Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance Read Online Free Page A

order to set the trays down. Mae and I follow right behind, remove the items from the trays, and place them where the chef can easily reach them. We work all of this out before the show even begins so we are not guessing in this brief time where to place things and inadvertently put something down in a place that blocks the camera’s view of the food. Jonathan, our set designer and food stylist, is right behind us making the setting attractive with napkins, plates, some flowers, and occasionally an objet d’art that he finds irresistible. He tweaks the food using tools from his stylist’s basket—tweezers, toothpicks, a water spray, a jar of oil, and paintbrushes in various sizes.
    There was a nice rhythm going in the kitchen when Jonathan stormed in, demonstrating that he was already having a supremely awful day. He was cradling a box of little clay pots in one arm and holding a large bag of potting soil in the other hand. He lifted the soil up above his head as though he were about to auction it off. “It’s all brown. The pots are brown; the food’s brown; the dirt’s the color of shit. Brown bread, brown chicken, brown potatoes—all brown. How the hell can I make that pretty? Doesn’t anyone consider color when they suggest these spots?”
    I was accustomed to Jonathan’s irritable disposition. It no longer gets a rise out of me, but he keeps trying. “Good morning, Jonathan. Had your coffee yet?” He is particularly unpleasant before he has had coffee, and never goes for it himself. A Tony dropped his dish towel and ran for the buffet as though he were afraid he’d be blamed for all the brownness. I made a halfhearted attempt at appeasement. “A lot of food is brown, Jonathan. We have nice red cherry tomatoes and lots of parsley that you can put around the chicken.”
    “I can’t keep covering everything with parsley. Next you’ll be asking me to drape it over a chocolate cake.” He took out the only key in existence that opened his private cabinet. Inside was a wild assortment of scavenged dishes, napkins, vases, bowls, candles, and art objects. It looked like a garage sale waiting to happen. He made more noise than necessary as he moved platters around to find one that would make the chicken presentable for morning TV.
    Before long, Mae had four batches of basil dough mixed and rising in bowls. There’s no wiggle room in live television, and that accounts for our second motto, CYA: Cover Your Ass. In food television, that means “make more than you think you need.”
    While the bread dough was doing its thing, Mae was creaming a couple of pounds of unsalted butter against the side of a mixing bowl with a wooden spoon. She had already chopped the mounds of herbs we needed, which a Tony had washed, dried, and stripped from the stems, and they were lined up in front of her. One Tony was scrubbing baking potatoes and another Tony was oiling the racks that would hold the roasting chickens. There was happy chatter going on and I thought of what Sally always says when she is in such a kitchen: “Isn’t cooking together fun?” It is indeed.
    Mae and I each took a chicken and carefully slipped our hands under the skin to make a space for the herb butter. We picked up the softened butter, worked it under the skin, and began to massage it over the meat. If your head is in that place, it is a very sensual sight and the Tonys kept elbowing each other and whispering. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I heard what they were thinking.
    We rested the birds on their sides on Tony’s well-oiled racks in roasting pans, massaged the outsides with more butter, and slid them into the oven. I went back to the trays to recheck the setup and make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. I always talk myself through the script so I can anticipate what might be needed: “Tina and Karen each open a potato and break up the pulp”
two knives, two forks
“and each spoon sour cream inside”
two spoons
“and