Chopped

“You did a great job. You’re definitely winning, I can feel it”. John smiled as he said it, trying to hide the competitive distaste we both shared for one another. I figured I should play along.

“Are you kidding me? Your execution of that frozen pizza and balsamic vinegar ice cream cone was killer. Besides, I added too much salt to my bread pudding, and I completely forgot the bullion cubes. I’m as good as gone”. It was true. I got distracted or something, and completely forgot an ingredient. I made it all the way to the final round only to shoot myself in the foot. Rookie mistake.

            The door opened and one of the producers peaked her head in; a large headset overtook her face. “They’re ready for you”. John and I got up and followed her down the hall.

            The producer stopped right before the doorway at the end of the long walk and gestured us forward. As we walked through the door, the host, Ted Allen, greeted us. Thick black glasses framed his half closed eyes, giving off this despondent vibe that he was too good to be here. He probably was.

            To his right were the judges. Marc Murphy looked like he could have been a frat bro at whatever culinary school he went to, if there were fraternities for cooking schools. Alex Guarnaschelli had the pompous look on her face that she held all day long. She was the toughest to please. At the far end of the table was Aaron Sanchez, who seemed like a normal guy. He was probably the best of the bunch. In front of the judges was a cloche that covered the losing dish waiting to be revealed.

            As we walked before the judges, we had to stop on these black X’s on the ground. It’s funny, I’ve never noticed those X’s when watching the show from home, but the cameras were already running and it was quiet on the set, so we weren’t getting any vocal direction.

For the last few minutes, I had been trying to prepare for loss, reminding myself that it’s only money on the line. I made it to the end, so I have nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll go home to my family and my moderately successful restaurant. Plus, we’ll get publicity for a while since I was on TV, which will be nice.

            Ted Allen lowered his hand onto the cloche’s handle. He looked at both of us, and said his famous line, breaking the silence,  “Chefs… who’s dish is on the chopping block?”. He just held his hand there afterward for what felt like an eternity. You have to build that suspense, I guess. He raised his arm, taking the cover with it. The result was just as I feared. There sat my bread pudding made of diced frozen pizza and dried cherries with a balsamic glaze. It looked a little sad, sitting there. I know I tried to expect it, but still, losing felt awful. I let out a sigh and looked at my shoes. How embarrassing.

            “Sarah, you’ve been chopped. Judges?”

            Alex spoke up. Of course she would be the one to complain about my food. I bet the other two loved it.

            “Your bread pudding was very original, but the salt was overwhelming. You forgot to even add the bullion cubes, and for that, we had to chop you”.

            I gave a half-hearted nod, turned to John and gave him a hug, “congratulations”. I walked through the door I came in, and down that long hallway, toward the camera. I tried to give off the impression that I wasn’t hurt, but I don’t think it worked. I paused in front of the door that I had seen so many people walk through, that one that the losers walk through at the end of their walk of shame, and turned the handle.

            There were two people waiting for me in the room, one of them removed the microphone clipped to my chef’s jacket while the other asked for a sound bite of my final thoughts.

            “Um, I’m proud of what I did today. I made a mistake, and that is not a reflection of the chef that I am. I will be back”. The silent one let out a little chuckle at that last line.

            “Great. Just wait here. Sit at this table please”. It was then that I actually looked around the room. The room was cramped, and the walls looked like they were made of steel. The floor was covered with white porcelain tiles. This was a far cry from the Asian inspired kitchen that sat right on the other side of the door.

            In the center of the room sat a very thick and sturdy looking wooden table with a bare light bulb hanging from a cord above it. The table had only one chair. As I sat, I noticed the deep and dark grooves crisscrossing each other in the center of the table. This room was obviously used for more than an exit interview. What more do they need anyways? I wanted to go home.

            That’s when the door on the other side of the room opened up. Ted Allen walked in, the top of his shirt now unbuttoned and a cigar resting between his lips. The three judges followed. I noticed Aaron Sanchez was carrying a briefcase. The air they brought with them into the room made me uncomfortable. What the fuck was going on?

            “Sarah.” Mr. Allen acknowledged me.

            “What’s going on here? Isn’t the show over?” Something was up. Ted just smirked and took a puff of his cigar. Aaron lifted the briefcase onto the table and carefully undid each latch. Click. Click. He opened the case, and inside laid a single Butchers knife. The blade was eight or so inches long, and it looked dulled, as if it had been used pretty regularly, wiping away the shine over time.

            That’s when I noticed the Alex and Marc had moved behind me; one on either side. They each grabbed an arm and I immediately began to struggle, trying to get out of it.

            “You’re hurting me! Cut it out.“ Alex’s grip tightened, and her nails broke the skin. Blood was dripping down my forearm. They put my arms on the table in front of me and pinned them down. I tried to pull out of it, but I was not a strong woman.

            Ted pulled the cigar out of his mouth and leaned forward onto the table. “Don’t you fucking get it?” He looked awake for once, and there was a certain pleasure behind the words he spoke. “I started this show because I only want to eat the best. If you can make your way through the contest and come out with delicious meals from these crazy ingredients, then you deserve to be a chef, but if you don’t…” He gritted his teeth.  “If you make shitty food, you can’t be a chef. Get rid of the filth so the best can prosper. It’s darwinism.”

            I started crying. Through my tears, I watched as Ted reached for the butchers knife and admired it under the light, pretending I wasn’t there. I was screaming, begging the other chefs to let me go, but they just laughed at me.

            Ted raised the blade above my arms, looked me in the eyes. “You’ve been chopped”. He dropped the blade. I watched it as if it were happening in slow motion; the blade breaking through the skin, the splash of the blood, the slight pause in the stroke as it broke through the bone. There was a burning sharp pain, more intense than anything I had ever felt before. He raised the knife again and removed the other hand. The pain was unbearable. I was sobbing and held up my now free arms, looking at where my hands used to be. Blood was pouring down my arms at an unbelievable rate. I was extremely dizzy.

            I looked up at Ted, his face splashed with my blood. He reached into his front pocket of his jacket and pulled out a powder blue handkerchief. He wiped his face.

            “Clean her up”. He flicked his cigar into the corner of the room as he said this. It bounced off the wall before hitting the floor; the embers still glowed on the lit end of it. He turned; walked toward the door he came in, and faced me one last time with that evil smirk, before he pushed the door open and left.