A/N: Sorry this took an extra day! I rewrote more than I thought I would and it came up to 9K words hehe. I hope you weren't tempted to read the old chapters while waiting ;v; I try to keep up the pace but the last thing I want is to burn myself out again LMAO like within two months of coming back -bursts into laughter- don't worry, I'm taking things in stride. 

I'm doing my best to stick to weekly updates on Sundays or sometimes Saturdays! Last week's surprise chapter in the middle of nowhere was a stroke of 'GAH they are so cute UGH I gotta just... unf' and thus, the chapter was birthed.

Next chapter is finally flight time. I've already written new scenes for the first destination so I can't wait for you to read it! 

Hope you've been enjoying Cinder so far. 

_________________

[Vanilla]

Indulgence was the word I'd use to describe afternoons spent in my humble abode; in the same corner of my apartment with a cup of tea, essays, and Leo. I could have dropped by a café or a diner for the same purpose—an hour or so of grading examination scripts and essays, and most importantly, without having to worry about Leo pawing at the papers and sitting all over them—but being known far and wide had a fair sentence of its own. Every kitchen was afraid, if not wary of my presence. Casual visits to a bagel store turned into opportune moments for photos and hardsells of the place's signature product, 'approved' by GLACÉ's chief editor and lead critic.

My own list of reviews and feature articles had been put on hold for the production's sake, handed over to trusted senior writers and editors. Had it not been for my position at Le Cordon Bleu and the many entertainingly poor essays to read and grade, my past couple of weeks had been filled with dull photoshoots, strategy-sponsorship meetings, and readthroughs that lasted up till the wee hours of mornings.

"I had no idea you owned a pet," Chef Streisand reached over from her seat at the dressing table to pick strands of fur I'd missed with a lint roller. "A long-hair, at that. Bicolor Ragdoll?"

The strand of pet hair she held up to the light was incredibly long and white. Instantly, I knew who it belonged to.

"Well. Um. So I... adopted a kitten recently. Quite the personality, I'd say... awfully fond of leaving its mark on everything including bath rugs and couch pillows—anything but the scratch post." And the fleece throw it so loved. Somehow, this translated into having Chicken's fur all over my clothes as well. "Since then, besides three visits to the vet and two to the pet store, I'd gone through four lint rollers before committing to the purchase of an expensive lint brush! Do you... have a pet, Chef Streisand? I could do with a word of advice on pet fur and clothing."

I brandished my personal lint brush and began going over my dress shirt twice in front of the vanity. The pair of us were late; already, Chef Pao was waiting on set alongside the rest of the cast.

Speaking of pet fur and shedding, border collies with a rough coat required a ton of brushing, especially during seasonal changes. In the first place, were dogs that size allowed on board...? Or perhaps Leroy had figured out an arrangement with the whole of station twelve? Taking turns to walk and bring him around while his owner was away. But then... surely, he'd miss him?

"Yes, we have two birds. A pair of double-barred finches," she tapped her lockscreen before hastily wearing her cufflinks and asking for another spritz of hairspray. "I put up an old bird house my late father made years ago; behind a tree in my backyard. That couple moved in the very next day."

I glanced at the sweetest image of two birds all cozied up next to each other at the entrance of the bird house. My chest ached. "They're adorable!"

"Judges, clock's ticking." An assistant came by to knock on our door. "It's five minutes past go-time."

Chef Streisand waved him aside. "Yes, we know. Vanilla, head on first without me or we're in for a terrible afternoon with Stan. I'll be right behind."

All morning, it rained. Last night too, moments after an unexpected candle paid my apartment a very welcome visit with his sweet companion. Even now, the windows lining the hallways were wet and dark; perfect weather to be seated indoors with a cup of tea, listening to the muted drumming of the storm against the glass.

Moments like these added to the charm of the London grey. The scent of wet soil, asphalt, and tea make for a very strange sort of quaintness; loneliness weaved into the air that felt less like cold, bitter hostility—more like cozy blankets and a long forgotten friend.

The sound was medicine for my nerves.

Unlike the preliminaries that focused on organic and timely responses to the chefs vying for a spot on the show, the first challenge featured lengthy scripted scenes spotlighting select Masters invited to the show. Alas, all part of what they called 'plotlines'. Despite the common knowledge that lying was certainly not my forte, I was made to memorize a standard set of compliments meant for specific chefs. The dreaded list of immunity Pao had once referred to.

"Judges on set." "Five-minute push back." "Copy. Delay five!" "Lights, ready." "Get hair on two. Fix her flyaways." "Places, please." "Mics one, two, three—ready for test." "Sound check for one, speak normally."

The same warehouse that had been transformed into a cooking arena with sixty stations just a week ago was now much simpler. Twelve fully equipped kitchens; six on each side, were well spread out across the set, leaving space for cameras on tracked and free-range dollies. Most of the sound and filming equipment were already in position, manned by a crew of approximately thirty professionals.

I approached the platform on the ground floor, noticing it was the very same revolving one on the upper gallery we used last week. Chef Pao stopped his pacing on the repurposed stage as soon as he caught me crossing the room.

"Banilla! Where were you? They make me stand up there alone for a lighting check. Now I know what separation anxiety feels like," he came up to me and declared out the gate. "How was the launch party?"

I was about to unleash an avalanche of complaints and then politely ask how his holiday went when Chef Streisand arrived just in time to do so on our behalf.

"Glad you asked, Pao. We experienced some separation anxiety ourselves!" She quipped. "How do you expect us to manage without you at a party full of pretentious people on a Saturday evening? I was dying to leave and poor Vanilla had to excuse himself for a breather halfway through."

She noticed! My thoughts did a double take, honored by her attention and observational skills.

