A/N: A very happy new year to the sweetest Beans in the universe! This chapter took me a little longer than usual to write thanks to my brain hyperfocusing on research eep. You will see why by the end of the chapter, which contains a surprise (especially if you're an old reader who read the whole of Wax before the rewrite). 

The new dish featured in the first part of the chapter was also thanks to the additional team challenge in the previous few chapters, where Leroy was already given the chance to cook risotto, so technically I was still able to include the dishes from the original while adding a ton more substance to the other challenges. 

Unfortunately, the year hasn't quite started off right for a lot of countries around the world but I hope these few words every week can somewhat provide you with a brief respite of that weight on your shoulders—however small.

Enjoy.

________________

[Leroy]

"Affogato."

He'd said under his breath with a blank sheet of paper between us and two seconds down on the clock. I started the timer on my G-Shock and looked up. He wasn't kidding.

"You wanna serve... a drink." I stared.

"Why not?" Syrup sectioned out the top half of the planner, listing ingredients. Pistachio. Espresso. "It fits your theme—hot and cold. I know gelato, and you know flavors. It's more dessert than beverage, really. A quintessential Italian temperature-contrast dessert like that? Where else are you going to do it?"

"... Yeah but just coffee and ice cream won't cut it." I laid out, acknowledging its relevance to the concept but pointing out the complete lack of technique. Half my brain felt like the guy was pushing his luck; trying to get me eliminated while he was at it 'cuz the thing is, all he had to do here was assist me. Nothing else. I grabbed the pen and, in front of the title of the dish he mapped out, added the word savory. "A twist."

"A savory affogato?"

"Can't be an afterthought. Needs to be polished." I looked at the top two ingredients he added so far. "We'll do a pistachio infused espresso. The gelato... parmagianno regianno."

I was no barista; and with my achilles heel in the picture, this was a shot in the dark. All I had was two years of experience working at an ice cream parlor that served coffee, tea, and seasonal drinks I'd come up with. A five-second sketch of the dessert on the bottom sheet of paper made things a little easier to visualize.

"You do sweets all the time," I drew puffs of circles around the rim of the cup. "Hazelnut streusel for texture. Tuile on the side. Rosemary. Compliments the gelato. We're going for something rich. Nutty. Savory."

"I've never heard of a savory affogato," Syrup laughed. "And I thought my idea was out of the box. Isn't this a little too risky? Aren't you... y'know, afraid they're gonna send you home for a dish like that?"

I snorted, running through the list of ingredients. "It's a wildcard but I'm here to stay."

As we headed to the pantry to grab the stuff we needed, I knew my confidence wasn't unfounded. The dish was wholly Italian despite the twist. Italian flavors; Italian ingredients—conceptually, it was a dream come true. And most importantly, this working out could mean a ton of open doors in my head. More ideas to come. More to impress with.

"Affogato!" Pao came by our station for a chat and burst out loud the moment I slid him the planning sheet. "Mmm I love. The best thing about it is I can walk down any street here and find good affogato. But then that make your job very difficult, no? How will you stand out?"

We worked on separate components: Syrup on the streusel and tuile. Me on the coffee and gelato. Tasting as we went. Truth was, I had to rely on his judgement for the stuff I had trouble making out. Even the gelato needed some balancing.

"It's savory." I told Pao. "Not your usual dessert."

Two stations down, curious deer had his ears perked. His attention appeared fixed on Saito and Du Bellay's mise, but you could tell from the tiny flinch of his fingers, hidden behind his back (visible at an angle), and the slight tilt of his head. The chain on his glasses was a dead giveaway.

"Savory! Ay you have me excited now."

The coffee was a classic Italian espresso blend; a dark roast with chocolate notes and a zing that resembled berries. Infusing the flavor of pistachios in coffee was a Sicilian thing they called 'Green Gold' and something Raul used to rave about back then. He'd have it every morning in the kitchen of Cayenne Lodge; just that and nothing else. Making the paste from scratch was a pain in the ass, but part of the appeal. Nothing beats a homemade blend of bold and nutty flavors.

"Churn it at fifty percent," Syrup turned down the dial on the Nemox ice cream machine while I prepped the gelato base. "It needs to go really slow."

"Fifty's too high." I corrected. "Thirty max."

He seemed surprised at my confidence. "We did fifty yesterday for the challenge."

"Then it wasn't good enough." I gave it straight, running the back of a spoon on the surface of the base and handing it to him. "Try."

The pause was loud. I didn't mind the doubt; number one rule in the kitchen was to never cross the expert. Syrup was the only pastry chef on the show. But this was my station he was cooking at. He was assisting.

Three seconds and I could tell the past couple of weeks turning station twelve's kitchen into a lab had paid off. That, and the ancient book of recipes written by a sixteen-year-old idiot, loaned by his favorite librarian.

"It's... good." His tone was vague. Shock, surprise, and confusion all at once. "Really good. How did you come up with this? You don't... seem like a fan of desserts."

"I am."

