The Sweetest Morsel Ever Cooked in Hell

The Showdown between Xtreme Chef Johnnie James and chef Nemein Torquemada began in the typical fashion: the chefs shook hands; the Gourmand, de facto expert and host, a hulking, blubberous walrus of a man, revealed the X-Factor ingredient; the cooking began.  Okay, yes, it was a little weird that Torquemada bared his teeth like an angry silverback at Johnnie James instead of smiling. And no, we hadn’t ever seen before a chef whip his cooks with a meter-long switch, screaming curses at them in some gypsy patois and beating them about the shoulders.  These things, to that point, fell outside our purview. But the rest was the usual montage of kitchen business. Xtreme Chef Johnnie James prepared his courses with his usual charm and aplomb, flirting with the ladies on the judging platform and occasionally offering acerbic and vaguely dirty comments to us concerning the food on both sides of the kitchen studio. We wove in and around the frantic cooks and captured as many close ups as possible of the food, the judges, the chefs. The hour soon passed, and it was time for the presentation of dishes.

First Course: Mini-Stuffed Tomato v. Tomato Consommé

Strategically, Xtreme Chef Johnnie James favored the traditional progression of a five-course meal. His first course was a perfect miniaturization of a larger, older dish: a fresh cherry tomato stuffed with garlic, sausage, and herbs, drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with parmigiano reggiano; a little red spheroid, a riot of colors, full to bursting with earthy brown meat, dark green leaves, pale yellow cheese. The judges’ critique was the usual gush of fawning praise and lukewarm criticism. All standard fare.

Then Torquemada ascended the judges’ platform. His sous chefs waited below with covered dishes. The Gourmand began his usual introduction, but before he had a chance to ask Torquemada about his strategy, the challenger interrupted him.

TORQUEMADA

(gesturing emphatically; booming voice causing feedback)

“Ladies and Gentlemen, when I was a young chef I happened to cross paths with Xtreme Chef Johnnie James at L’Culinaire. He was a monster to me. He teased and made insults. He shouted at me. Every opinion I offered, every dish I prepared, he pilloried mercilessly until I was compelled to leave the school for the shame. I have only ever wanted to be a chef, and Xtreme Chef James had taken that from me. I had no work, no money, and the landlord threw me out of my home. I roamed the streets looking for a warm corner and a scrap of food. In the barrio was a kindly cook who fed me cold tomato soup, all that she could sneak from what the kitchen threw in the garbage. My first dish is a refinement of those meager handouts from that blessed woman.  I give you the Beggar’s Consommé. It is a reminder and a symbol of the ragged existence into which I was thrust by Xtreme Chef James’ depredations.”

The judges sat dumbfounded, mouths open and hanging slack, as Torquemada’s cooks brought up his dish: a bowl of chilled, clean tomato soup; basil, a touch of habanero, a sprinkling of fresh herbs on top; flash frozen, cracked grape tomatoes floated in the crystalline red broth, bleeding into it as they melted.

Torquemada stood over the judges, fixing each in turn with his fierce stare. They stared into their deep bowls as they nervously slurped their soup. Their comments though, when they finished, were positive, and they were especially impressed by the tomato “ice cubes.”

TORQUEMADA

(declarative, proud, striking his breast)

“They are symbolizing my frozen heart of that time, which even by this cold charity was warmed.”

We zoomed in on the judges as Torquemada cleared his bowls. They shot each other furtive glances, and the Gourmand muttered: “This guy’s nuttier than squirrel shit.”

We were inclined to agree.

Second Course: Stuffed Sea Bass v. The Rectified Risotto

JOHNNIE JAMES

(looking us right in the eye, voice registering higher than 

normal, nervous laughter reaching into the upper frequencies)

“I have no idea what the fuck this guy’s talking about! I mean, I have never seen this guy before in my life. Swear. Okay, sure, yeah, I studied at L’Culinaire, but I don’t remember this guy; there were a lot of people there. You know what? It’s no big deal. It’s fine! I mean, obviously he’s suffering from some profound mental disorder because this—”and here he barked this faux, I-don’t-believe-what’s-happening kind of laugh—“this just doesn’t make any fucking sense. He’s clearly imagined all of these things. You believe me, right?”