"Ay... that bad? Was it the sponsors?" Pao whispered with a hand over his mouth while the sound crew made adjustments to our volumes. "They like to make many request. Or, maybe it was Will. Will Carter? Oh my gad, my mic is on."

"Oh who gives a shit. The entire evening was awful." Chef Streisand's voice echoed across the arena and thankfully (or not), all contestants were waiting to be called onto set in another room. "I left as soon as they served the last dish. Caviar three ways? With a concept like that, Andre's never getting out of his rut. I hope your short vacation was pleasant, at least."

"Very! A guide gave my kids this snack; it called 'Kimberley' biscuit. Have you heard of it? They were so good I bought four boxes. Of course I miss Polvoron back home but this is good too."

"Kimberleys and Polvorons..." I made a mental note, searching drawers and files in my head for relevant information sheets. Alas, there were none. "What do they taste like?"

"Polvoron: toasted clouds that melt in your mouth. Kimberleys: ginger cookies with crunchy snow. It's actually marshmallow but my kids call it snow. Oh I bought some for you and Amelia! I give later."

"R-really?" My voice pitched twice as high at the surprise. To be a receiver of souvenirs! I'd always thought the act of souvenir-gifting was reserved for families and close ones. Chip and Aunt Julie were fond of buying travel trinkets; Si Yin was a fan of edible souvenirs; Violet was the target audience of anything 'limited' in quantity. "Thank you, Chef Pao. You didn't have to."

Chef Streisand's stylist came up to me after fixing her hair to undo the top-most button of my dress shirt. Appalled, I returned it to its rightful state as soon as she left. After all, buttons were meant to be buttoned.

We proceeded to have a serious conversation about edible souvenirs that quite frankly did well for my nerves and acted as a perfect distraction before the director called for silence on set. To the side, Cyan—Chef Sparrow's interpreter—took her place in a well-lit spot, smiling in my direction. I nodded in return.

"Cameras rolling." "Sound ready." "Slate please." "Kitchen Atlas day one." "Lights out!" Clap.

One by one, spotlights lit every station from the back, all the way up to the front on cue. The air sizzled. To my right, Chef Pao opened with a scripted conversation, speaking first about the preliminaries and then, the final six who'd pulled through. Today, all twelve were to be pitted against each other for the first time.

"Just imagine. Tuscan hills; coastal towns; Prosecco, gelato... I can't wait for Italy. What are you two most excited about?" "Olive groves." "Ay, really?"

Chef Streisand had said something off the top of her mind that wasn't in the script—both nerve-wracking and interesting all at once. So she was a fan of olives. Or olive oil.

"I was thinking: sheep." Chef Pao kept up with an unexpected answer of his own. "I like sheep. I want to see sheep in Italy. What about you, Banilla?"

"I um." Scripted or not, I was pushing my mind to its limits. "Quite frankly, I... cannot wait to see trained chefs, veteran or not, struggle with the local cuisine of every country we're going to."

"..."

"... Sorry. Was that uncalled for?"

Chef Pao burst out laughing. On his other side, Streisand was trying hard not to giggle. "Ay you like seeing people suffer! Same. Let's go! Call them in."

The doors to the right burst open with a cinematic bang, adding weight to the Masters' entrance as they stepped into the lighted arena.

Someone on the production team had made the unfortunate decision of placing Chef Andre at the head of the pack. Of course, he had to be number four on the call sheet—striding down the center of the arena with his head held high, dressed in classic chef whites.

Chef Philip Andre; not his real name. Winner of Masterchef some six, seven years ago and head chef of a one Michelin-star restaurant owned by another famed restaurateur. Not much else was known of the celebrity chef, but him winning a show meant for homecooks (supposedly untrained chefs) had been rather contentious indeed. Despite his then job as a deliveryman, some digging revealed that he was a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu alongside Chef Louviere, one of my personal favorite chefs for French cuisine.

Chef Antoinette du Bellay; sous chef of Siegfried Cox's first three-Michelin-star restaurant in New York before following him across the seas to London seven years ago—continuing under his guidance. With her origins in Arpege's and her occasional return to the restaurant as a guest chef on special occasions, her foundation in French cooking was said to be unshakeable. Still, not many were aware of her indispensable role in Siegfriend's kitchens. There had been rumors of his restaurant in New York back then—on the verge of losing one of its two stars, or so Uncle Al had told me—only to have a star added to the restaurant's name instead within months of bringing his new sous chef on board.

Chef Saito Hideki; head chef of Ishikawa, serving cuisine that is true to nature, free from artifice. The restaurant's emphasis on simplicity and harmony of local flavors came from his late father, who was, himself, the restaurant's third-generation-owner. For some time, Chef Saito struggled and lost Ishikawa's only Michelin star, but managed to earn it back within two years of hard work and determination.

Chef Esme Hyde; revolutionary, modern, and creative. I did not know very much about her as a chef—only that she'd been dubbed the pioneer of theatrical fine dining in the UK at the ripe young age of twenty-five. Four years later, exciting new dishes and dramatic themed parties have made her restaurant one of the most extravagant dining experiences in all of London. Personality aside, I was certain of her culinary abilities.

Chef Ingrid Jones, on the other hand, was almost entirely personality. Unlike the other Masters invited onto the show, Chef Jones was a celebrity gourmet. A model and business owner who ventured into the culinary industry after the success of her first cookbook, published ten years ago to celebrate her thirtieth birthday.

And of course, Chef Layla Tenner; youngest female chef to have ever been awarded a Michelin star at twenty-three years of age. Now culinary dean of Le Cordon Bleu's campus in London. Those who believe in the phrase 'jack of all trades, master of none' have clearly never met the self-proclaimed (and personally acknowledged) Latina queen, Layla. She was, indubitably, a master of many, many cuisines. Schooltime prejudice and her mother's passing only made her work twice as hard in culinary school. And despite all that she had achieved, the chef would never refuse a humble meal of tortilla and tamarind Jarritos. And warm hugs.

