the moment he turned it on and refused to leave. “Plus cleanup’s easy, and you can play with fire all year round.”
The Lodge waitresses circulated through the crowd surreptitiously, bearing appetizer platters. I chose the red pepper and goat cheese bruschetta and a Cornish pasty. Crunchy, smooth, sweet, tart, and salty. Liz might rattle on about balancing the five elements with feng shui, but I preferred to balance my top five with a crisp, light summer wine.
Waving a plaid-clad arm, Gib introduced the chefs. “From Bear Grass B&B, a country inn with a fascinating history on the road to Glacier Park, we have Chef Amber Stone. And you are preparing . . .”
She smiled at the camera, nerves barely showing. “I’m grilling filet of Montana Black Angus, with herbed Gorgonzola and a roasted hazelnut crust.” Not Montana flavors—except for the beef—but as a last-minute substitute, we hadn’t objected.
Gib started to pull the microphone back, but she kept speaking, ignoring the hint of displeasure that crossed his face. “In my restaurant, I’d serve this with garlic mashed potatoes, or grilled polenta and roasted tomato confit, paired with a light red wine. Perhaps an Oregon pinot noir.”
Very nice. I admired how she snuck in a plug for the full menu, even if it did fall on the cutting room floor. Or in the age of digital cameras, vanish into the ether.
Gib moved on. “And our home chef, Kyle Caldwell. You lucky man—cooking in paradise every day. What have you got for us?”
“I’m serving an open-faced steak sandwich using a New York cut strip sirloin—Wagyu-Angus cross, grass-fed, raised across the lake. Served on grilled bread with grilled onions and fresh arugula on the side.”
“And is that gravy?” Gib looked at the audience in mock horror.
“A wild mushroom gravy you won’t regret.” Kyle grinned with more boyish, natural charm than Gib Knox could ever fake.
“And our third contestant, Chef Drew Baker. Once a protégé of the great Berndt King in Los Angeles, now cooking at the Jewel Inn.” Gib dressed the fighting words in a light sweet glaze, but I knew from Drew’s flashing eyes that he didn’t miss the intent.
“Filet with Cabernet-cherry sauce.” Drew focused on the grill, his hands busy as he sautéed shallots in a small skillet. I’d seen the recipe and knew he’d be boiling wine and balsamic vinegar with a secret spice bundle, then adding pitted fresh, dark fruit. He’d serve on a grilled portobello and garnish with a knot of chives. Visitors are often amazed by the thousands of acres of cherries grown along the lake, mostly on the east shore, where the gentle slopes and the proximity to water make conditions perfect. Drew’s Lapin cherries came from the Murphy orchard.
My stomach growled.
Time to showcase the cooking. Shirttails flapping, Pete snuck in to focus the camera on one chef at a time. Gib kept up a patter, standing near the front edge of the patio and talking to the audience about technique—sear one side first, then turn the meat, and for heaven’s sake, don’t keep flipping the darn thing. Then he discussed various cuts of meat and how they grilled, and weighed in on the perennial debate—gas or charcoal.
I studied the chefs, expertise in action. No wasted effort, no extra movements. They knew what they needed next and where it was, focused on the precise-yet-creative demands of making quality food every time. The kitchen waltz, although without the exacting choreography demanded by a full staff in the heat of service.
Kyle, the ex–Army chef, was clearly the most organized, ingredients premeasured in prep bowls laid out on his
mise-en-place
like toy soldiers waiting for their orders. Amber took a more free-form approach—a handful of this, a pinch of that. She sniffed, cocked her head to consider, added more herbs, drizzled in wine, spooned out a satisfying taste.
Drew had the strongest presence, the fullest command. Those few square feet
The Lodge waitresses circulated through the crowd surreptitiously, bearing appetizer platters. I chose the red pepper and goat cheese bruschetta and a Cornish pasty. Crunchy, smooth, sweet, tart, and salty. Liz might rattle on about balancing the five elements with feng shui, but I preferred to balance my top five with a crisp, light summer wine.
Waving a plaid-clad arm, Gib introduced the chefs. “From Bear Grass B&B, a country inn with a fascinating history on the road to Glacier Park, we have Chef Amber Stone. And you are preparing . . .”
She smiled at the camera, nerves barely showing. “I’m grilling filet of Montana Black Angus, with herbed Gorgonzola and a roasted hazelnut crust.” Not Montana flavors—except for the beef—but as a last-minute substitute, we hadn’t objected.
Gib started to pull the microphone back, but she kept speaking, ignoring the hint of displeasure that crossed his face. “In my restaurant, I’d serve this with garlic mashed potatoes, or grilled polenta and roasted tomato confit, paired with a light red wine. Perhaps an Oregon pinot noir.”
Very nice. I admired how she snuck in a plug for the full menu, even if it did fall on the cutting room floor. Or in the age of digital cameras, vanish into the ether.
Gib moved on. “And our home chef, Kyle Caldwell. You lucky man—cooking in paradise every day. What have you got for us?”
“I’m serving an open-faced steak sandwich using a New York cut strip sirloin—Wagyu-Angus cross, grass-fed, raised across the lake. Served on grilled bread with grilled onions and fresh arugula on the side.”
“And is that gravy?” Gib looked at the audience in mock horror.
“A wild mushroom gravy you won’t regret.” Kyle grinned with more boyish, natural charm than Gib Knox could ever fake.
“And our third contestant, Chef Drew Baker. Once a protégé of the great Berndt King in Los Angeles, now cooking at the Jewel Inn.” Gib dressed the fighting words in a light sweet glaze, but I knew from Drew’s flashing eyes that he didn’t miss the intent.
“Filet with Cabernet-cherry sauce.” Drew focused on the grill, his hands busy as he sautéed shallots in a small skillet. I’d seen the recipe and knew he’d be boiling wine and balsamic vinegar with a secret spice bundle, then adding pitted fresh, dark fruit. He’d serve on a grilled portobello and garnish with a knot of chives. Visitors are often amazed by the thousands of acres of cherries grown along the lake, mostly on the east shore, where the gentle slopes and the proximity to water make conditions perfect. Drew’s Lapin cherries came from the Murphy orchard.
My stomach growled.
Time to showcase the cooking. Shirttails flapping, Pete snuck in to focus the camera on one chef at a time. Gib kept up a patter, standing near the front edge of the patio and talking to the audience about technique—sear one side first, then turn the meat, and for heaven’s sake, don’t keep flipping the darn thing. Then he discussed various cuts of meat and how they grilled, and weighed in on the perennial debate—gas or charcoal.
I studied the chefs, expertise in action. No wasted effort, no extra movements. They knew what they needed next and where it was, focused on the precise-yet-creative demands of making quality food every time. The kitchen waltz, although without the exacting choreography demanded by a full staff in the heat of service.
Kyle, the ex–Army chef, was clearly the most organized, ingredients premeasured in prep bowls laid out on his
mise-en-place
like toy soldiers waiting for their orders. Amber took a more free-form approach—a handful of this, a pinch of that. She sniffed, cocked her head to consider, added more herbs, drizzled in wine, spooned out a satisfying taste.
Drew had the strongest presence, the fullest command. Those few square feet
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