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No way.
In all my years of slinging gumbo, I had never once made such a rookie mistake.
I couldn’t breathe. Everything moved in slow motion. The judge had thankfully been careful enough to not swallow it, but that didn’t stop her from giving me a raised eyebrow as she marked down her score on her pad.
They moved on to the next and final contestant, then gathered in the middle of the stage, quietly discussing their verdict. Having to stand there for a good five minutes as they tallied up the results was a special kind of torture, because I knew there was no way I’d be getting even third place with that blunder.
I looked over the crowd, a cold sweat breaking out over my skin, and I wondered just how many people saw the judge spit something out from my dish.
I glanced down at my shirt, which had “Miss Gumbo” written in big letters, with a cartoon version of my grandma grinning proudly with a big pot in her hands.
This was so embarrassing.
I could practically feel the smug satisfaction radiating off Jacob, who was third to my right, as the announcer called everyone’s attention and started to announce the winners.
“Third place goes to… Chef Duval for his magnificent Shrimp Gumbo.”
Polite applause echoed throughout the crowd as the winner accepted his award, looking a bit surprised.
“Second place goes to Chef Bordeaux with his Spicy Crawfish Gumbo.”
Cheers and applause rang out, and I recognized him as one of my friendlier food truck rivals. I was happy for him; his dishes definitely packed a punch.
“And finally, the winner is… Chef Laurent with his Creole Gumbo!”
Yup. That was Jacob.
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause as Jacob approached center stage, accepting his award and making all sorts of humble gestures like he had never expected to win.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, trying to maintain what was left of my dignity as I had to applaud him.
I would have happily applauded any other hard-working chef. But this guy? I could almost feel my soul leaving my body.
I was done.
If I had any reputation left before this competition, it had been obliterated in an epic, painful fashion.
As the applause died down and the people started dispersing, I made a beeline for the contestant tent, hastily packing up my equipment and dumping the leftovers in the trash.
It was a waste, but who knew how many chicken bone splinters that bastard tossed in when I wasn’t looking.
And that was when I heard a cold, familiar laugh from behind me.
“Ah, Zoe. Such a shame,” Jacob said with mock sympathy.
I scowled, not even bothering to turn around and face him. “Go away.”
“Guess the pressure got to you, huh? Don’t feel so bad. It happens to some people.”
“Don’t you have a trophy to make out with? Because I know there’s no way in hell you got a girl back home with that winning personality.”
Jacob leaned onto my station counter and glanced around. “Doesn’t look like you’re doing any better, all alone back here. Couldn’t find anybody to put up with your annoying clinginess?”
“Wow,” was all I could muster.
“Though, maybe it could be fun to explore this new… sassier side of you.”
I turned to give Jacob a piece of my mind, but what I saw behind him made me lose all words.
