to make the biscuits, and they could again. She could have talked about how all restaurants needed the support of their suppliers. Or avoided the first question. Or insisted they talk to Nancy. Or faked her own sudden death from choking on an ice cube.
By the time the place finally cleared out, she was exhausted. Everyone around her was limp, quiet, the celebratory mood of the night before replaced by a sort of anticlimactic silence. All that was left, filming-wise, was the chicken tasting tomorrow and then the big announcement.
Amanda wanted to talk to Nancy, to make things right, to apologize for the biscuits and maybe the chicken and anything she could think of to get Nancy on her side again, but Nancy was avoiding her, and with Sabrina and her team still in the restaurant, it felt impossible to just grab her and insist that they talk. Instead, Amanda, running her sweeper furiously over the patterned carpet, was caught by Sabrina, sitting on a table, somehow managing to arrange her short dress to perfectly show enough leg to be sexy but not sleazy, high heels dangling from her fingers.
“Frozen biscuits, huh?” she said with a frown. “They kinda nailed you with that one.”
Irritated, Amanda pushed the sweeper toward the host, who laughed and lifted her feet higher so that Amanda could get under the table. “Everybody uses frozen stuff,” she said. “Why were they making such a big deal out of it?”
“Because Mae did. She made sure they tasted Mimi’s biscuits, with the fresh local honey. Said they were just as much part of the tradition as the chicken.”
Amanda could not remember Mae ever saying one single thing about Mimi’s biscuits, which were just the same as anybody made. And she didn’t remember any special honey, either. “There’s no such thing as a special biscuit recipe. I mean, some people make them better than others, but basically there’s only a couple of ways to do it.”
“That’s not what Mae said. And she made sure Cary and James knew yours were frozen, too.”
“They freeze theirs! They make them once a week and freeze them. That’s what we used to do, too. They actually bake better that way. This is ridiculous.”
“Well, Cary Catlin loved that every one of the three things Mimi’s serves besides chicken was totally homemade, and then that the pies were, too. She kept saying how brilliant it was to specialize. She asked your mother what happened when they ran out, and your mom said, ‘We close,’ and Cary laughed like crazy. Called it brilliant.”
Frankie, who was wielding the second sweeper while Gus lifted chairs up onto tables, stopped, with a worried look on her face. “Does that mean we’re going to lose, Mom?”
“But Frannie’s makes a whole lot more than four or five things,” Gus said angrily. “We might not make everything from scratch, but we actually make way more than Mimi’s does—the meatloaf, the mashed potatoes, the gravy, the coleslaw, all the chicken, the wings, the steak with mushrooms, soup when we have it—it takes three cooks. That’s not fair.”
Sabrina shrugged, her perfect slim shoulders in their perfectly styled wrap dress irritating Amanda as much as her words. “Not everybody plays Food Wars fair. A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money. Your aunt wants to win; that’s all.”
“Well, we want to win, too,” Frankie said.
Sabrina chuckled. “She told them to be sure to ask you, too, Amanda. Said you couldn’t tell a lie to save your life.”
“I don’t need to lie about that,” Amanda said hotly, even though she’d been partially wishing she had all night. “Making biscuits the way we do is absolutely the right call for us right now. Mae’s just being a—a jerk.” She could have lied if she had wanted to. Or thought of it fast enough. She listened as Gus went on and on to Sabrina about the costs that went into the kitchen, and why frozen food made good sense. He knew more about it than Amanda did, surprisingly, and Frankie, too, was passionate in her defense of everything Frannie’s did. Was this how Amanda was supposed to feel? Because what she felt, mostly, was exhausted beyond caring, and like maybe Frannie’s was better off without her.
“I get it, Gus, but what can I do? The chefs are the judges,” Sabrina said. “Right now, Mae’s looking good to them. She’s the queen of all things honest and homemade, even if it’s not really any better. And you should