So here's the kicker: not everyone likes olive oil in their ice cream. The dish not being a dessert was a plus; parmigiano reggiano meant a base flavor that was distinct, rich, and salty—the opposite of what anyone would expect digging into a bowl of classic gelato. Some extra virgin olive oil would give it a fruity dimension on top of adding to the creaminess. With notes of pepper. Mellow green. A different profile.

Simple from afar. Complex up close.

It was the ingredient that bridged the gap between sweet and salty. Challenging tradition, but sticking to the foundations of Italian flavors. Almost like a seesaw.

Half the recipe was something'd I'd come up with on the fly.

The other half was a combination of instinct and experience. Whatever my gut was telling me to do, I did; after all, playing favorites with snow in my head was an everyday thing. Except now, there was someone else in the picture trying to see if I'd got it all right, and he was the only other person in the kitchen with normal taste buds.

"Plate up," I told him. "First trial."

Syrup got out some fancy glassware; footed, with a rustic handle. The kind you'd see in a high-end French bistro in the heart of Paris. At the bottom, he layered crumbles of Nocciola streusel, freshly baked, and on top of that, a gelato quenelle with a warm spoon. Tuile on top. Coffee by the side. Modern presentation.

"What do we think?"

"... Doesn't feel very Italian," I laid out honestly. "I'm not going for haute. The idea is to play with the senses; you think it's an affogato you get on any street but dig into it and you'll be surprised." I spotted an ordinary coffee cup and saucer set on a shelf with minimal design. Something I'd seen at markets and at the gelato store I paid a visit to on the first day. "Like that."

"A two-euro coffee cup?" He followed my gaze and clearly hadn't seen this coming. "I mean it's... fine, I guess. It works with your concept." He shrugged, tipping the mini pitcher of hot coffee over the hole in the tuile before picking up a spoon and breaking into it for a taste of every component in one mouthful.

I held off on tasting, grabbing the cup set off the shelf and a traditional ice cream spade from one of the drawers.

"That's yours," he said, nodding at a spoonful he prepared and fixing his eyes on mine the moment I returned. "I had mine."

His wording was confusing. "And...?"

"Taste it first," he nodded, again, at the trial plate and I stopped dead for a second. It was standard procedure for chefs to be tasting and adjusting elements of a dish in the kitchen, adding or subtracting on the go but the guy was refusing me an opinion. For what? Bias?

First thoughts went straight into the flames.

Something being off about the dish; a test to see if I'd figure it out on my own. Syrup never struck me as the manipulative type—the kind of guy to play mind games with people around him—he was always smiling and laughing around the Mavs, helping out whenever he could, but it was things like the note he left at my station back at The Shard that gave him away. Something was up.

"..."

"You don't want to taste it?" He stared.

I paused. Then, reached for the spoon.

Not everyone knows, but doubt is bitter. It flavors every dish in a way that smothers and blinds like it was never there in the first place, leaving traces on the tongue. Sometimes, I taste it. It's not in the list of ingredients, nor is it anywhere in the kitchen, but it's there. In the dish; on that spoon.

I waited for my palate, staring at a spot on the counter until it answered and things began to click. Ten minutes left. The timer on my watch kept me in check while I searched the pantry for the exact spice that presented itself in my head.

Fennel pollen.

Not exactly the kind of ingredient you'd think of to go with dessert, let alone ice cream. Ranked fifth on the list of most expensive spices in the world. After cinnamon. The first being saffron. Vanilla, second.

"Again, not what I expected, but," Syrup said after tasting it the second time, now with a dash of fennel pollen and sea salt mixed in. "You're full of surprises. I really like it."

I didn't know what else to say so I kinda just went with: "Okay."

Already I could hear the sound of snow in my head, going on about my mental dictionary and teaching me words I never knew existed like verbose. My watch beeped.

"Chefs! You have five more minutes." Pao called from the back of the hall, making his final round of all six duos before rejoining the judging panel—eyes lighting up as he passed our station and caught a glimpse of our setup.

Somewhere behind, I could hear Layla Tenner trying her best not to murder Andre on the spot. At the very least, one of them knew what they were doing.

Both Masters and Mavs made the most out of the last couple of minutes, plating up on heated dishes and then doubling it for the camera just in case. We were the only ones serving up something cold. No one else made dessert.

Missed opportunity, I thought. Maybe I shouldn't have opted for savory.

"Hope we're going last," Syrup said under his breath as he plated. "Just like how they serve it here, after a meal. Crossed fingers."

We stuck the cup and saucer in the chiller and kept the mini pitcher of coffee warmed right before they stopped the clock, and Streisand got up to ask: "Would any pair like to present their dish first?"

"These two." Classic Andre. For a guy in a double Master duo who got themselves a headstart of twenty minutes, he was out hunting for heads right from the get-go. Sadly for him, the judges outclassed the games he played.

"Alright then. Chef Tenner, Chef Andre—you're up first." Streisand gestured to the tasting counter with more than four cameras pointed dead center, ready for close-ups.