Just knowing they'd ascertained an equal overall number of male and female contestants to move away from the stigma of male chefs dominating in the kitchen was comforting and yet, disturbingly forced. At times, the line between campaigning for the right causes and overdoing it was thin. Still, not all viewers were immune to the strategies behind representation in reality TV casting, and so to a certain extent, I found the decision rather empowering. Surely, everyone here deserved their spot on the show.

Either way, things were only just starting to heat up.

"Where's the other half?" Chef Andre made a show of confidence, rolling up his sleeves for the camera. Taking this man seriously was proving to be the most impossible task of the day.

"I suggest you turn around," said Chef Streisand with a smile.

We were joined by the other half of the cast on cue at the click of a lock; door swinging open to welcome the six talents who had proven their worth. They made their entrance through a separate hallway, heading down the aisle in their black aprons that emphasized a clear divide between Masters and Mavericks, dressed in their respective colors. A stark, visual distinction.

Smiles. Nods. Handshakes, and applause.

More than half the contestants were in their thirties and forties, which meant an awareness of big names like Chef Saito and Chef Du Bellay who were amongst the UK's top chefs of their generation. In fact, younger participants could have very well admired these role models growing up.

Chef Popo—an elderly Maverick with a sweet disposition—on the other hand, went straight for a hug with Layla. "My kids love your restaurant."

Even at a distance, I could tell Layla had tears in her eyes. Heartwarming. Endearing. Wholesome content. Meanwhile, her interaction with a shameless junior of hers from culinary school could be described as slapstick comedy at its finest.

Leroy had pretended not to recognize her. She'd slapped his upper arm in greeting, then noticed his tattoos and given him a knowing smirk. I mused privately; there would be plenty of opportunities for them to catch up off-camera. Much to share. After all, it had been years since they last met, and, well... Leroy hadn't exactly left the school with a proper farewell.

"We all know you're excited to travel," Chef Pao said next, hands together in excitement "To learn new cuisines and how different cultures affect food around the world. But first, we start things off by introducing something we like to call... Banilla, I need you to say this," he turned my way with a velvet box containing the prized silver brooch in the shape of a chef's hat, yet another instance of unscripted sprinkles.

"The toque blanche."

"Yess," he gestured with a teasing chef's kiss before turning back to the contestants. "You all here know what that means? The chef's hat. Every round has a main challenge, and if you win it, you get to call the shots in the next round."

Chef Streisand went on while her counterpart got close to the edge of the platform and held out the brooch for all to see. "That, however, doesn't mean you're safe from elimination. Advantages range from the ability to choose key ingredients, pick teams, or even get a head start for timed challenges. Just not immunity."

"It's simple: Master or Maverick, as long as you win today's challenge, you wear the toque blanche till the next main challenge." I summed up according to the script. "To start things off, each of you will be asked to pick one out of three key ingredients that must be featured in your dish."

"The catch..." Chef Pao slowed to a stop on purpose, waiting for the suspense to build before dropping the words: "We hate those ingredients."

There was a pause.

Those words deserved additional time to process once strung together—a novel idea proposed by Chef Marseille, feared by her students back in culinary school. The production team had selected her as the guest judge of our first challenge in London for good reason. None of the chefs would've seen this coming.

"Hate?" Chef Hyde had an interesting way of raising her hand. A clear preference for theatrical flair, as reflected in her cooking. "You mean, you want us to come up with a dish you like... from the stuff you don't?"

Chef Streisand laughed, folding her arms and, like myself, relishing in the agony. "Precisely."

A buffet of curses ensued, aloud and silent. Heads shook; eyes perfectly amused but seemingly hesitant to digest what was ahead—a response all three of us had expected and at present, felt thoroughly entertained by. Not forgetting the signature look of a certain idiot, fueled by the scent of a challenge.

If only the producers allowed us early access to the final cut. Screenshots were very much necessary.

"What can I say?" Chef Pao was enjoying the chaos created by his reveal. Anyone would be able to tell by the look in his eyes that he could not wait to begin. "We're all human! Everyone has something they don't like. And we all know... a good chef is someone who can turn poison apples into a five-star dish."

"So... pick your poison," Chef Streisand gave the cue and right as she did, three cloches—covered and with its contents hidden—were placed in front of their respective owners on the table before us. "Personally, I'd choose Pao's ingredient. I just can't imagine him hating anything that hard to work with."

At this, I felt the urge to speak out of turn, adding something unscripted by will. "Sorry, Chef Streisand, but that is precisely the reason I'd avoid Chef Pao's ingredient. For someone so agreeable to dislike anything in the world at all... I'd say it's likely something completely unpalatable."

"Oh fuck. Point taken." She'd laughed and cursed under her breath before stopping short. "Sorry. Didn't mean that. Beep it out, I guess."

However short, this pleasant, casual interaction between Chef Streisand and myself had somehow smoothed the edge I'd been feeling towards programs like these, reducing the discomfort in my chest that I'd felt since the beginning of the day. That I'd risked a little something extra, unscripted and true to my opinion, for an unprecedented reaction of amusement and a lighter mood, felt like a great relief. The two judges beside me deserved every bit of my gratitude.

Chef Pao refused to put things off any further. "Let's start! Ay I can't wait to show my ingredient. Andre, you first. Let's go. Take your pick."

"Right," Chef Andre had his hands held together, raised to his lips as though deep in thought; a rather typical display of decision-making on TV. Admittedly, he'd mastered a good seventy-percent of body language in entertainment. "Think I'll go with Streisand's. Might be something exotic."

This made her laugh. Still, she held back any further comment and prompted Chef Du Bellay to choose next.

