now, I will be happy.
Sam’s checking me out. “I’m one of the judges,” she tells Nyla. “And I see they have our judges’ table set up! I’ll catch you later!”
“How do you know
her
?” I whisper.
Nyla says, “Believe it or not, we went to high school together. Her dad is a big-time publicity agent for restaurants and chefs and he got her this gig.”
I’m still ready to fall over from meeting Sam when Brenda comes in.
“Okay, folks, here we are,” she says. “This is Alfie. He’s going to walk you through what will happen on the set, and Roger here will mic you guys. The judges will be sitting in that corner.” She points to the long table where Sam Vitelli has parked herself next to aslender woman who looks like a model, and a kid a few years older than me.
“Hey, judges, stand up for a second,” Alfie calls out, and they all get up. Now that I can see them better, I realize the lady who looks like a model is Daisy Martinez, another Food Network chef and one of my heroes.
“Not that any of these folks need an introduction,” Alfie calls out cheerfully, “but allow me to formally acquaint you.” He pauses to laugh at his own dumb sense of humor.
“We have Sam Vitelli, star of
The Culinary Tower.
Sam — give a wave,” he says.
“Our next judge is another one of our most popular stars, Daisy Martinez,” he continues as Daisy smiles big. “And a very special guest, Connor Sebastian, from the Sebastian Boys!”
Connor gives us a small finger wave, then slumps back in his chair.
“Thanks, judges!” Alfie calls out, then turns back to us. “Parents, you can have a seat over there.” He points to some folding chairs set up on the other sideof the set from the judges. Nyla gives me a thumbs-up.
When Brenda comes by to make sure everything’s okay, she does a double take and stares hard at me like she never saw me before.
“What’s that on your shirt?” she says.
“What?” I say, looking down.
“That writing,” says Brenda. “What does your shirt say?”
I smile proudly. “That’s my family’s roti shop — Island Spice.”
“You can’t wear that,” Brenda answers flatly. “You can’t wear a shirt that has advertising. It will look like the network is giving you free advertising or an endorsement. Do you have another shirt with you?”
Why would I have another shirt?
I shake my head.
A production assistant runs up with a bag. “Who needs the T-shirt?” she calls out. I raise my hand.
“Here you go.” She tosses the shirt to me.
I go into the ladies’ room and find a stall. I unclip the microphone, letting it hang down while I take offmy Island Spice shirt. The new T-shirt is bright yellow — my absolute worst color. And it’s so big that I look like I’m wearing my father’s clothes.
I think of Dad then, and Deema, and how I’m letting down my family
and
lying to them. I start to cry at how much I want all of this — and how much they
don’t
want it. Then I remember my TV makeup.
Don’t cry,
I tell myself. I tuck the oversize shirt into my pants as best I can. The short sleeves reach my elbows. Pulling the microphone wire up through the neck, I clip it to the collar and step out of the stall. When I get back to the group, Alfie is barking orders.
“Okay, kids, listen up.” Alfie’s clapping to get our attention. “Each one of you will have your own cooking station. The pullout refrigerators under the counter have all the perishables you’ll need to cook your dishes. The drawers have dry goods. The drawers on the side here have utensils and knives.” He points to a shelf just under the stove, where there are pots, pans, and mixing bowls. “You’ll notice there is a food processor and stand mixer on the counter. We’ve thought of everything you’ll need to cook your dishes.”
I try to concentrate on what Alfie’s saying. I should be excited to use all of this new equipment, but I still feel crappy and embarrassed about the T-shirt —
Sam’s checking me out. “I’m one of the judges,” she tells Nyla. “And I see they have our judges’ table set up! I’ll catch you later!”
“How do you know
her
?” I whisper.
Nyla says, “Believe it or not, we went to high school together. Her dad is a big-time publicity agent for restaurants and chefs and he got her this gig.”
I’m still ready to fall over from meeting Sam when Brenda comes in.
“Okay, folks, here we are,” she says. “This is Alfie. He’s going to walk you through what will happen on the set, and Roger here will mic you guys. The judges will be sitting in that corner.” She points to the long table where Sam Vitelli has parked herself next to aslender woman who looks like a model, and a kid a few years older than me.
“Hey, judges, stand up for a second,” Alfie calls out, and they all get up. Now that I can see them better, I realize the lady who looks like a model is Daisy Martinez, another Food Network chef and one of my heroes.
“Not that any of these folks need an introduction,” Alfie calls out cheerfully, “but allow me to formally acquaint you.” He pauses to laugh at his own dumb sense of humor.
“We have Sam Vitelli, star of
The Culinary Tower.
Sam — give a wave,” he says.
“Our next judge is another one of our most popular stars, Daisy Martinez,” he continues as Daisy smiles big. “And a very special guest, Connor Sebastian, from the Sebastian Boys!”
Connor gives us a small finger wave, then slumps back in his chair.
“Thanks, judges!” Alfie calls out, then turns back to us. “Parents, you can have a seat over there.” He points to some folding chairs set up on the other sideof the set from the judges. Nyla gives me a thumbs-up.
When Brenda comes by to make sure everything’s okay, she does a double take and stares hard at me like she never saw me before.
“What’s that on your shirt?” she says.
“What?” I say, looking down.
“That writing,” says Brenda. “What does your shirt say?”
I smile proudly. “That’s my family’s roti shop — Island Spice.”
“You can’t wear that,” Brenda answers flatly. “You can’t wear a shirt that has advertising. It will look like the network is giving you free advertising or an endorsement. Do you have another shirt with you?”
Why would I have another shirt?
I shake my head.
A production assistant runs up with a bag. “Who needs the T-shirt?” she calls out. I raise my hand.
“Here you go.” She tosses the shirt to me.
I go into the ladies’ room and find a stall. I unclip the microphone, letting it hang down while I take offmy Island Spice shirt. The new T-shirt is bright yellow — my absolute worst color. And it’s so big that I look like I’m wearing my father’s clothes.
I think of Dad then, and Deema, and how I’m letting down my family
and
lying to them. I start to cry at how much I want all of this — and how much they
don’t
want it. Then I remember my TV makeup.
Don’t cry,
I tell myself. I tuck the oversize shirt into my pants as best I can. The short sleeves reach my elbows. Pulling the microphone wire up through the neck, I clip it to the collar and step out of the stall. When I get back to the group, Alfie is barking orders.
“Okay, kids, listen up.” Alfie’s clapping to get our attention. “Each one of you will have your own cooking station. The pullout refrigerators under the counter have all the perishables you’ll need to cook your dishes. The drawers have dry goods. The drawers on the side here have utensils and knives.” He points to a shelf just under the stove, where there are pots, pans, and mixing bowls. “You’ll notice there is a food processor and stand mixer on the counter. We’ve thought of everything you’ll need to cook your dishes.”
I try to concentrate on what Alfie’s saying. I should be excited to use all of this new equipment, but I still feel crappy and embarrassed about the T-shirt —
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