“Well, since you prepared it, young lady, why don’t you tell us how it is cooked?” Ambrose asked.

Nell blushed hotly as Mrs. Quince shuffled back, pushing the young maid up to the microphone. “W-well, the elderberries come from Rosebury Wood,” she said very quickly, like a speedy little kitchen rodent desperate to get out of sight. “A-and, and the h-hare was caught in a nearby field.” She stopped, looking as if she might faint, and then quickly backed away, hustling Mrs. Quince back to the microphone.

Is that the best she can do?

Mrs. Quince continued. “Wild game is a good way to get meat without using rations. Since the elderberries have a natural sweetness, we didn’t need to use much of our sugar rations, and the wine adds a slight tang to the dish, evening out the flavors.” Her voice was that of an old woman, soft and knowledgeable, an experienced cook who knew about food.

    Lady Gwendoline felt a shudder of annoyance. Mrs. Quince would work a treat on the radio.

Thank heavens she doesn’t want the presenter’s job for herself, only for the tongue-tied maid who won’t stand a chance.

Meanwhile, Ambrose’s eyes seemed to open wide with excitement at the dish before him. This was the type of starter he was used to eating in his London clubs. He quickly leaned in and cut a large amount of hare, dolloped it in the sauce, added a slurry of the elderberries, and swept it into his mouth.

Chewing slowly as he moved the food around his mouth, he nodded with delectation.

Lady Gwendoline’s heart sank. That was the look he was supposed to have had for hers. She eyed the clumsy maid behind the plump cook. Perhaps she was going to be more competition than she appeared.

Ambrose began his analysis. “Beautiful flavors. The hare is exquisite, rich, and gamey. I’d forgotten how different it is from rabbit, darker and much stronger in taste.” Ambrose gazed appreciatively at the remaining meat. “The elderberries really add to the dish, don’t they?”

“We thought they went perfectly.” Mrs. Quince stepped in to speak, utterly calm, as if expecting it all to go well. In contrast, the maid stood twisting her hands.

“Very good.” Ambrose nodded, moving on to the next contestant.

Audrey was looking especially bedraggled, her hair pulled up into a makeshift bun, dotted with what appeared to be flour.

“I’m Mrs. Audrey Landon,” she said without enthusiasm. “I’m a busy housewife and mother of three boys, and I have a small business baking pies and cakes for local cafés and restaurants.”

She took off the silver dome with more of an exhausted sigh than any relish. Before her sat a tawdry bowl of soup, grayish brown with a mass of fresh green herbs in the center.

    “Wild mushroom soup,” was all she said.

Ambrose took the spoon, and as he brought it to his mouth, he paused to linger over the smell. Even from where Lady Gwendoline stood, she could sense the depths of flavor.

Wild mushroom soup was a clever choice. Lady Gwendoline glared at her sister with displeasure.

On tasting, the look on Ambrose’s face summed it up: The soup was heavenly. His forehead creased, his eyes closed with languor, and his head slipped slightly to one side, as if in devotion to this one, special soup. He stopped for another few extra spoonfuls. “Just to be sure.”

“Can you tell us why you chose this dish?” Ambrose asked.

“Wild mushrooms are free for collection, from any wood, field, or hill,” Audrey muttered without aplomb. “You only need to know what you’re looking for—and make sure you don’t use any poisonous ones.”

Everyone laughed, except Ambrose, who eyed the bowl.

“What about the other ingredients?”

“I used a little milk from my rations, and for the cooking fat I cut the rind from a rasher of bacon as I’d run out of butter. I think it enhances the taste, though. Don’t you?” She wasn’t a natural speaker. Her tone was a little surly, as if she had better things to do.

Ambrose took another spoonful. “It’s absolutely delicious. Such an extraordinary blend of tastes. It’s truly heartwarming, a cozy dish to have nestled up beside a fire on a chilly night.”

Suddenly aware that the crowd was waiting, Ambrose pulled himself together and moved on to the fourth and final competitor.