"I... would like to go with Chef Pao's ingredient."

At once, there was an amusing commotion on the other side of the room, seemingly surprised by her choice but also giving Chef Pao the reaction he yearned for. All part of entertainment value. Down the row of Masters, Chef Pao's ingredient seemed to be the perfect challenge these experts were after. Out of six, four had gone with his ingredient. And the other two, Chef Streisand's.

Then came the Mavericks.

Oddly enough, I was almost afraid to look at Cinder—terrified by the prospect of our eyes meeting and sparking some sort of, well, terror because even a fool would've known he'd pick—

"Pao."

Another round of excitement made waves across the room but inside, I had come to a stop. W-wait. But why didn't he... I thought he'd... I missed my cue to move down the line and Chef Pao stepped up at once, prompting the next chef on my behalf. I recalibrated at once, narrowing in on the present and shutting out stray thoughts. This was not the time to let my counterparts down and expect them to pick up after me.

Chef Streisand's ingredient turned out to be the star pick for the next four chefs in a row until Syrup decided to opt for Chef Pao's. By this point, the elephant in the room was simply too much to bear: for some grand reason, everyone had steered clear of my ingredient. This was very strange. Picking me would necessarily mean the highest form of entertainment value and therefore, more screentime in the first episode. Leaving a strong impression on viewers early on was the key to amassing supporters—they'd instantly be dubbed daring enough to choose the path less taken.

Yet, no one thought of doing so.

At least not until Layla Tenner decided to change her mind.

"Before I say anything," she held up a hand and at once, the room was hers. "I'm not changing my mind for the sake of entertainment. I like healthy competition, and picking a popular ingredient means just that," she laughed and already, I knew what she was going to say. "But I'm telling you, Mr. White really isn't as frightening as you all think he is. Trust me! I'll prove it."

I was unable to control the shake of my head—a smile threatening to surface. My fellow judges amused themselves with a laugh; we were told not to share the exact ingredients we'd picked, apart from their general use in the case of overlaps.

Still, a burning question remained at the back of my mind. What is was, exactly, that made everyone steer clear of my ingredient and if my reputation had anything to do with it.

And if it did, then, well, I suppose they thought me the most critical person alive.

"Okay, now that we done choosing, it is time for... the reveal!" Already, Chef Pao was thrilled to move on. "We start with Amelia's, since she has the most picks." He gestured and right on cue, Chef Streisand rested her hand on the knob of the cloche.

"Firstly, I'm confused. I don't know how you lot seem to think I'm the easy pick," she said to lighten the mood and was rewarded with smiles and quiet laughter. "And secondly... I think some of you are really not going to like this."

She lifted her cloche and at once, all eyes were fixed on what was beneath it.

Black licorice.

Cue the collapse of confidence and comfort zones; a wave of shock and fear. I, an enjoy-er of challenges, appreciate-r of avalanches, could not help but amuse myself with the terrific response to Chef Streisand's key ingredient. How extremely delightful! Merely the first few minutes of filming and already, such exciting content.

Black licorice as a key ingredient was begging for dessert unless a chef, extremely skilled in the culinary arts, could turn it into the star of a savory dish. Of course, I'd witnessed several utilizing it as a spice in select few cuisines and meat dishes but to ensure that it remained the star ingredient and not some secondary, supporting role was simply a tough challenge. This was most certainly not the right choice for some.

"Now, let me explain," Chef Streisand held up a hand. "I just—I can't stand the aftertaste. And the instant it hits the nose, by god, I feel like throwing up. I hate it, I hate it. Change my mind. Alright Pao, you next."

This had Chef Pao rubbing his hands together and so eager he was that he waited no longer—not even a prompt. "Okay everyone, my turn."

He lifted the lid and all eyes were on a pale yellow, waxy, cone-shaped ingredient the size of an arm. Needless to say, I recognized it at once.

Bamboo shoots.

"Hard, thick, and meaty," he chuckled, stepping away from the cloche as he did and giving the crew assistant on the side a cue. "Doesn't matter where I'm from, I don't like what I don't like. And I'm placing my bets that none of you have ever tasted this thing on its own, so... sample time!"

The assistant went down the row with a plate of three samples—one each for the chefs who'd picked his ingredient. I caught the look on Chef Du Bellay's face as soon as she sniffed at it. It was a cross between a wince and her best attempt at concealing a gag. Leroy altogether held it under his nose for a grand total of one second before popping it into his mouth. Syrup, upon nibbling the end of the shoot, whined and made a face.

Chef Pao was practically glowing. Clearly, he was having the time of his life. "Yes. You feel the texture? The aftertaste? And when you simmer it—the brine... smells like socks? Okay, you get what I mean."

He then gestured my way with the most dramatic pause. "Now... what we've all been waiting for."

"Actually, Chef Tenner," Chef Streisand interrupted with a pause, turning to me with an apologetic nod before resting her gaze on Layla. "What do you think it is? Make a guess."

At this, Layla paused—meeting my gaze with a curious look in her eye. "Honestly... I don't know. Not a clue. He tastes everything and judges it objectively, even if he has a personal bias against it. It's what the best critics do."

I was pleasantly surprised, and also warmed by her words. Naturally, I hadn't been expecting any form of wholesomeness on a show like this a-and and and Chef Cinder was clearly every form of bad, and not, well, wholesome, so.

With the weight of everyone's attention on the knob of the cloche I hovered over, I felt the space around me warp just as I was about to lift it. A glimpse of candle eyes.

Oddly enough, time slowed.

My mind unraveled.

