pies—with their thick, doughy crusts and mountainous piles of toppings—were so different from the typical New York slice of floppy, deliciously greasy pizza, they hardly seemed like the same category of food at all.
“I’m not confident about our ability to get a Chicago-style deep-dish pizza right,” Danny said. “What else do they have going on in this town?”
“There are a few places—Limestone is one of them—where Chicago chefs are taking experimental cooking to the next level,” Beck said, his gaze fierce and intent on the notepad in Jules’s hand. He seemed to be working extra hard to concentrate, and Danny felt a brief, searing moment of admiration for the guy.
Whatever unresolved mess existed between Beck and that San Francisco chef, Skye Gladwell—Beck was handling it like a pro.
Better than Danny was dealing with his unwelcome attraction to Eva Jansen, at any rate.
Focus, asshole.
“So the Midwest Team is likely to stick to what they know and do something avant garde and crazy with garlic foam, basil ice cream, and tomato water, or whatever,” Max said. He’d always been good at strategy. It used to drive Danny crazy when they played board games, but now he was glad of it.
What Danny was good at was research. “I’ve been reading up on Chicago, actually,” he said, carefully avoiding Max’s eye. Max liked to give him shit for it, but it had saved the team’s ass on more than one occasion. “And the current big trends here are brunch and comfort food. Smaller restaurants in the hot neighborhoods like Bucktown and Wicker Park get lines out the door and around the block for fancy waffles and a good omelet, and everybody in town has their own version of chicken potpie and mashed potatoes.”
“Great!” Jules’s eyes lit up the way they did when her imagination was sparked. Scribbling madly, she asked, “Any other thoughts?”
“Oh!” Winslow jumped as if he’d been goosed. “I know another thing Chicago’s known for—jazz. Jazz, clubs, Prohibition, the mob, lounge singers, soul food … hey!”
As always, Win looked surprised that his seemingly random brainstorming had produced a real idea, but Danny was no longer shocked by it. “Good one, man,” he said, clapping the younger chef on the back.
“Yeah, but I bet the southern team will think of it, too,” Win said. “And my mama might be black, but she grew up in New York City, and so did I. Food that feeds the soul at my house is take-out pad Thai and delivery Chinese dumplings.”
Danny tilted his head back to stare at the ventilation-hooded ceiling. “It’s a little early in the competition to start trying to beat the other teams at their own game. We need to stick to what we know and love to cook—which is steak.”
Lunden’s Tavern had been the go-to spot for a great steak in the West Village for decades. Their family had served everyone, from Ronald Reagan to Luciano Pavarotti. Up until his death, they’d kept a special supply of a certain type of canned Italian sardines on hand, just in case Frank Sinatra blew through town.
“But we did steak at the regional finals,” Jules argued. “It’s too obvious to do it again so soon. Even if we didn’t replicate Max’s soy-lacquered tenderloin, I think it’s too similar, makes us too much of a one-trick pony.”
“Ms. Jansen did say we’re supposed to show who we are as chefs and as a team with this dish,” Win reminded them. “So it’s all about what do we want to show. We got talent here, folks. No need to cook ourselves into a corner this early on.”
Despite the sharp stab of nerves that always assaulted Danny at the idea of breaking away from the familiar, he nodded firmly. If everyone already agreed, he wasn’t going to be the one to make waves. “You’re right. No steak for this challenge. So what do we do instead? What’s left on the list?”
Silence descended while they each ran through the options they’d already
“I’m not confident about our ability to get a Chicago-style deep-dish pizza right,” Danny said. “What else do they have going on in this town?”
“There are a few places—Limestone is one of them—where Chicago chefs are taking experimental cooking to the next level,” Beck said, his gaze fierce and intent on the notepad in Jules’s hand. He seemed to be working extra hard to concentrate, and Danny felt a brief, searing moment of admiration for the guy.
Whatever unresolved mess existed between Beck and that San Francisco chef, Skye Gladwell—Beck was handling it like a pro.
Better than Danny was dealing with his unwelcome attraction to Eva Jansen, at any rate.
Focus, asshole.
“So the Midwest Team is likely to stick to what they know and do something avant garde and crazy with garlic foam, basil ice cream, and tomato water, or whatever,” Max said. He’d always been good at strategy. It used to drive Danny crazy when they played board games, but now he was glad of it.
What Danny was good at was research. “I’ve been reading up on Chicago, actually,” he said, carefully avoiding Max’s eye. Max liked to give him shit for it, but it had saved the team’s ass on more than one occasion. “And the current big trends here are brunch and comfort food. Smaller restaurants in the hot neighborhoods like Bucktown and Wicker Park get lines out the door and around the block for fancy waffles and a good omelet, and everybody in town has their own version of chicken potpie and mashed potatoes.”
“Great!” Jules’s eyes lit up the way they did when her imagination was sparked. Scribbling madly, she asked, “Any other thoughts?”
“Oh!” Winslow jumped as if he’d been goosed. “I know another thing Chicago’s known for—jazz. Jazz, clubs, Prohibition, the mob, lounge singers, soul food … hey!”
As always, Win looked surprised that his seemingly random brainstorming had produced a real idea, but Danny was no longer shocked by it. “Good one, man,” he said, clapping the younger chef on the back.
“Yeah, but I bet the southern team will think of it, too,” Win said. “And my mama might be black, but she grew up in New York City, and so did I. Food that feeds the soul at my house is take-out pad Thai and delivery Chinese dumplings.”
Danny tilted his head back to stare at the ventilation-hooded ceiling. “It’s a little early in the competition to start trying to beat the other teams at their own game. We need to stick to what we know and love to cook—which is steak.”
Lunden’s Tavern had been the go-to spot for a great steak in the West Village for decades. Their family had served everyone, from Ronald Reagan to Luciano Pavarotti. Up until his death, they’d kept a special supply of a certain type of canned Italian sardines on hand, just in case Frank Sinatra blew through town.
“But we did steak at the regional finals,” Jules argued. “It’s too obvious to do it again so soon. Even if we didn’t replicate Max’s soy-lacquered tenderloin, I think it’s too similar, makes us too much of a one-trick pony.”
“Ms. Jansen did say we’re supposed to show who we are as chefs and as a team with this dish,” Win reminded them. “So it’s all about what do we want to show. We got talent here, folks. No need to cook ourselves into a corner this early on.”
Despite the sharp stab of nerves that always assaulted Danny at the idea of breaking away from the familiar, he nodded firmly. If everyone already agreed, he wasn’t going to be the one to make waves. “You’re right. No steak for this challenge. So what do we do instead? What’s left on the list?”
Silence descended while they each ran through the options they’d already
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