Their dish was pasta. Maccheroncini di Campofilone; what the masses called angel hair pasta, tossed in cream sauce, balsamic vinegar, and on top of that, shaved, paper-thin strips of culatello. Cured meat.

I didn't need to look at their station to know the pasta was made from scratch. Back then, Tenner had been the gold standard for every student in the school. She knew exactly how to make every type and have them shine on a plate.

Next up was Sparrow and Raz with their protein: a rack of lamb. Two Mavs, like us, meant no extra time on the clock. Yet, their dish was flawless.

Then, they called on our station.

Much earlier than we'd hoped and right after two back-to-back dishes that were rich and savory-forward. Not the best hand.

"Please introduce your dish." He fixed his glasses and blinked twice at the cup and saucer. Imaginary deer ears perked. Curiosity piqued.

"No." I handed him the mini pitcher of hot espresso. "Try it first." Outside, he kept his cool. Inside, I could tell he was dying to treat me to a war of posh, proper English.

Pao chuckled to himself. "Ay. Don't mind if I do. Quick, Banilla! Pour it."

"It's affogato, no?" Guest judge Siegfried Cox picked up a dessert spoon prepped by Syrup, watching the smooth, dark green espresso fill the diamond-shaped hole in the middle. Skeptical was the word. "A classic one, at that. Aligns with your concept of hot and cold, but..."

They helped themselves to dessert. No separate servings; just four people digging into the same two-euro coffee cup. For the first two seconds, Pao held it in. And then, he caved.

"What did I tell you?" He laughed. Sounded straight out of a cartoon. The kind I would've liked to watch when I was a kid but instead, found myself stuck with cooking channels and instructional vids on how to work a rotisserie broiler and liquid nitrogen.

Their faces, neutral, broke into amusement. Siegfried's was one of surprise.

"It's..."

"A savory affogato." I pointed at the rim. "Nocciola streusel. Parmagianno Regianno gelato. Pistachio-infused espresso; something they do in Sicily. And rosemary tuile."

"I love it. Taking something so simple, so humble, and reframing it within the realm of Italian cuisine." Streisand nodded, tasting the gelato a second time. "Whose idea was this?"

I gestured to the side. Syrup had his hand raised. "He suggested affogato. I came up with savory."

"And the fennel pollen?" He nailed the spice without me having to say a word and yet, his tone was reserved like first snow. Taking no credit. Drawing no attention.

"Last-minute addition after tasting," I said. "Highlights the rosemary that compliments the richness of the parm."

"There's a touch of sweetness coming through all that savory, earthy—almost peppery mix. Gives it a whole other dimension even I wouldn't have thought of," Streisand picked the streusel apart and crumbled it in her fingers. "You've also made Chef Pao go quiet, which is frankly quite frightening."

"Ay, no." The cup was in Pao's hands before anyone knew what was happening. "You three talk so I can eat."

"I can see the appeal." Siegfried added suddenly. Like he was swayed by the positive comments coming from the rest of the judges and thought of expressing his own. "The element of surprise and the unexpectedness of it all, coming from what appears to look... ordinary. I think the two of you nailed that aspect of it. Savory gelato was not what I expected, but I must admit, it's... what's the word—"

"Well-balanced," he finished on Siegfried's behalf. After all, he was the one genius who could read the mind of an idiot. "Like a seesaw."

Streisand nodded. "I think we can all agree that this is levels above blue team's gelato we had yesterday. Taste, yes; it is complex, layered, and addictive, but concept-wise, it also challenges the traditional perception of what affogatos can be."

"It's genius!" Pao concluded, drinking straight from the cup like he was at a cafe down the street with no cameras around.

I felt a nudge in my side. It was Syrup.

"We did it!" He said under his breath, holding up a hand.

Truth was, I hadn't expected the positive reaction. At least not to the extent of praise like Streisand and Pao had put across, or the way Siegfried had decided to set aside his expectations in favor of the camera and, dunno, maybe think it'd somehow change my opinion of him, 'cuz it won't. Coming up with savory flavors for a dessert simply meant I wasn't ready for actual dessert as is, and by no means was I mentally prepared to confront my condition with a stranger cooking beside me, so.

I didn't think we'd actually pull it off.

The whole thing made me question my judgement for a bit; if the reason I had my guard up around the other chefs was having to hide my achilles heel, or if it was something else. Easily, I'd say I got along with Sparrow but most of that was thanks to having common ground. Similar personalities.

Syrup on the other hand, was not the kind of person I'd start a conversation with, let alone befriend.

"Good run." I opted for the standard elbow bump in the kitchen instead of the five he was waiting for. Handling food with bare hands meant keeping them clean at all times, so elbow taps or forearm bumps were a thing.

He laughed. "Never doubt desserts again, yeah?"

It was you I doubted, not desserts. The filter-free voice in my head admitted real quick but I knew it wasn't something he needed to hear (more specifically, I didn't like the sound of dealing with the aftermath or spending energy trying to). Either way, the challenge had me thinking twice about the weird gut feeling I had against him all this time.

Maybe, I had my guard up for no good reason.