A plausible reasoning behind his choice was that he knew what was under that lid. And if he did, he knew it wasn't going to be in his favor had he chosen the ingredient. But was Leroy not the kind to always rise to the challenge? Who liked the heat of it all? Only... only if this was something he knew there were limits to. Limits like his physical capabilities. In which case, his taste buds would come into play. He was expecting something sweet. Or something that might involve the making of a dessert. And if so, judging by our shared experience and history and what we knew of one another, it would not be foolish to say that I knew, exactly, what he thought the ingredient to be but alas, I smiled to myself—he thought wrong.

"Coriander." I lifted the lid. "Also known as Chinese parsley. Or Cilantro."

There was, quite literally, a burst of flames.

"Ano ba yan that's so easy, Banilla! Why!" Chef Pao was doubling over while half the room had their heads in their hands for effect only because people on TV were always so awfully dramatic with their reactions. Even Sparrow and his interpreter shared a barrage of rapid signs. "How can you—why you hate coriander? This so easy, you cannot hate coriander."

I laughed, musing to myself because frankly, I could not disagree. This was an ingredient that many cuisines across the world were extremely fond of and needless to say, there were endless methods to utilize it; therefore, many more ways to convince my palate otherwise.

The effect was brilliant.

Everyone had expected something out of this world when really, that wasn't the case at all. Popo looked absolutely devastated that she hadn't picked me. Meanwhile, Leroy stared at the bunch of coriander leaves on my plate, standing stock still as though the vegetable was now his greatest enemy simply because he'd been completely wrong about what was under the lid.

Of course, he'd think it was vanilla.

"You know—I don't quite understand what it is about myself that everyone seems so afraid of. I'm simply an ordinary person with preferences. And coriander tastes... very much like soapy, uncooked grass. Extremely alkaline. In fact, there has been scientific proof about the genetic causes of such a preference, influenced by the specific, alkali taste that it induces in a select twenty-percent of certain populations. Apparently, whether coriander tastes like soap to a person is pre-coded in our genes. That is all I have to say."

And so the idiot strikes: "The rice I made the other day had coriander in it," he laid out in the open, basically shamelessly implying that he'd beat the challenge without even knowing he did. Naturally, I was reduced to poor English.

"W-well. That, no. Count, doesn't. I mean, yes, you did, and yes, that tasted... it tasted good, but this is an entirely separate matter."

Chef Streisand came to my rescue, laughing and providing comforting pats on my shoulder. "See, everyone? Mr. White is harmless. He's not that hard to convince. Either that, or apparently Chef Cinder knows how to get him to eat anything."

==============

While chefs were given ten minutes to grab additional ingredients and equipment from the pantry, us judges were told to remain in the main hall for a scripted discussion. The simpler word would have been 'gossip', since projections were wholly based on speculation and first impressions.

"My vote's on Tenner," said Chef Streisand, nodding at the bunch of coriander under my cloche. "The only chef brave enough to pick the path less traveled and, rightfully, rewarded with the perfect ingredient. You could do so many things with coriander; Mexican, Indian, Thai, Chinese—endless options."

"Ay, Banilla! Again, you naughty," teased Pao, wagging a finger in my direction. "Tricked us all. Chef Tenner has the ingredient advantage but you know, I have a favorite. Can we say that? Actually, I don't care. I'm going to say it: I like Cinder. He has big potential. Last time, he impressed us. This time, I'm so happy he picked my ingredient. Can't wait to taste his dish." He cued me next.

"I... well, like Chef Streisand, I think Chef Tenner's dish is something I'd look forward to tasting. It being my ingredient and all. However, I'm curious to see what Chef Du Bellay will come up with. She has both French and Italian cuisine under her belt but bamboo shoots aren't exactly the most common ingredient in any culinary technique in the West, so. I'm interested to see what she would bring to the table. Still, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't the least bit thrilled to taste anything with black licorice. The perfect ingredient for a daunting challenge."

Meanwhile, contestants were already streaming back into the main hall with boxes of ingredients, ready to start the clock.

It was hard not to catch a glimpse of Leroy's. Curiosity got the better of me. In his, I spotted bamboo shoots, prawns, tofu sheets, chives, condiment bottles, flour and what looked like a bottle of sake among other things. I reached for a sip of water on the tasting table. The next thing I knew, he'd caught me looking at him and promptly responded with a look of absolute criminality and overall lawless-ness. If those were proper words.

Either way, I started choking.

"Banilla! Are you okay?" Chef Pao looked over in concern, taking my bottle of water and stuffing napkins into my hand. I forced myself to recover in seconds, stifling the coughs and managing a quiet 'thanks'.

"Anytime now, judges," the director motioned for a pair of cameramen standing off to the side. "Make your rounds. We'll tag along."

Each station had a designated camera for closeups while additional free-range crew followed a general rotation around the cooking arena. Judges were to do the same; moving from station to station with questions about every dish and the thought process behind it. Most importantly, this was the moment for attention-starved individuals to nab more screentime.

"Chef Andre," I addressed as soon as we arrived at his station, taking in the ingredients he'd laid out. "How are we doing?"

"Better than ever," he shrugged, adding sugar to a bowl of flour. "Licorice might be tough to work with, but I've done it before. I'm making a black licorice crème brûlée tart."

Chef Streisand hummed curiously at the sound of that. "I'm assuming there's a layer of chocolate licorice, or... some other kind of filling, under the custard?"

"The idea is to infuse the licorice into the custard. Not have it separate."

"Hm." My counterpart nodded quietly, pausing for a moment and perhaps experiencing the same confusion I was feeling at present. Infusing the licorice into the custard was far too easy a technique for trained chefs competing at this level. Moreover, the ratio of licorice to cream was extremely important; heavy-handed, the licorice could become overpowering and combined with the sweetness of the caramelized layer on top, seemed almost like a nightmare for Chef Streisand. On the other hand, too little of it would result in a lack of respect for the key ingredient.