We wanted to. Examples of the Xtreme Chef’s fair play abound: during Showdown: Rainbow Trout he had sacrificed an entire range/oven to challenger Amy Cartwright when her appliance shorted out; when one of Arthur Grisham’s sous chefs fell sick before Showdown: Mushroom,  chef Johnnie James cut one of his own crew; in this very competition, we had watched him loan the challenger some chiles when Torquemada realized that his peppers were missing. Torquemada’s speech flew in the face of our prior experience. Still, the chef’s defensive protestations were a bit pointless. It wasn’t our role to offer judgement in these matters, and we certainly had no absolution to offer, either. We were there to watch and to record. Intervention and partisanship fell outside of our commission. We liked the Xtreme Chef, though; we didn’t want to discover him a shit-heel.

Xtreme Chef Johnnie James’ second dish was a thick, firm fillet of sea bass, pale blue skin still on, stuffed with roasted roma tomatoes, served with a field green salad. The judges dove into their plates and were quick to respond. “Amazing!” they declared. “Delicious. Wouldn’t change a thing.” They were lying. At best it was a well-prepared version of an unoriginal and outdated plate, but they rambled on for several minutes as they cleared their plates. They shot furtive and awkward glances at the Xtreme Chef, who smiled his big smile and thanked them, but his stance was very rigid and he couldn’t seem to get comfortable with his hands. The judges were still babbling worthless compliments as he cleared his plates.

JOHNNIE JAMES

(arms folded, looking down his nose)

“They never have anything negative to say.” He shook his head and then pointed his finger. “I don’t want them to take it easy on me because of this guy. That’s not how I want to win. I want them to be brutal and honest, and then when I whip his bat-shit crazy ass it’ll be that much sweeter.”

Torquemada then. His sous chefs brought up a rich, creamy, smooth, dish of arborio rice and heirloom tomatoes; specks of red, yellow, orange, green, “blue” freckle white rice. It was a bold move to serve something so spare and simple. Torquemada towered over the judges, ram-rod straight, pacing the platform like a hungry lion staring down its prey. The judges seemed even less able to look into Torquemada’s face than they had been James’.

TORQUEMADA

(red-faced, jaw clenched, sweating)

“On the day I was driven from L’Culinaire I prepared this risotto. I spent hours refining the recipe, honing the techniques and carefully selecting the proper blend of ingredients. It is delicate and subtle, requiring precision, attention, and dedication to perfection. Focus and skill. Chef James recognized none of this.” Torquemada removed a small, lined book from beneath his apron. “I quote from my diary: ‘He called it bland, he called it swampy. He said he’s tasted better scraped off the bottom of a muddy boot. He threw my dish into the garbage. He laughed at my face, and he made all of the other students laugh at me, too. Their laughter follows me in my sleep. I have done nothing never to Johnnie James, yet he campaigns against my art, my career, my soul.’”

Torquemada was shaking at this point. He shifted his weight from left foot to right, and his voice came in fits and starts, rushing through sentences and taking deep breaths in between. He reached behind him and clutched his backside.

“This is an heirloom tomato risotto and I prepared it just as I did many years ago. You judge now.” Then he ran off of the platform and right out of the kitchen studio.

Third Course: Chicken Parmesan v. The Angry Cioppino

JOHNNIE JAMES

(talking very animatedly)

“Here’s what’s really bothering me. Let’s—okay, just for the sake of argument—let’s just say that we were at L’Culinaire together and that hypothetically I may have . . . hazed him a bit: is this an appropriate response? Is this acceptable behavior? I mean, who holds this kind of grudge? Who carries this around with them their whole life and plans this elaborate revenge scheme to humiliate me on national television? It’s disproportionate; it’s insane. It was ten fucking years ago, man. Get over it.”

Course three was the poultry course. Johnnie James had prepare a chicken breast, pounded flat and breaded, pan-fried, topped with rich marinara and a thick slice of fresh mozzarella; fresh-made spaghetti in red sauce—olives, capers, basil, thyme, plenty of garlic—served on the side; a comfort food classic without pretension or haughty flairs.

Chef Johnnie James’ comportment was visibly off: the swarthy, hands-on-hips attitude he normally adopted now seemed stiff and forced; rather than his chest, his pelvis was thrust aggressively forward; his smile looked more manic than merry, and he repeatedly rubbed at the back of his neck and shuffled in place while the judges ate and critiqued his food. He waited on the platform just a little too long after they’d finished before clearing his plates and stepping down, almost begging for one last acclaim. Sad.