"This looks unfinished."

I looked up from clearing my bench. All attention was on the next duo a station down: Amaranth and Jones, a Master-Mav pair that meant ten minutes extra on top of the hour we were given. Siegfried was frowning at whatever they'd presented on a fancy wide-rimmed plate.

Ravioli. Lobster ravioli.

One of Siegfried's signature dishes from his very first Michelin-star restaurant in New York. Also one of the dishes he made me refire five weeks straight. Every single time I made it, he'd tell me to do it again. Everything about his cooking came down to razor-sharp precision. A single strand of saffron could make or break a dish.

"It's handmade lobster ravioli in a saffron cream sauce, chef."

"No," the guest judge laughed under his breath and stuck a spoon in, fishing for something. Apparently, nothing. "It's soup. Clearly, the ratios are off. And—why is this so watery?"

As far as I knew, Amaranth was a private chef for celebs looking for a clean diet. Her dishes were about making vegetables the star, incorporating Caribbean spices and flavors that made her cooking stand out in the UK. Even with an alias, she was well-known among the Mavs for knowing her ingredients.

Italian cuisine and seafood, though. Seemed pretty out of her depth. Paired with Jones who was really more of a businesswoman than a chef, things weren't looking too good. Either way, she wasn't on the chopping board.

Jones was.

"Whose idea was lobster ravioli?" Streisand asked mid-chew.

"Mine, chef." Jones said.

Pao had swallowed and reached for water.

And apparently, the best critics don't allow subpar standards anywhere near their system. No swallowing if it didn't meet their standards. I watched him calmly gesture for a paper towel, and spit his portion out. Hey. Might have to happen some time in the future since, y'know, volume... was a problem of mine.

"The filling is slightly overdone. And there's caviar in this, on top of the overwhelming truffle and saffron, resulting in an... extremely salty dish."

"Was this, uh, seasoning... intentional, Chef Amaranth?" Pao asked.

"Well I... suggested a butter sage sauce to keep things simple, but." She looked uneasy. "I dunno."

"That was not what you said."

"You weren't listening to me so I wouldn't expect you to know what I said either."

So the blame game became a thing. Not just between Jones and Amaranth, but Hyde and Popo too. Surprisingly. The latter pair was mostly one-sided, with Hyde making weird comments like the difference between their culinary knowledge and techniques they were familiar with. Hyde being a modern gastronomy chef with flair and finesse while Popo 'stuck to old-fashioned roots' which, kinda. Felt like a diss.

Popo did not say anything in return.

The clear winner was an easy spot. No arguments; everyone could tell it was toque-worthy the moment they brought it up to the panel and the smell of an Italian home kitchen at dinnertime hit the air.

"Hill-Roasted Rabbit." Coniglio Arrosto.

Du Bellay and Saito's dish was a combination of French precision and Japanese nuance.

The most difficult protein ended up producing the most confident plate. This was a bone-in section of rabbit, skin-on, crisped and lightly bronzed, rendered enough for the perfect cook and aroma. Four Taggiasca olives, warmed and glazed in pan juices, placed intentionally. And a spoon of polenta. Clean.

"This is Liguria on a plate," Siegfried started off with high praise for his sous chef, sectioning the rabbit into four portions and you could tell from the way he'd cut into it with ease, the cook on it was perfect. "Very rustic."

"This is exactly what Italian cuisine is about. Place, method, and memory."

"My kind of cooking!" Pao said before sending his serving straight into his mouth. The look on his face said it all. "Food from home. Doesn't this remind you of your grandmother, Chef Cox?"

"Yes indeed." He turned. "Any thoughts, Mr. White?"

"... Well." He placed his cutlery aside. "The slow process of roasting rabbit is often seen as a liability in commercial kitchens. Only those willing to give their time and effort make it this way, and why else would anyone be so willing to care for a small portion of protein for such a long time if not out of love?

"Every component of the dish was carefully crafted; as though the two of you knew exactly what to cook the moment you saw your card. Yes, the twenty additional minutes may have helped, but the fact that every detail, every flavor profile down to the specks of herbs dusted on the side of the bone felt intentional—with complete purpose—I cannot help but think... it is a plate that breathes." He finished quietly.

High praise.

Words I'd like to earn one day. Not in private, surprisingly; just the side of him that could understand a chef's true intentions despite remaining neutral and objective felt, always, so attractive to the flame. I was drawn to that since the beginning. Now, even more.

Already, Pao was taking things into his own hands and checking out their station for seconds. Siegfried motioned for cut while they turned their backs to discuss the winning dish.

"I hope it's us! The advantages that come with wearing the toque gets you so far ahead, it's almost unfair. If we get it, the next challenge is gonna be a piece of cake." Syrup came over to say, hands clasped in front of his chest.

"It's them." I nodded at Du Bellay and Saito exchanging words of gratitude and a handshake over the countertop. "They understood the brief. Delivered exactly what Italian cuisine is about."

I was right.