Thank goodness for Chef Pao. "Not a bad idea. It's okay to play safe, but remember, you're going up against some real demons in the kitchen." He winked before turning elsewhere.

Chef Streisand and I attempted to follow suit, but either Andre did not like the way we'd kept to ourselves or he was simply dying for more screentime. And so, he poked and prodded the wasp's nest. Well. Not that I was one but clearly, he thought so.

"Should have known it was something like coriander. You're the pickiest eater alive."

I turned, mildly disappointed by what he'd come up with.

"Unfortunately, my dislike for coriander is scientific. The issue is genetic. For certain people, the plant tastes incredibly alkali. These people have a variation in a group of olfactory-receptor genes that allow them to strongly perceive the aldehydes in cilantro leaves—which taste like soap. This genetic attribute is usually found in a small percent of the population and varies geographically. In parts of the world where coriander is especially popular such as Central America and India, the percentage is much smaller, which could explain how the herb became a key ingredient in these respective cuisines."

Andre struggled to process this and prepare the dough for his tart shell at the same time, so I decided to spare him any further damage and move on to the next station.

Some of the most brilliant and precise knifework in the kitchen apparently did not belong to the veterans dressed in white. According to Chef Streisand, Sparrow was a cut above everyone else. Sticking to his concept of presenting nature on a plate, his dish was a Nordic-Japanese fusion of lightly-smoked eel fillet paired with a licorice root emulsion and dill oil.

Chef Hyde was another one to look out for. As expected from a modern visionary whose style favored avant-garde dishes with a theatrical finish, her dish was pure spectacle—an aerated licorice mousse frozen in liquid nitrogen, served alongside yuzu foam and candied fennel stalks. Extremely ambitious and challenging to pull off, technique-wise, but equally rewarding should things go as planned.

"Good luck," I told her. The smile she returned was strangely familiar.

Chef Du Bellay was in the middle of describing her dish to Chef Pao when Chef Streisand and I joined, surveying her countertop for clues. The first thing that surprised me was the presence of a traditional mortar and pestle with various herbs and chilies in it, ready to be pounded into a paste of sorts. I soon gathered she was attempting a Thai Red Curry with bamboo shoots.

Already, I could see the gleam in Chef Pao's eyes. Unlike the fine dining dishes we'd seen so far, this was right up his alley. Needless to say, this was not going to be a walk in the park for Leroy.

Speaking of which—the idiot.

"Technically I've already passed the test," was what he opened with as soon as we arrived at his station, daring a glance my way before returning to the paper-thin tofu sheets he'd been rolling out on his countertop.

"L—Chef Cinder," I reasoned kalmly, "there is no test. This is a challenge. To prove your worth as a chef with the ability to change the minds of guests with preferences. Also, the last I checked, you did not pick my ingredient, so. No. You did not 'technically' pass the challenge."

"Ay, don't need to be so hard on him, Banilla. It's true you liked his rice last week," Chef Pao shot me one of his signature lip-points. I wished to hide. Alas, they probably had three cameras on me all at once. "But this time, I'm expecting more. Bamboo shoots can be tricky! No matter how many times my lola boil, I still think I'm eating socks. So! What do you have for us today, my boy?"

The chef looked up from his bench with a flicker in his eyes. "Spring rolls."

"... Spring rolls?" Chef Pao repeated, unconvinced. "So simple. Are you sure...?"

"You'll like them. Promise." His gaze met mine briefly and almost at once, I hid behind questions. A necessary defense mechanism.

"And the filling? Besides the key ingredient."

"It's a surprise."

"Sauces to go with? Dips?"

"Also a surprise."

"Y... that's not... allowed," I finished intelligently and beside, Chef Pao stopped short of chuckling. Chef Streisand on the other hand, had altogether decided to piece the answers together herself by peering into his basket.

"He got us again, Banilla." My counterpart whispered under his breath before turning back to Leroy. "Just one clue. Less mystery."

Of course, he went with the obvious: "It's hot and cold."

I wished to grab him by the shoulders for a good shake. What utter nonsense! Repeating your concept does not count as a clue! Knowing he'd move less than an inch even with me at my full strength made things worse.

"I was just thinking about that. Spring rolls don't seem to fit your concept, so to hear that you're sticking to it with such confidence really piques my curiosity." Chef Streisand pointed out. "Guessing your dish is like taking a shot in the dark."

Truth to be told, I had guesses of my own. Though traditionally, most spring roll recipes called for deep frying, certain Asian variations were served fresh and at room temperature, featuring crisp summer vegetables and lighter proteins. Still... spring rolls were very simple starters—appetizers that did not seem to hold a candle to hard-hitting mains like Chef Du Bellay's Thai Red Curry or fancy desserts like Chef Hyde's licorice cloud.

Our time at Leroy's station was up before we knew it and producers gave the cue to wrap things up so that we could move on to the next short interview.

"Good luck, my boy!" Pao's imaginary hat-tip brightened the room. I said the same (without the hat-tip) and caught the makings of an outrageous smirk on the idiot's lips so look away I proceeded to do.

We spent the next half-an-hour interviewing Masters and Mavericks about their dishes and tasting individual elements like batters, sauces and stews to get a vague impression of how their overall dish would end up tasting like. This was to prevent slip-ups in case the camera crew took longer than usual for a dish's closeup and the food was served either cold or in the case of chilled desserts, melted.

Oddly enough, I stopped by Layla's station twice. Once, with my counterparts, and another time, out of curiosity. Granted, I could smell the coriander a mile away and though this was slightly concerning, at the very least, I did not need to worry about her forgetting the star of the dish.

Five minutes to tasting, stations were ladling, spooning, scooping—applying the finishing touches to their plates as the entire warehouse went from a heated clang of pots and pans to mere clinking of utensils.

One by one, service bells began to ring before the final countdown and dishes, placed on dining carts for ease of transport.

