THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ four ◘

After four straight days of filming two shows every day, I was pretty beat. But it was thrilling to see so many people in the audience, all so enthused with the program.

Some days they cheered for me to be picky, for me to make funny faces as I ate the dishes presented to me. And some days they encouraged the guest chef, wanting them to succeed.

In those four days, I consumed a lot of elements I rarely, if ever, did. Mushrooms disguised as meat—that one didn't work on me—or spices chopped up and mixed in a way that masked most of the spiciness. Vegetables pureed and baked and sauteed into meals I'd have occasionally been fooled into eating. Spaghetti, sandwiches, hell, one chef even made a full-on pizza, fully cooked in the small amount of time allotted.

I spent most evenings at home, nursing a glass of wine, rehashing all the shows, the people I'd met. These chefs weren't successful yet, but they were on the right path, and I told them as much after every cut! We weren't enemies—I believed chefs should support each other, and so I wanted to support these folk by inviting them on my show, giving them exposure.

But while I had some say in who we invited to participate, ultimately, Grace and Archie made the big decisions.

As such, I was often not informed of the day's guests until that morning, in the makeup chair. There'd been one individual I'd heard bad rumors about, and upon seeing their name on the call-sheet, I'd almost stormed out of my dressing room to demand an explanation.

Grace and Archie both knew of my preferences. I'd given them lists of things not to do, such as surprise me with a guest chef that I didn't particularly like, or one who had a reputation for a bad attitude. It was nothing personal; some people I simply didn't wish to work with.

Grace and Archie obviously didn't care about my preferences, but they sure pretended to when they took note of my list. I imagined it had gone through a shredder and was now in pieces somewhere in a trash bin.

I was picky, and not only with my food.

The food pickiness was...something else. Some saw it as a flaw, some considered it an asset in my cooking.

I couldn't say when it started, but while growing up in France—French father, American mother—I developed difficulties with eating everything on my plate. Certain textures bothered my tongue, certain tastes made me gag. Certain smells made my stomach churn, and certain foods made me upset only by looking at them. I had no allergies, but my dislikes grew, becoming more and more random, to the point where I had to accommodate wherever I went, as everyone around me had more open palates than me.

It was a constant struggle, and those who criticized me by saying it was all an act—I hated them. My distastes were real, and they were an issue I dealt with regularly. I didn't do this for fun.

But the cooking aspect of it all, sharing my aversions and how to work around them, was my passion. There were others like me out there—some even worse—and it was my duty to tell them we the picky eaters can eat too!

On my way to Studio City, exactly a week after the first taping, I was quiet in the car. Most days I chatted with Cole about what had happened at work, or we'd discuss a TV show we both enjoyed watching. It was seldom so silent in the SUV, but that day, it was.

I was too exhausted to speak, my throat starting to swell at the notion of having to talk and talk and talk to the cameras and to the audience. While the show was cut and edited to fit into an hour time-slot, each filming actually took several hours, and most of them were spent in the public eye. I didn't run back into my dressing room while the chef worked, as some might have expected me to. A huge metallic curtain separated us, and all I could do was sit there and let my nose pick up on scents while they chopped, emulsified, mixed, baked.