I walk past HEAT again. This makes thirteen times. A baker’s dozen. My heart is racing, and I’m sweating. My stomach feels like someone reached in and is squeezing. It grinds against itself in a weird, uncomfortable way, like my guts are trying to tie knots in themselves. I’ve never had a panic attack. I wonder if this is what one feels like. Ironically, the thought calms me a little.
I’m carrying my interview dish. I’m pretty happy with how it turned out. If nothing else, it smells great. I made sure it reheats well too.
I’m not as worried about my food as I am about the interview. What if they don’t like me or I say something stupid? This is an actual restaurant with an actual celebrity chef. Who I might actually meet and who might actually eat my food. There’s more to this than cash or prizes. This isn’t a classroom or a practice run. This is real life. I have a shot at something real.
I swallow. My stomach gurgles and grinds again. I reach for the door handle of the restaurant and pull it open. If I want a real shot, I have to go for it. But first I have to get inside.
The waitstaff, dressed in black, are wiping down and setting up tables for the dinner rush. The floors, tables and walls are all made of dark wood. Except for the wall behind the bar. It’s made of exposed brick with layers of different-colored paint that have been artfully removed. The bar is brushed stainless steel, as are all the chairs. Oversized lightbulbs suspended by thin wires hang over tables. The place looks dark, industrial, modern, urban, fashionable. It looks masculine, intimidating. The whole place reminds me of KCC.
In the back corner is a long table that would seat at least a dozen people. A man and a woman are seated behind it, both in black. Several people are talking to them and handing them plastic containers and pans. Suddenly I find myself looking into the eyes of a bearded man with a full face of glitter makeup. Where did he come from? He is wearing a large wig and beaded dress, complete with chest hair sticking out. His legs are hairy too, and he has a bit of a beer belly.
“Theo?” he asks. “Theo Childs? You’re the last to arrive. I was wondering if that was you pacing out front. I’m Mama Bear, resident drag queen and hostess. Come on in. What did you bring? It smells so good.”
Before I can answer, Mama Bear has taken the tinfoil off my dish and dug in. I hadn’t noticed he was carrying a fork. Or maybe he’d hid it under his wig.
“That’s amazing! Wow. The best thing I’ve eaten all day. But what is it?” he asks.
“Crepe enchiladas with a pesto–green-chili sauce. It’s French-Latin fusion,” I say as Mama Bear takes another bite.
“A little spicy, a little creamy, a lot good. Just right!” Mama Bear declares.
“Thanks.” I blush a little. I’m not sure what to think of Mama Bear. He’s not like any drag queen I’ve seen before. He doesn’t look feminine. There’s no doubt he’s a man, even if his eyelids are covered in glitter. Not to mention the lipstick and heels. I decide he’s a fusion too. I like that.
“Blake, Beth, you’ve got to try this,” Mama Bear says as he leads me to the long table.
“Who is this?” Blake says. He lowers his glasses and looks over the rims at me as he waves me toward him.
“It must be Theo Childs,” Beth says, looking at a list. She has a very cool haircut, one side long and the other side shaved into a fadeaway. It’s edgy and daring. Di would love it.
Blake and Beth look at my application, heads together, then look at me.
“I don’t know,” Beth says, as if she is answering a question Blake asked but not out loud. “I’m not sure he’s what we’re going for.”
“We’re not going for good cooks?” Mama Bear asks.
Blake sighs and speaks as if he’s explaining something to a child for the millionth time. “We’re creating an image here. A look. We need contestants who fit that. Branding is so important now. He’s going to represent us. How he looks says something about who we are. I see a pudgy kid in sneakers and jeans. What’s HEAT about you?” he asks, finally looking back at me.
Before I can answer, Mama Bear says, “That’s garbage. He’ll draw in a younger crowd. He’s a big cutie, all tall and cuddly. He will appeal to groups you’re not even thinking about. More important, his food is great. He’s just right for this contest.”
As Mama Bear and the other interviewers argue, I grab plates and forks off a nearby table. I load generous portions onto three plates. As far as looks and image go, I may not be what they’re after. But I know if they try my food, I still have a chance.
I put the still-warm food down in front of them. I watch Blake’s and Beth’s faces change as the aroma of my food reaches them.
Beth almost shyly takes a bite. “Mmm,” she says with a sigh.
Blake takes the tiniest bite. His eyes get wide. He takes a bigger bite.
“I told you,” Mama Bear says. “Just. Right.”
Reaching for another forkful, Blake says, “Mama Bear, food is one thing. But we really do need to consider our contestants as a whole in terms of image and representation. Who we are, who our clients are. Is this kid HEAT?”
“Absolutely. And I’m not going to stop harassing you until you let him into the competition,” Mama Bear says, snatching up the third plate. “So what if he’s a cub? He’s also the best cook we’ve had today.”
When Mama Bear matter-of-factly calls me a cub, I don’t mind. I probably would have if Blake or a gay guy from my high school had said it. But I am gay, young, husky and a bit furry. I’m not a monster or a giant blob. I’m a cub. It fits.
Blake looks at me and purses his lips. “Fine. I will think about it. Mr. Childs, please fill out this form. We need to know more about you. We’ll be in touch.”
I reach for the form. All the plates are empty.