Cameras closed in on every dish at their stations and then, after a second cue, pulled back for our special guest's entrance: my ex-culinary instructor, favorite teacher, master of all things edible. Making her way down the very same aisle they'd walked.

"Please welcome... Chef Colette Marseille."

The entire room was ecstatic. Sounds of surprise and fervent applause aside, Chef Marseille's decade-old restaurant in north London was quite the landmark; people from all over the world reserved tables months in advance, planning entire trips that specifically revolved around a memorable dining experience at her fine dining greenhouse.

Curious, I chanced a glimpse at Leroy.

The expression on his face was a cross between a laugh and the look in his eye whenever he wished to break several rules at once. Top student Layla Tenner on the other hand, was visibly holding herself back from asking for a hug.

Our guest judge joined us up on the platform with stunning conduct. After a brief exchange of greetings, the entire room fell completely silent, as though they were students waiting for the start of an examination. Frankly, I never was able to separate Chef Marseille from her role as the head of discipline back in culinary school.

"Thanks for having me. Some of you may know—I work on a scale of one to ten. Each dish will receive a number, alongside comments. Of course, we'll be having Pao, Amelia and Vanilla taste your dishes too. I'm merely a control. In case any of you present a dish so bad that they consider it unpalatable, according to their preference."

Chef Pao nodded. "Correct. Now, who's first?"

The order of tasting was decided by the order of service bells tapped.

First to ring his bell had been Chef Andre six minutes before countdown, who, naturally, found it necessary to save himself the prime spot for screentime.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have for you a black licorice crème brûlée tart," he said while the cameras did their work, closing in from all angles.

We took turns tasting his dessert and for a whole minute, all four of us were quiet.

Chef Marseille broke the ice.

"The licorice is in the custard?" "Yes." "I would have made a dark chocolate licorice glaze and set it below the custard to balance out all that spice and sweetness you have. The burnt caramel adds a slight bitterness to it, overall, so I'd give you credit for that but the dessert's missing something. Licorice is meant to lighten a dish, not weigh it down. The anise flavor isn't coming through. A dessert like this is supposed to feel sophisticated, but this reminds me of a first-year student in culinary school with big ambitions. Presentation is lacking. Looks like you slapped it onto the plate without any thought. I would not order this," she pulled out all the stops, taking a sip from her glass of water before dealing the final blow: "Three-point-two."

Call an ambulance! I nearly said aloud. This was emergency.

Chef Pao's face said it all. Already, he was trying very hard to think of something to balance out the criticism Andre was receiving from our guest judge, who apparently did not care very much about the unspoken rules on critiquing Masters on the show.

Chef Streisand was very careful with her words.

"I did warn you about infusing the licorice in the custard. What Colette said about a chocolate layer, I'd suggested that as well. Still, I enjoyed the dessert. It was a good attempt. Not... not bad."

This was enough for Chef Pao to work with, and so he was given the final word while I kept to myself the entire time after tasting the tart and its components individually and then, as whole. Pity. Though simple, the dish he had in mind wasn't exactly a bad idea. Just, not executed on the level expected of a Michelin-star head chef.

Chef Du Bellay was up next.

The moment she lifted the lid of her claypot, a burst of fragrant, spicy aromas hit us like a truck. The curry smelled of coconut, lemongrass, galangal, lime, and a million other spices simmering in a pot of goodness. Chef Pao's face was priceless.

"You never said anything about being trained in any form of Asian cuisine. And yet, you present something like this! I'm impressed."

Chef Du Bellay smiled politely. "Well, I can't always stick to what I'm familiar with... I've never had authentic Thai curry. Hopefully, this does it justice."

"I mean, your dish smells amazing," Chef Marseille prepped a serving for us each, not forgetting to include the key ingredient of bamboo shoots.

It took more than a minute of tasting for the disappointment to sink in.

Although fragrant, the curry lacked seasoning. It did not provide the much-anticipated kick that many of us were expecting from Thai curry and Chef Du Bellay might have played it a little too safe with the spices and fish sauce. The ratios were off. Nevertheless, the curry had absolutely removed the odd, briney taste of bamboo shoots that Chef Pao disliked. The texture, too, was something he could get around.

But alas, it was not the winning dish we were looking for.

Giving the chefs free reign to decide when they'd like their dish served—first, or towards the end by choosing when to ring their service bell—meant that various strategies could be employed. Which also meant I knew exactly who to expect next after a dish as heavy and rich as curry.

The strategic idiot brought with him not one, but two dishes under separate cloches.

Two.

"Spring rolls." I caught a spark in his eye as he hovered a hand over each cover for the reveal. "Two ways."

"Spring rolls?" Chef Marseille hummed, glancing at the name embroidered on his apron. "Looks like you're about to lose your streak of As... Cinder."

"Not so soon, chef." A smirk crossed his lips as he lifted the cloches together.

On a woven plate of bamboo sat chilled, delicate rice paper dumplings—pleated at the top to resemble the crown of a pomegranate, folds cinched by a ribbon of green. Chives. An elegant crystal package.

On a rectangular slate of black sat fried, crispy golden parcels made out of tofu skin that looked almost identical to cute, bite-sized money bags—filled with shrimp, crab, green onions, carrots, peppers, and of course, bamboo shoots. Served alongside these hot packages was what looked like a cool ranch sauce.

These were... not spring rolls. They looked nothing like them!

"You are playing me." Chef Pao declared, and if I hadn't known any better, I'd say he was besotted by this dish. "Hot spring roll with cold dip! And so this cold one...?"

Leroy pointed at the chilled parcels; "Grilled pork belly, bamboo shoots, lettuce, cucumber, sesame oil, and... cilantro." Even had the audacity to emphasize before producing a small saucepan of what looked like sizzling hot oil and pouring it over a ramekin of chili flakes. The instant flaming oil hit the bowl of spice, a burst of aroma filled the entire set; mouths watered and appetites whet.