As Torquemada was still missing, the action in the kitchen studio ground to a halt, and the list of unprecedented events continued to grow. Not that some previous challengers hadn’t gotten sick during a Showdown; hell, chef Carlos Castenada spent the first five minutes of Showdown: Tenderloin vomiting into a pail. But this protracted absence had never before occurred and suggested something more.

During the cooking, we had observed in Torquemada a few suggestive behaviors: he maintained a metronomic 2/4 rhythm of deep breathing throughout the hours of prep and cooking; he would absent-mindedly rub either a) his belly, or b) his bottom whilst stirring his sauces and broths; his face would occasionally twist up into a rictus of pain, and more than once he had to step off to the side, curl up into a fetal ball, and breathe like a woman in labor; and once—just once—he completely abandoned a pan on the stovetop, ran into the audience, sat down, and stomped his feet up and down for one minute and twenty-one seconds before returning to the kitchen. We deduced from this that Torquemada’s trouble was certainly gastrointestinal and most likely excretory and had just resolved to go look for him when Xtreme Chef James blurted out: “Since my competitor’s off taking the world’s longest shit, do you mind if I serve my next course?”

All embarrassedly consented.

Chef James mounted the platform, set his plates before the judges, and managed to get out: “Your fourth course tonight is--” when Torquemada returned from the restroom.

When he discovered the breach in protocol, his wrath was terrible to behold. He screamed, “What in fuck’s sake is this donkey shit!” Then began to systematically devastate the kitchen studio: he shoved mixers and food processors off of the counters and shattered plates, bowls, and ramekins on the floor; he flung half-used tomato parts and other assorted pieces of refuse about the studio, mainly at the Xtreme Chef and the judges; he pulled a santoku from his knife block and brandished it at the Xtreme Chef, screaming more curses in that mad Romani tongue. We heard “diablo” thrown in there more than once. It was fifteen minutes before the Gourmand was able to calm Torquemada down. The challenger demanded that James’ plates be removed, the table be reset, and the normal succession of dishes be resumed. The judges took the opportunity to get some air.

THE JUDGES

(all shouting at once in a mass of sound while chain smoking)

“What the hell is going on?

“If he doesn’t stop shouting soon—”

“This guy is crazy.

“—I think I’m going to cry.”

“I just don’t understand.”

“Legitimately insane.”

“I have never in my life—”

“I’m concerned for our safety.”

“Absolutely out of his mind.”

“—seen a grown man act like that.”

“What if he snaps?”

“A four year old, sure.  Not a forty year old.”

“What if he’s already snapped?”

“If he gets in my face again, I’m going to punch him.”

“Did anyone bring any pepper spray?”

“I don’t really care what chef James did to this guy—”

“Do you think he might be a terrorist?”

“—this is inexcusable.”

“I didn’t sign up for this.”

“Like al Qaeda or something?”

“I mean, did he just expect James to let everything go cold?”

“They should haul this nut away.”

“Do you think he’s dangerous?”

“What the hell is wrong with this guy?”

“What the hell is wrong with this guy?”

“What the hell is wrong with this guy?”

All fine questions.

TORQUEMADA

(calmer, almost embarrassed, but still angry)

“I have been to many doctors who put instruments up my anus and their tubes down my throat.  None of them have discovered a cause for this. I am left with one conclusion: Johnnie James gives me IBS.” He broke down here and began to sob. “They think they can walk all over Torquemada? ‘Torquemada always is going poo. Let us shit all over Torquemada.’ I tell you this: Johnnie James will not get away with this. I will kill Xtreme Chef Johnnie James.” He stared us in the eye for a cold minute before cooly and deliberately standing and leaving the confessional.

Torquemada and his cooks set two empty bowls before each judge. Torquemada held a large metal pail and an enormous ladle; his cooks stood behind him with a covered copper kettle.