Layla Tenner was called up to return her silver pin and in her place stood the two of them, Saito and Du Bellay, side by side as the guest judge wore the new silver toques on the lapels of their whites. It was official: three Masters, zero Mavs so far. Tough luck.

For a moment, I wondered how it felt for a sous chef to receive something like that from her mentor of more than ten years. Her gaze lingered on him a second longer than the norm, before he turned away from the two of them to tell the cameras how their dish brought up memories of his past. His grandmother's cooking.

Could be real. Could be complete cap, for all I know.

Either way, I wasn't a stranger to home cooking; Annie's or my own. Grandmother's cooking on the other hand, was foreign ground I'd never tread. Family ties stopped at parents and nothing else. Annie's cut her off at eighteen and she never looked back. Siegfried just told his to stay out of the spotlight, out of his way. Sitting at a full-house round table at Thanksgiving with more than ten dishes displayed felt nearly impossible. At least now, it did.

Because if Thanksgiving seven years ago was anything to go off on, I could see myself prepping obligatory pumpkin pies for the rest of my life as an apology to his godfather.

Annie would like him. Rexi would, too.

Made me wonder. How Siegfried spends his holidays. In the kitchen with his crew didn't sound too far off, knowing him. Then again, his sous chef was the one who came up with a winning dish that represented the heart of Italian cuisine—Grandmother's kitchen, elevated. Another chef to learn from.

Cooking at that level was knowing emotion and restraint; understanding when and how, exactly, memories could be tasted. Savored in a dish.

Even if they tasted bitter.

______________

"Jones is missing out." Raz had his eyes half closed, slumped on the row of boarding gate seats across mine. "I feel bad for her."

"I feel bad for us." Amaranth turned to say. "She gets to pack up and head home after the shoot instead of hopping on a bus thirty minutes later to the airport. It's four-fucking-AM in the morning and none of us have had any proper sleep since London. Also, Jones did insist on the ravioli even though I said it wasn't going to work, so."

The ride to Heathrow was filled with Mavs, high on adrenaline, sharing about their personal experience working with the Masters: namely Jones (Amaranth's duo) and Esme (Popo's), who, coincidentally, were the only two out of the six we've gotten the opportunity to work with one-on-one so far.

Gossip was the word. Except I don't exactly partake in things like that, so sitting at the back with Sparrow and his sister was my solution. Most chefs on the show gradually stopped including him in conversations once they got tired of typing everything out on a phone and transcribing the flow of a long conversation with multiple voices in it. I realized then, Sparrow had probably learned it the hard way; that inclusivity was really just a front for capitalism. Boy, was my brain getting bigger the more time I spent with a certain genius.

Between him and I, things were a whole lot simpler.

I'd type some shit out on my phone and hold it out sideways for him to see. France eh.

He'd snort a laugh, do this thing with his brows while pulling out his own phone to type: Perfect place for a scandal with your favorite judge.

With people like him, I felt near zero pressure to interact socially all the time. Erlynn had something she called a 'friendship meter' which she used to indicate how close she was with that person. She told me mine was all over the place. That I didn't know or take the steps one usually took to get to the next 'level' of the meter and that she always had to be the one doing it. She said it was exhausting, being friends with someone like myself. I get it.

The fact that we were no longer friends proved one thing—just like fires that, under high pressure, burn a little hotter and spread a little faster, I wasn't suited for friendships like that.

No flashovers. No explosions.

Just chill vibes by the sea. A snow-capped mountain. A frozen lake. Skating across.

Sparrow taught me the sign for 'Paris' while we waited in line to board the plane to Bordeaux, a port city in the south-west of France. Known for its vineyards. Already, I knew my dog was going to have a field time just like he did at the olive farm back in Portofino.

Whoever thought of sending us on these field-trip-like masterclasses out of the city needed a raise. To me, they were the main event. Attempting to produce a respectful, authentic dish without even trying to experience or understand their culture and cuisine in the first place was a mistake made by amateurs and pros alike.

Siegfried was one of the first chefs on TV to openly campaign against cultural appropriation in cuisine more than twenty-five years ago. The start of his rise to fame.

"It's a pity we don't get to try each other's dishes during the challenges," I heard Popo say to Du Bellay two people down. "That rabbit must have tasted stunning, really. You did well, dear."

"That is very kind of you. I... well I didn't do it alone. Chef Saito is a master of nuanced flavors and presentation."

It was Saito's turn to deny politely and exchange a couple of formal compliments until they were asked by the pair behind them, Raz and Andre (Andre, more specifically) what their advantages were going to be this time for winning the toque.

"Well, it's not been announced to us either," Du Bellay said simply. Like Andre hadn't posed the stupidest question on earth. "We'd only know during the challenge. And with two winners this time round, I'd presume the advantages would require some additional thinking, no?"

"That sounds about right, dear." Popo nodded. "I hope it feels rewarding. Perhaps a little more spotlight for the two of you, even."

"Popo's just waiting for Will Carter to show up in a Bugatti right outside the Eiffel Tower in a beret with a baguette under his arm." Raz cracked up like a grandson would teasing his grandmother, to which she responded with a wriggle of her brows and a classic 'you know me'.

