Gerzsi

Every November, the whole river comes to the Harvest Fair: Mo with his flour, Spike with a cart of boards (counted), Hazel with walnut pies, Pippa with an appetite. This year Chef Tamás was asked to cook the big turkey for the fair supper. And this year, for the first time, he said: “Gerzsi is in charge. I’m only watching.”

Last year I had volunteered to carve and skipped the knife. “I’m a beaver,” I had said, and showed my teeth. Chef Tamás took the bird away before anyone got hurt, mostly the turkey. So this year the rule was clear: tools only.

Then a golden boat pulled up. Reggie the raccoon had entered his own turkey in the fair contest, with a smoke machine, a gold-plated baster and a hat taller than he was.

I had three things. A heavy roasting pan with a rack, so the bird wouldn’t bend the pan when I lifted it. A long carving knife, sharp from Mo’s rod. And a thermometer probe that stays in the bird, with a little display outside the oven that beeps when it’s done. No poking. No guessing. No opening the oven every five minutes.

Reggie opened his oven eleven times to admire his turkey. Every time, the heat rolled out. My probe beeped at exactly the right moment, the bird rested twenty minutes while Pippa made the gravy, and the slices came off looking like slices.

Chef Tamás tasted a piece, and nodded once. Then he said the words I’d waited a whole season for: “Next season, you’re my sous-chef.”

Reggie came second. He says the smoke machine was misunderstood. Something tells me he’ll be at the Winter Market.

Gerzsi and his friends (and rivals) are made up. Chef Tamás and his lessons are real.