We were back at the old warehouse to film the finale, and despite the bleak environment of the makeshift dressing room, my beauty team had me looking amazing.
My makeup was flawless. Clayton had done his thing, giving me smoky eyes and eyebrows so snatched they looked sculpted by the gods. He switched up my usual neutral-colored lipstick with a combination of burgundy lip liner and bold dark-plum lipstick that screamed, “Kiss me!”
My hair was laid! With her flat-iron wizardry, Gina gave me a coiffure that was light and airy, yet substantive with lots of body. I looked extra pretty with ever so subtle gold highlights in my dark hair. Viewers would be trying to guess what was different about me, but they’d never figure it out. All they’d know was that I looked extra gorgeous at the finale.
Robin dressed me in a blue Carolina Herrera pants suit and platinum heels. The ruffle at the hem of the jacket added a hint of whimsy that was a change in my usual look.
Michelangelo should have been busy prepping his meal, but I looked so good, he couldn’t stop stealing glances at me as I filmed my intro.
With the cameras pointed at me, I said, “Tonight our two finalists are going to draw from their own repertoire of delicious Southern cuisine and create a three-course meal that will be judged by me alone. They’ll get help from our very own Azaria Fierro and Norris Buckley, but they’ll only have ninety minutes to work their magic, and the clock has already started ticking.”
I waved my hand toward the kitchen stations where the two finalists, Azaria, and Norris were frantically prepping their food. “As you can see, Michelangelo, Yancy, and our celebrity judges are hard at work. The winning chef will be featured in Bon Appétit magazine. But that’s not all. He’ll also be featured in a starring role in my next Cookin’ with Cori DVD release. That’s right, the lucky winner will join me in my kitchen, but there’s a twist,” I said with eyes widened with theatrical mystery. “During the first part of the DVD, viewers will be receiving step-by-step instructions in preparing good home-style food from me. But in the second part, I’ll become the student and learn some of the cooking techniques used by tonight’s champion. Now, isn’t that exciting?”
The cameras zoomed in on me for a close-up, and then followed as I moseyed over to Yancy’s station. He and Norris were both working up a sweat as they bumped into each other, dropped kitchen equipment, and basically seemed out of sync.
“So what are you whipping up for us tonight, Yancy?” I asked, keeping a safe distance from the abundance of male perspiration that sprinkled the air as the two men raced around the kitchen. I wasn’t sure if sweat had dripped onto his ingredients, and I told myself to be extra-careful and taste only an itty-bitty portion of Yancy’s sweat-tainted food.
“Well, Cori, I’m starting off with Fried Chicken Livers Wrapped in Bacon, and then for the main course, I’m fixing Braised Ox Tails over Dirty Rice.”
“That sounds awesome, and what’s for dessert?”
“For dessert, I’ll be treating you to Grandma’s Summertime Peach Ice Cream!” Yancy rubbed his big belly and licked his lips.
“Is that peach ice cream a dish that your own grandmother actually made?”
“Yes, indeed; it’s a family secret. The ice cream has been a cherished recipe in my family for many generations. But I’ll be happy to share it with you, Cori, after I win this here contest,” he said, giving me a knowing wink.
“No one can say that you don’t possess confidence,” I said with my fake TV smile plastered on my face.
“Well, I’m a man of faith, and my faith got me to the finale, and I’m sure it will see me through to victory.”
“Lots of luck to you, Yancy,” I said although I didn’t mean it.
“Yep,” he responded with his chest poked out as if he’d already been declared the winner. Yancy was more smug than usual. He sounded so fucking sure of himself, I wondered if Josh had pulled him aside and told him that he’d already been selected as the winner.
“Okay, let’s find out what Michelangelo is up to,” I said to the cameras as I made my way to Michelangelo’s station.
Azaria and Michelangelo were working at a less frantic pace and were perfectly coordinated as they chopped, peeled, sliced, and diced.
Bent over an onion that he was chopping, Michelangelo looked up at me with one eye squinted after getting squirted with onion juice. With a narrowed eye, he looked even more handsome…if that was possible. He dabbed at his face with the sleeve of his chef’s jacket and sent a warm smile in my direction. If he was carrying a grudge from last night, it didn’t show.
“What’s on the menu, Michelangelo?”
“I decided on a seafood theme. For an appetizer, I’m making Crab Bisque soup. My entrée will be Blackened Shrimp and Cheese Grits with Sautéed Mustard Greens. For dessert, I’ll be serving Key Lime Pie with Almond Crumb Crust.”
“Mmm. That sounds fantastic, but it seems pretty ambitious considering the time crunch.” I looked at the red digital clock on the wall. “Time is ticking; do you think you’ll have all of your dishes completed in time?”
“The shrimp and grits won’t take long at all. It’s the Key Lime Pie that’s a big risk for me.”
“Well, as they say, no risk no gain. Good luck, Michelangelo,” I chortled, giving the cameras my most winning smile.
“Thanks, Cori,” he replied as he quickly sharpened a knife and resumed chopping an onion.
The energy level was high and the lights seemed extra bright. The combination of anxiety and bright lights were giving me a headache and causing my makeup to run. It was almost time to taste the appetizers, and the moment the director called, “Cut,” I rushed to my dressing room to rest for a moment and take something for my headache.