I remember Zales telling me Jaeger took a liking to Probie right away because they had one thing in common: both of 'em hated Hollywood. Movies weren't exactly my thing (if I had to put something up on a screen, it'd be wildlife documentaries or outdoor sports), but anyone who's seen a billboard knew who Will Carter was.

The guy was everywhere. And for him to show up at the launch party that night at The Shard felt a tad bit unreal but still. As far as I knew, he was just an ordinary dude starring in a couple of blockbusters bagging millions.

Wouldn't be surprised if Popo turned out to be a fan of his, though. A face like that appealed to a wide range of audiences regardless of age.

Still, to be chatting about Will Carter instead of catching a couple of Zs all through security and the departure hall was impressive. Twenty minutes later, us Mavs were packed on board with Masters across the hall, waiting for the rest of the production team to catch the earliest flight to Bordeaux, France.

I don't remember much of it.

The last time I visited was a couple of years into homeschool, spending a summer there while Siegfried kickstarted his new restaurant in the heart of Paris and showed me around the kitchen. I remember duck. Lots of it. And wine.

I was ten.

"Paris is my second home." I could hear Syrup from the row behind. Chicken and I had one to ourselves. "It's where I got my pastry degree and worked at Odette right by Notre Dam. London's great too but there's nowhere like Paris."

"Oh I hope we get there eventually. One of the girls who fixed my hair this morning said something about Paris being our next stop after Bordeaux. I did promise my children pictures of the eiffel tower..." Popo reached over to tap Du Bellay across the aisle who'd gone a little quiet. "Where in France are you from, dear?"

"... Bordeaux." Her smile was awkward. Didn't exactly look excited to be home. "Somewhere near... Saint-Émilion."

Most of the Mavs around got the hint: the subject was clearly sensitive. Only one other person in the vicinity went: "You're kidding. The first challenge is gonna be in Bordeaux so you'd have home advantage and the toque. That's plain cheating."

Du Bellay was not about to entertain the circus that Andre was. Everyone within earshot stared at him for his flawed logic, including the Masters. The guy was being a kid and no one was willing to give him the time of day except maybe Raz.

"Well, uh... we don't know if Bordeaux's the first challenge, right? They had us at that olive farm in Portofino first for the masterclass before—"

"Which was at Portofino." Andre cut him off. Several people looked ready to shut him up when Du Bellay herself drew the line.

"I don't consider Bordeaux my home," she said. "It's just where I was born."

Not gonna lie, I wasn't gonna spend the next two hours on the flight triple-thinking my definition of home but what Du Bellay said felt plenty valid. You can't exactly choose the town, city, or country you're born in; and just because you spent the longest time somewhere doesn't automatically make it your home either. Kids and babies don't get to make those choices until they're a whole lot older.

Where Du Bellay considered home was none of my business, but as we landed in Bordeaux and hopped on a ride to Saint-Émilion, a small medieval town forty minutes away, I kinda got what she meant. The lack of sleep and constant traveling did not help.

Fortunately, we arrived just in time for a weather check.

Snowstorms; with a chance of red.

"Bienvenue, chefs, to Bordeaux, the world's capital of wine." So this was the reason they cut his lines in Italy—they were saving it for France.

"Bordeaux has been the gold standard in the world of wine-making for centuries. Needless to say, chefs from all over the world have been using quality reds and whites from châteaus in this very region of France." His outfit was new. Clean dress shirt; rounded collar, and instead of a tie, a simple black ribbon. "And today, we have the honor of touring Château de Pressac in Saint-Émilion, one of the largest world-class vineyards owned and run by Monsieur Jean-François Quenin and Madame Dominique Quenin, who will be showing us around today and giving us a taste of some of the best wine France offers. Savourez bien."

A couple of cellar hands showed up with glasses of wine and platters of cheese. It was barely nine in the morning. No one cared. Drink first, think later.

"À la vôtre." He raised the glass between his fingertips after hovering it at an angle under his nose and sipped.

All of a sudden, the cameras did not matter. Nor the fact that each and every one of us were mic-ed up—the entire cast knew this was the closest we were going to get to an actual day off. My dog was making friends with the vineyard's guardian, a French Mastiff. Leo was sleeping on the ledge of a red window. Sunshine and blue skies all around. Vines crawling up the mansion walls. The one and only genius speaking his second language like an oasis in the desert.

"If only my honeymoon was this romantic," Popo beside me clinked her glass against mine, laughing a little. "I never knew Vanilla could speak French. I could listen to him all day!"

Same. Didn't even matter if I couldn't understand a word because he sounded like flowing water on a midsummer afternoon. The producers knew what they were doing.

Even Pao and Streisand kept to themselves while the owners brought us around for a tour.

"Saint-Émilion wine is prestigious red wine from the right bank. We are known for Merlot-dominant blends, tasting of rich fruit, elegance, and a lot of structure. The key grapes are, as you may know... Merlot, Cabernet Franc, and some, Cabernet Sauvignon."

