myka hadn’t known he would—could—come up with “splitting ontological hairs.” That was another point in favor of her trying not to tank.

Also (and she’d been thinking about this since the call from Claudia Donovan): her parents. They were reasons that were maybe (okay, probably) on par with “for the restaurant,” because if she could she impress them by being on television... she really did hate the clichéd nature both of their objections to her career—their dismay that she wasn’t “using that brain”—and of her response, a heels-dug-in “I’ll show you.” These several years on, they hadn’t yet acknowledged being shown. Maybe television would be the charm. Maybe if they could switch a channel and discover Myka there, doing what she did... maybe that would finally do that work of showing.

Pete said, “They judge based on creativity, too—how out-there a Something Else idea you come up with. Imagination what? Plus you gotta do it fast. Thinking on your feet, right? Don’t you love all that?”

As adept as Pete could be at saying the wrong thing, he was also, sometimes, exceptional at saying the right thing. “Using my brain?” she queried, just to make sure.

He nodded, and Myka was pretty sure it was because he knew the history: the family, the pain points. She’d inflicted versions of it on him so many times. “Think it’s a smart idea now?” he asked, at his most canny.

Show them not only by being on television, doing what she did, but also by “using that brain” on television. To do what she did. To do it better than other people. To at last, in the end, show them. “Maybe,” she hedged, but her overriding thought was Yes, yes, at long last yes.

Not for one instant did it occur to her that she might not win.

****

Claudia had started on TWT in the casting department, over two years ago. Even though evaluating potential talent wasn’t technically her job anymore, she did like to tinker. Particularly if she sensed a good story brewing.

When Myka Bering walked in—no, she loped in, her legs looking about as long as Claudia was tall—Claudia really hoped the good-story pings she’d been sensing were real radar.

There was truly no time like the right-now to see what was what, so Claudia said, first thing after introductions: “Just FYI, Helena Wells is already locked as a cheftestant on this one. I hear you know each other.”

Myka, who’d been settling into the chair across from Claudia’s desk, froze.

So far so good, Claudia thought. But then she thought again, as she observed Myka’s dart of eyes, followed by a small-but-visible twist of neck, both signaling obvious discomfort: No... so far so spectacular.

TBC