My team followed behind me. Inside my designated dressing room, as Gina began fussing with my hair, my phone pinged. I glanced at the screen and frowned when I saw an email from Josh with an attachment.
Robin told me to stand still as she steamed wrinkles out of my slacks. While Clayton touched up my face, I tried to review the notes Josh had emailed me regarding my critique of the finalists.
“Do you think the bigwigs are gonna let Michelangelo win?” Robin asked me.
“I don’t know. I doubt it,” I said, glancing at the notes.
“Well, I believe in miracles and my money is on our boy,” Robin said as she smoothed out my jacket.
“My money’s on Yancy,” Gina remarked. “You heard what Josh said the other day. He thinks the preacher will resonate more with the viewers.”
“Although I can’t stand Yancy, I’m not trying to throw good money away. I’m betting on the preacher because I don’t trust that Josh is gonna do the right thing,” Clayton remarked.
I looked up from my phone. “I can’t believe you guys are betting on the winner of the show. You may need to think about getting help for your gambling addiction.”
“We’re not the only ones with a gambling problem. A lot of people bet on the winner,” Gina informed.
“Who else is involved?” I inquired.
Gina shrugged. “Everyone who works here.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“The entire crew, the producer’s assistants, interns, the chefs who work behind the scenes, the cleaning people, secretaries, pretty much everybody. Except you and Josh…and the other big dogs,” Clayton informed.
“Interesting,” I said, returning to my notes.
“Give us a hint, Cori,” Clayton pressed. “What did Josh say in those notes? Is Yancy still tapped to win?”
“I won’t know until I taste the food.”
Clayton wore a knowing smile. “Come on, Cori. You can tell us. We know the show is rigged.”
I smiled mysteriously and resumed reading. According to my notes, I was supposed to heap praises on Michelangelo’s Crab Bisque appetizer, telling him it was super creamy with perfect density. Surprisingly, Josh wanted me to complain that Yancy’s chicken livers were overcooked and drenched in greasy bacon fat, making them tough and greasy.
Hmm. I wondered if the producers had had a change of heart and were going with Michelangelo, after all. But as I continued reading, I realized they hadn’t changed their minds. After Yancy’s appetizer critique, I was instructed to speak in complimentary terms regarding his entrée and dessert. Josh wanted me to tell Yancy that his ox tails were well-seasoned and that the broth was flavorful. His ice cream was to be described as a mouthful of yumminess that was beautifully presented and pleasing to the eyes. Oh, what a crock of shit!
As far as my critique of Michelangelo’s entrée, I was expected to go in! Josh wanted me to speak to him in a scolding tone when I informed him of how disappointed I was in his presentation. I was instructed to make a face when I tasted his blackened shrimp and tell him that he went overboard with seasoning and should have streamlined the flavor profile. I was also supposed to complain that his cheese grits were mushy and heap on more criticism by telling him that the least successful thing on his plate was the mustard greens, which were overpowered by the onions and garlic.
I continued reading the note and came to the conclusion that Josh was the cruelest and most sadistic fucking bitch I’d ever known. He didn’t simply want Michelangelo to be defeated; he wanted to annihilate the guy. I shook my head as I read his remarks regarding Michelangelo’s Key Lime Pie dessert: Say something about the overwhelming acidity of the limes and mention that the crust lacked crunch.
For God’s sake! It was an outrage that the critique was written without the benefit of me or anyone else tasting either finalist’s food. It was downright criminal, yet I was helpless to do anything about it.
But after this season, which was bound to be a huge success with all the drama that went down with some of the wacky contestants, I planned to renegotiate my contract and demand producer credit. Whether the show was nominated for an Emmy or not, I wanted full producer credit and lots more money. I didn’t want to be placated with a mere vanity credit, either. I planned to be an actively involved producer with my hands in everything from casting to selecting recipes.
In the meantime, I had to suck it up and do as I was told. I observed my reflection in the mirror and then thanked my beauty team. I told them I needed a few moments of privacy before I went back on set.
After Clayton, Robin, and Gina gathered their tools and left the dressing room, I looked in the mirror again and sighed. I was ashamed of the woman I had become. In a matter of minutes, I was going to look Michelangelo in the eyes and tell him that his delicious food sucked. If he believed me, my words had the potential of destroying his confidence and ruining his future in the culinary field.
What price fame? I couldn’t stoop any lower in my marriage, and now I was throwing away any semblance of self-respect and pride I had in my career. If my mother and I were close, which we weren’t, I would ask her for advice. Being the success-driven woman that she was, she’d probably tell me to suck it up and do what I had to do to get ahead.
Then I thought about Grandma Eula Mae. If she were still here, what would she think about my career decisions? There was no doubt in my mind that my grandmother, after taking all that shit off the police commissioner for so long, would tell me to stand up for myself and to protect the integrity of my show.
Sorry, Grandma Eula Mae, but I don’t have your gumption, and I don’t have a choice in the matter.
I popped an Advil. Chin up and determined to persevere, I walked out of the dressing room of the warehouse and returned to the lion’s den.