TORQUEMADA

(standing very still, something he’s not accomplished yet)

“I would like very much to talk with you a moment about technique. Xtreme Chef James is a spiteful hack of a cook who couldn’t properly prepare fish if the lives of his family depended on it. An example: many years ago I visited Plateau Gastro. My expectations of chef James were very high, no less so for the celebrity he’d garnered after leaving L’Culinaire. I waited an inexcusable amount of time with naught but dry bread and melted butter to tide me over. When at last my food came, I found it to be a gross disappointment: overcooked, under-seasoned, unpleasantly oily. All about me patrons oohed and ahhed and rubbed their bellies. They hurled themselves into fits of alimentary ecstasy. They were idiots.” Torquemada slopped some kind of stew from the pail into the bowl on each judge’s left. “This is the swill chef James prepared that night. Eat.” They didn’t. “Eat! See how disgusting it is, how bland, how tasteless, how very much like a dead fish’s urine it is!” What choice had they but obey; and while they sipped chef James’ plagiarized and unsanctioned food, his cooks opened the lid of their pot to reveal a steaming, rich red seafood stew; white fish flesh, brown and grey shellfish, swimming in a deeply seasoned tomato broth; spicy, earthy, the very essence of Fisherman’s Wharf. “This is my Angry Cioppino. The broth is infused with peppers and chiles, and it burns like the hellfires of my rage for a man so loathsome, so vile, so unconscionably malevolent that the Madonna herself would shrink from his presence and the Messiah would spit on his rotten corpse! I hate Johnnie James! I hate him! Taste my hate!”

Fourth Course: Grilled Lamb and Tomatoes v. The Vindictive Heart

JOHNNIE JAMES

(not looking us in the eye, staring up, apparently very angry at the boom mike over 

his head, silent for a seeming eternity before finally meeting our gaze and saying:)

“Fuck that spic.”

He stood, toppling over his chair, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him and shattering the glass in its window.

Chef James set his main course before the judges, pointed at it, and said: “This is roasted lamb and tomatoes.” We waited for more, for his traditional story to give the dish meaning and context, but James only stood silently, arms crossed. It was a beautiful, medium rare chop, seasoned with curry, cumin, turmeric, ginger; accompanied by grilled whole tomatoes; a roasted vegetable medley on the side; garlic and herb potatoes; easily the most appealing thing we’d seen from the Xtreme Chef the whole showdown. The judges seemed unsure if they should raise their forks. They looked to us, but all we could do was shrug and shake our heads. We didn’t know.  There simply wasn’t any precedent for this night’s events. They ate; and their reaction, while positive, was quiet, almost embarrassed.

Torquemada ascended the platform with his hands clasped behind his back. He was quieter, strangely calm. He stood before the judges in silence a moment. When he spoke, he spoke quietly, sad. He said: “My first restaurant was Álere.”

Torquemada’s declaration was met with wide-eyed and dumbfounded understanding.  Torquemada need say no more.

Álere had been a disaster. Open only a single evening, it was practically a legend, like sasquatch sightings. No one knew much about it; all the details had been buried: head chef, backers’ identities, even the ultimate reason for its near immediate closing. What we knew, we knew from Extreme Chef James.

He was there that night; ground-zero; the critic assigned to it by Food Magazine. His review the day after was a blistering, unapologetic denunciation of the establishment, from the hostess on through to every course of the meal. But while the review was damaging, it couldn’t account for the locking of Álere’s doors alone. And that is where accounts fail and legends begin.

Some said it was rats. Others, mutiny by the cooks. Still more whispered of contagion; flagrant disregard for sanitary conditions. The most extravagant rumors spoke of mob ties, terrorism, and aliens. No one knew for sure, except perhaps the Xtreme Chef.

JOHNNIE JAMES

(brightening, smiling, a bit devilish)

“Álere? Yeah, I was there. Worst fucking meal I’ve ever had. Seriously. Who—who serves offal at a fine dining establishment? Why would I want to pay thirty-five dollars for the parts of an animal that normal people throw away? And the stink! The entire restaurant smelled like an abattoir. I had to hold a kerchief over my nose the whole time I was there. If I could have closed it down before the night was over, I would have."

Torquemada’s sous chefs mounted the judges’ platform and set plates mounded with food in front of the judges: a calf’s heart braised in red wine; sealed inside, a whole tomato; served atop a bed of sweet and sour onions and field greens; membrillo vinegar. One of the sous then went by and poured a thick, amber liquid into the basin of the plate, and the other followed behind with a small torch, igniting the dish. Pink and red flames leapt up with a whoosh, then slowly died down, finally extinguishing themselves, leaving a deep brown crust on the meat and veggies.