“My name is Zelda Dupont.” Her voice was loud and self-assured, her mouth perhaps too close to the microphone as she zealously leaned forward to speak into it. “I am a professional haute cuisine restaurant chef, formerly of the Dartington Hotel.” Her attitude was smug and spirited. “I’ve worked in some of the top hotels in London, and now I’m doing my bit for the war as head chef in a factory.”

    As she whisked off the silver dome, there was a gasp from the audience, and Ambrose let out a delighted “Ah!”

It was Coquilles St. Jacques, a bold move. Two shells glistened, inside them a dense pale creamy sauce coated the scallops, the top golden with breadcrumbs.

“My Coquilles St. Jacques are made with fresh scallops, which sit on a bed of mushroom duxelles, beneath a light béchamel sauce, and topped with toasted cheese and breadcrumbs.”

Ambrose tucked into one heartily, taking a good portion of scallop, which was cooked to perfection, sliding apart as he cut it open. He piled on a good portion of the sauce and brought it to his mouth, smelling its buttery bouquet before popping it in.

He worked it around his mouth. “Yes, it’s superb. Is that vermouth I can taste?”

“Yes, I used the traditional French recipe.” She looked to the audience, the newspapermen especially. “I trained in Cordon Bleu cookery.”

It was all getting too much for Lady Gwendoline. “But what about the rationing?” Her clear voice resounded throughout the hall. “Butter is heavily rationed—most people wouldn’t have enough to spare for a sauce like this. Scallops are near to impossible to get. Where did you get them?”

A flush came over Zelda’s face.

“I got them fair and square,” she blurted out with more than a hint of her London cockney. Then she pulled herself together and reverted to her carefully modulated accent. “I dare say that all these things can be found or saved up for with a little local knowledge and some patience with the queues.”

But the die had been cast. Many had a pretty shrewd idea of who Zelda had approached to secure the scallops. As Lady Gwendoline looked with satisfaction around the audience, she could see a few of them mouthing “black market,” the newspapermen busy scribbling notes.

With the professionalism that had kept him employed for decades, Ambrose quickly defused everything with his smooth smile. “Sadly, in this war, not everyone has the time or energy to go hunting for rare or extravagant ingredients.” He shot a parting look of longing at the Coquilles St. Jacques as he made his way back to the side of the stage, where a technician leaped out to restore his microphone to its stand.

    “Get on with it, Ambrose!” someone called from the audience—possibly the vicar again, hoping to pop into the pub afterward, no doubt.

“After such a high standard of culinary expertise, it is incredibly difficult to decide on a result. Suffice it to say,” Ambrose continued, “a winner there must be, and so I shall announce the points for tonight’s dishes.”

A murmur started up and then was quickly shushed.

“Lady Gwendoline’s sardine rolls”—he looked at his notebook rather than meeting her eye—“were very well put together, if a little fishy.” He turned to her. “You have clearly demonstrated that resourceful use of available foods can create a very nutritious starter. I have decided to award you a six out of ten.”

Six out of ten! Lady Gwendoline felt blood rushing to her face with humiliation, quickly followed by a jolt of fear. What will my husband say?

But she was far too clever to let her anxiety show, and a gracious smile quickly spread across her lips. A ripple of applause went around the audience.

Ambrose silenced the crowd with a small cough. “Mrs. Quince and Miss Nell Brown, your wild hare was delicious. The elderberries made a superb accompaniment. You get a nine out of ten.”

The pair of them looked like overjoyed schoolgirls, the silly maid jumping in the air a little. Lady Gwendoline bestowed congratulations on them, using the superior air she reserved for the village fete, while inwardly she seethed.

Ambrose moved along to the next contestant.

“Mrs. Audrey Landon, you balanced the different flavors impeccably, and yet the ingredients were so simple and readily available that any home cook could duplicate it. These two components made yours the best dish here tonight, with ten points.”

    Frustration seized Lady Gwendoline like a grip around her heart. How can Audrey’s paltry soup win! She’s just a scruffy housewife, not fit for the radio.