There was nothing wrong with the guide's accented English; most of what they said were familiar terms used in fundamental wine pairing courses back in culinary school, but most of us Mavs on the team didn't exactly undergo the same sort of education I did.

Any time someone had a question, he was there to help. The fixers following us around were free to enjoy glasses of wine themselves, and the owners were paying him compliments non-stop. Both on his knowledge of their wine and his French.

"How are you so fluent?" Du Bellay asked him on our way back from the vineyard. "I was already surprised when you spoke after your meal at Arpège's many years back, but... you sound completely native."

Him, with humble pie for breakfast: "Oh no. Not at all, really. Our school had an external course by the Court of Master Sommeliers in our last year of studies and, well, Chef Marseille insisted I attend, and, um, back then, foundational terms were mostly in French, so. I did some reading and watching... French avant-garde and experimental films were my best friend. I'm still learning, though. My vocabulary is incredibly limited."

"But your pronunciation is perfect," she said. "Surely you've lived here for some time in the past?"

"Ah, yes. Approximately... three months, I'd say."

I caught Pao eavesdropping on the side, looking proud and smug; having a good time nursing his glass of wine. "Best day in weeks eh, Amelia? Free wine, no lines, nice weather, French Banilla."

Between the glass in my hand and the generous fill of Vanilla French (French Vanilla, dubbed by Pao) I was being treated to, there was a clear winner. Granted, I was never a big fan of wine. Used in recipes I'd memorized throughout my childhood, the drink was more of an ingredient than something I could sit back and enjoy.

Bourbon, on the other hand—yes. Most whiskeys.

"Wine is the cornerstone of French cooking. Red and white, both." The owner showed us an exclusive cellar where barrels of wine were aged, reserved for high-end restaurants all over France. Something about the reputation of the soil in Saint-Émilion that made them special.

They wrapped things up at a separate building they called the blending facility, handing out empty green bottles to the entire cast.

"Already, you have tried four different wines from our production. Some from tank, some from barrel. Most of our wines, we do seventy percent Merlot, thirty percent Cabernet Franc. But for your blend, up to you." The cellar hands around us brought out a handful of equipment. "You can cork it. Label it. Take it home, and use it in the kitchen. Or, to drink."

Measuring cylinders; test tubes; funnels; the kind you'd see in a chemistry lab at school. We were free to roam from barrel to barrel, interacting with the people from the winery and those around us. At this point, even half the crew were sipping wine and laying light on the cameras. It was fun to watch.

Merlot was the fruity kind. Cabernet Franc tasted bright. Fresh and tart. None of the four tasted sweet.

Just to be sure, I asked. "Dry table wines?"

"Yes." A cellar hand nodded with a smile. "All dry."

"Those aren't sweet. Don't worry." Syrup appeared at my shoulder, swirling his glass of Merlot. I slowed to a stop and stared.

"... I didn't ask."

He sort of brushed it aside, making a comment about the white Riesling I used the other time during the preliminaries, so I dropped it. The short back-and-forth stood out in my head and again, I put my guard up.

"Chefs. Get your blends ready to go in five minutes." Director Stan interrupted the tasting with some not-so-good news. "The judges will be tasting all eleven of yours and ranking them blindly. No pressure, not a challenge. We just want the shot, aight all?"

Instantly, all three judges holding empty bottles of their own in their hands (ready to make their own blends) were ushered elsewhere. All three did not look too happy about that. I spotted a sad snowflake set his bottle down on a table—slow and reluctant. He would've liked to make his own blend.

Scanning the rows of barrels, I knew percentages and ratios were never really my thing. It was only recently that I began experimenting with precision, but all throughout my life, cooking, to me, had nothing to do with measuring cylinders and test tubes. I got by in the kitchen relying on the tastebuds Siegfried had trained. Just raw flavor and nothing else.

Now, things were different.

Or so I thought.

I went heavy on the Merlot aged in new oak barrels and ended up coming in... last. Ranked eleventh.

"More wine for the young man!" Pao called out the moment this was revealed, all in good humor but deep down, I sorta sunk. Most of the crew were in high spirits from that much wine and couldn't give a shit about their blends (Saito came in tenth and laughed it off; Amaranth was ninth and wouldn't stop drinking her own).

I was the only one who checked in with the judges.

"Oh! Well, simply put, your blend was flat," Streisand had her filter reduced to zero after five glasses of wine. Drinking on the job. "Vanilla and I agreed that your overuse of the new oak ended up overpowering the fruit-forward, robust Merlot. Essentially, the wine lost its nuanced elegance."

"Yes. Correct." His gaze was slightly downcast as he stepped closer to join the conversation, stopping less than a foot away only to realize this wasn't the standard talking distance between a judge and a contestant before awkwardly shifting sideways. "Your ratios were terrible. You should, um, consider... engaging an expert. Is the advice."

If you knew him like I did, you'd know this was what he considered drunk flirting.

"Rubbish," Streisand shot him down. "Even an expert wouldn't be able to save a blend like that."