He told the judges: “You have here the dish I served Xtreme Chef James that fateful night, prepared Moroccan-style, exactly as I remember from seven years ago. You will now see. You will see what the truth is.”

Fifth Course: Tomato Tart v. Hot and Cold Satisfaction

The dessert course was nothing like usual. James merely stormed up the platform and angrily dropped his plates in front of the judges with a loud bang—one actually broke—and stated, “Tomato Tart,” then walked right back off without waiting for the judges to eat and comment on his food.

Torquemada, however, hauled an inconceivable amount of equipment up to the platform to serve his dessert: a metal canister of LN₂; bowls, spoons, stirring rods, tongs; jugs of some blended red liquid we couldn’t yet identify; iron pots of oil set over small burners; small wooden trays laden with green, yellow, orange, and red slices of tomato; bowls of a thick, smooth batter. They put this equipment in front of each judge and established a station beside the Gourmand for the rest.  While one of his sous began to mix the tomato blend with liquid nitro in a large metal bowl, Torquemada explained his two-part dessert: 1) flash-frozen tomato sorbet, the tomato mix blended with liquid nitrogen right at the judges’ table and shaped into quinelles; then, 2) a crisp-fried, battered tomato slice served shabu shabu style, the slices, batter, and hot oil all placed in front of the judges for them to prepare themselves; an almost paradoxical juxtaposition of textures and colors and techniques.

Torquemada explained to the judges how to prepare and eat his dish, inserting plenty of vituperative bile towards the Xtreme Chef while he did, insulting his techniques, taste, and every other facet of both James’ culinary abilities and his character, and pausing in his recitation only once to shout: “Do not dip them yet!” when the judges began too soon to eat. When his monologue ended, he lifted his hands (granting permission? a benediction? who knew) and they ate.

The Verdict

James and Torquemada were a yin and yang of attitude as they stood waiting for the judges to finish deliberating and render a verdict: Torquemada—chest thrown out, hands on his hips, big moustache thrust up in the air, his posture an unconscious (we hoped) mockery of James’ traditional winner’s pose; James—arms folded, chin against his concave chest, slumping, body all angles and asymmetry, refusing to meet Torquemada’s provocative gaze but glowering fixedly at us.

The Gourmand huddled with the judges. They spoke in rushed whispers; at times they stabbed fingers in the chefs’ direction or waved their arms at each other. We couldn’t tell what they were saying. It had never taken them so long to come to a decision.

TORQUEMADA

(loudly, taunting)

“Boys o boys. It is taking thems quite a while, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Isn’t it taking a while? Why do you think it’s taking such a while, Xtreme Chef?” He clucked his tongue. “They must be deciding how many points I beat you by. Yes. That must be, because your food was so—what is you call it—mediocre.”

James said nothing. He didn’t move, twitch, or shift in any way. His sous chefs did. They shouted retorts and threats, and the challenger and his cooks responded in kind. It escalated along unsurprising lines from there, though Johnnie James himself never said a word. He just stood there staring at us.

We didn’t see who flung the first tomato, but we knew when it had been thrown. At first, tomato slime streaming down his face and catching in his moustache, Torquemada stood, frozen, mouth agape, caught in the middle of his last exhortation. The entire studio inhaled and was quiet, even the judges and the Gourmand, the shock on his face echoing Torquemada’s. Then Johnnie James laughed.

The air filled with slimy red missiles. Everyone was pelted. Other meat and vegetable scraps joined the projectiles already hurling about the kitchen. We were hit a few times ourselves, but mostly we stood on the edges of the fracas and watched it happen. We didn’t care, at this point, who had won. We only cared that it made good sport.

Torquemada screamed this throaty, ululating war cry, grabbed a long knife from the nearest block and rushed Xtreme Chef James. They crashed together and fell to the floor, grappling in the strewn refuse of ten plates of food. The others—all—producers, judges, Gourmand, sous chefs, audience—all but we—surrounded them and grabbed at them and tried to pull them apart. Arms were shaken off and came away with swathes of red. We watched. And did nothing. And it was fine.

Image by Holiday Feartree, Twitter/Instagram: @holidayfeartree