Of course. Cold spring rolls, paired with a hot dip.

Both dishes were complete opposites; and within the dishes themselves, opposites existed.

Chef Pao did not wait—not even a cross-section for the cameramen—he popped a crisp, fried parcel into his mouth and the crunch that followed shocked us all.

"I reckon we should taste before Pao cleans that plate..." Chef Streisand handed us a hot roll each. The ranch dip, I tasted separately and together with the dish. Creamy, tangy, garlicky, and herby all at once, containing a smidge of clever surprise: coriander.

He'd included it in both hot and cold variations of his dish.

Chef Pao was the first to wag a finger at Leroy after tasting everything, turning to us in a voice that was most certainly not a whisper. "Told you he's my favorite."

I shook my head with a sigh, dabbing a napkin across my lips and meeting the chef's gaze.

"Strictly speaking, these are not spring rolls. Appearance-wise, they resemble dimsum dumplings even though the ingredients used were, well, proper. The cook on the hot version was timed perfectly. Yes, the contrast of textures in the cold version was clever, and the heat of the chili oil masked the odor and aftertaste of bamboo shoots while retaining earthy undertones which I admit, showed an excellent understanding of your key ingredient. And speaking of key ingredients, for some reason you decided to include—"

"Coriander." He had the gall to confirm with a disarming... a-an awful...

"This was not part of the assignment."

"I understood the assignment."

Chef Pao chimed in: "That you did!"

The rest of my counterparts could not help but agree, watching as he wiped the woven bamboo plate of its last parcel and gave Leroy a double thumbs-up. The latter, having indulged in a sinful conversation whilst hiding a smile that was seconds away from surfacing, knew he'd exceeded expectations.

"I daresay you've proved me wrong." Chef Marseille conceded at last to a room of applause. "Spring rolls can be surprisingly technical. Innovation and creativity aside, you've mastered a perfect fry and a clear understanding of flavor combinations that work for a dish like this. It's a nine for me. Alright, run along now."

Despite the incredibly high bar Leroy had set, the standards of every subsequent dish did not disappoint. Every single tasting was somehow better than the last; every concept, fresh and imaginative. Turns out, savory licorice dishes were as common as desserts.

Chef Hyde's black licorice cloud dessert. Chef Raz's licorice Knafeh. Chef Sparrow's smoked eel and licorice emulsion. Chef Popo's licorice roast pork. Chef Saito's miso and licorice caramel custard.

Unfortunately, Chef Syrup's savory bamboo shoot pie, albeit a good attempt, failed to outshine the spring rolls served by Cinder. For quite some time, nothing could beat the extraordinary spectacle that was Hyde's black licorice cloud—until at long last, came a worthy opponent.

"Chef Tenner! You've kept us waiting," Chef Pao rubbed his hands together and at once, Layla came up with her signature open arms and our guest judge, exasperated but with a hint of nostalgia in her eyes, received her with a hug.

Under her cloche was the most beautifully plated cod on smooth granite tableware that resembled an indented pebble. It smelled smoky, spicy, and savory all at once.

"Introduce your dish, please."

"Barbecued turmeric cod with coriander chutney and fennel pickle on the side; paired with a savory herb-infused rice with twice," she looked over her shoulder, presumably at Leroy, "the amount of cilantro."

The next thing the cameramen knew, they were staring at an indecent finger raised in perfect presentation. Someone gasped. Chef Raz burst out laughing. The solution? I say cut him out entirely! Ban his existence! Very good!

"The cod I coated in a mix of flour, turmeric, lemon zest and chili flakes—then, grilled over a coal fire."

One bite. And I knew she'd wear the toque blanche.

I was far too invested in the dish to observe the reactions of my counterparts, busy helping themselves to more smoky, spiced cod that flaked in the most heavenly manner; bold flavors toasting the tongue.

Ingenious. The coriander chutney tasted of green chilies and lime, adding an acidity and kick that perfectly balanced out the alkaline bitterness of the ingredient I disliked and a sprig of mint brought out a unique freshness that I'd always heard coriander was loved for but could never actually taste it without experiencing an overpowering soapy-ness.

Best of all, a surprise: a touch of maple syrup in the fennel pickle.

Blown away would have been an understatement.

I'd always known Layla deserved the recognition, respect and adoration she'd received from students and instructors alike back in culinary school. That she possessed the strength to get back on her feet despite the series of unfortunate events that occurred during her final year was nothing short of resilience and determination. After all, Layla had come from a small town in rural Spain and, like myself, spent her school years far apart from her family.

For all intents and purposes, I used to think, years ago—and perhaps deep down, even now—that her existence had in some way or another influenced the events of the... latter part of my relationship with Leroy. Our time together in culinary school.

But placing any blame on her would be incredibly short-sighted.

After all, it was clear that Leroy and I had personal issues to sort out. In the end, things could have very well been different, but still, not drastically so. What happened with Layla was merely a catalyst to our falling apart.

There was no use wishing for what things could have been.

Food and memories. Her dish had, precisely, proved the definition of good food; things buried deep, surfacing every now and then.

No notes. Coal fire grilling was a technique Layla's restaurant popularized; incredibly difficult to master for tender, delicate fish like cod and red snapper. Looking around, I knew I wasn't the only judge who felt this way about her dish. Speechlessness was perhaps the best compliment paid.

Within minutes of false, private deliberation among us judges, our decision was unanimous. Layla was crowned the first chef to wear the toque blanche. Our guest judge did the honors of pinning it to the lapel of her jacket.

And it was amidst cheers and fervent applause that I heard Chef Marseille say just how proud she was—of how far she had come.