Okay, fuck. I guess.

Pao summarized their feedback by emphasizing, again, that drinking more wine was going to help but not gonna lie, I wasn't too happy with myself. The masterclass had nothing to do with sweet wines and yet, my tastebuds still found a way to fuck things up. Chicken sensed the wave of cortisol and stuck by my side the rest of our time at the winery. I nursed a near-empty glass while cameras went round for a quick word with the judges and contestants. Minimal interaction.

The owners then brought out regional specialties to pair with, and turned the entire tasting into a cocktail party in less than a second. Someone came by with a tray of Canelé de Bordeaux, bite-sized treats with a crisp, caramelized exterior and custard on the inside.

I turned her down but a pink snowstorm appeared by my shoulder to personally hand me one without noticing the server standing right in front of me before disappearing without a word. His version of try it, you must.

I did.

At first, I anticipated a complete lack of flavor and interest in the pop of pastry. Weirdly enough, I was... wrong.

I tasted alcohol. Dark rum. Then, a cloying impression around my tongue; a muted sweetness. It all condensed into something familiar on my palate that lingered in my head. I couldn't identify what it was.

The next thing they served was savory.

Foie gras. Again, not exactly my thing but the moment I spotted my personal librarian taking a tray from the server and going around the terrace, I couldn't turn him down. He arrived at my cozy spot under a tree without a word, holding out a perfectly-cut portion on a toothpick which I accepted.

It was only after popping it in my mouth that I realized: it wasn't the usual fancy dish you'd expect at a fine-dining restaurant.

There it was, again.

The familiar taste that lingered.

I looked around. No one was asking. Mavs, Masters, camera crew, even half the producers were on holiday mode, toasting over glasses of the winery's signature blend and small bites that went perfectly with the red.

No surprises; the masterclass pretty much knocked everyone out on the contestant's bus back to Bordeaux. Sparrow and his sister included. I stared out the window with my boy resting his head on my lap, waiting for that one flavor to get the hell out of my head. And when it didn't, I pulled out the notebook I loaned and wrote, in the same chicken scrawl: What the fuck is it?

Then, closed it and thought about private French lessons from the one expert I knew.

*

"The best way to learn about the cuisine in Paris is to experience it yourself with someone else," said Streisand minutes before the train from Bordeaux to Paris departed. The TGV inOui, they called it. "A companion."

Production had booked out the entire first and second class carriages and had us gathered at the in-car dining area on the upper deck for instructions. Most of everyone had sobered up by then; hard not to be with fifteen cameras now pointed at us from different angles. The bar was by no means small, but with the crew and sound guys all lined up, we were only a couple of feet from spiking the lens. Masters sat by the windows. Mavs stood in a row.

The first thing they did was give us a rose each. Red.

"It is, after all, dubbed the City of Love for a reason."

"Mm, Amelia is right. The most romantic thing to do: eat your way through a city... on a budget," Pao added with a smirk. "Before the team challenge tomorrow, each of you will get a hundred euros to spend for the rest of today. And if you are Chef Du Bellay or Chef Saito, voilà! Two hundred euros to explore the food scene in Paris."

"And what better way to do so than with perfect company?" He finished. "Mavericks. In the spirit of respecting those who came before you, we'd like to see you get along with our seasoned Masters. Two ends of the culinary world, learning from one another. As such... you will be spending the next seven hours—or perhaps even more—with a partner of your choice.

"Granted, the Master you choose may very well reject your rose. Should more than one Maverick wish to partner with a single Master, the latter must choose only one."

"Correct." Streisand nodded. "That said, we have here an odd number of chefs."

"Ay, yes... so sad. One unlucky Maverick has no choice. He or she will be paired with a judge. Maybe you like that, maybe you think we are boring, eh, up to you, but I think we can be quite romantic! If not, at least—"

I was crossing the room towards him before I knew it. Man on a mission. Didn't even notice the cameras I'd blocked out on my way over, zero-ed in on private lessons in French. And English. Or both because we all know I can't read or spell for fuck.

Stopped right in front of him with my rose.

"Do I kneel?"

The look on his face said it all. Outside, he was doing his best to keep the surface of the frozen lake in check but underneath it all, the fishes were having a party. His ears. They gave him away all the time. 

___________________

A/N: It's France! Yes, I did already plan to add a whole new country/location to the lineup before I started Cinder but I was really on the fence for such a long time, debating whether or not it should be France specifically, because French cuisine is honestly the basis of more than half of modern western culinary techniques and I was worried it might end up feeling repetitive or boring but! I figured out a couple of solutions that would make writing and reading this arc feel engaging and fun despite the seeming familiarity. 

More importantly, adding a new arc between Italy and Indonesia just seemed like a very natural thing to do because I needed a solid build up to that thing that happens in Bali. Even though the chapter itself was perfect, I definitely saw how I could have improved the things and events and character development that led up to that point (you know, the one we all know...), starting first with Leroy himself. 

Secretly, I just wanted to imagine Vanilla's silky voice speaking French. 10/10. 

- Cuppie