A/N: Not Cuppie deciding to update on a Monday evening -falls over- eepp my apologies; I meant to update over the weekend but life happened. Alas! I wanted the action-packed chapter all in one because it's been ages since I had our lion in a commercial kitchen but it did end up a little long (goodness, cup, not another 12k word-drop) so I'll have that ready next week instead. 

Now that I've lost my job, I supposedly have more time to be writing -nervous laughter-

Again, thank you for reading. GAH, my heart is always so warmed by the sweet and funny little comments you guys leave in the paragraphs—just like snow warmed by flames. Oof don't we love it when he melts. Leroy: I second that.

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[Leroy]

Here's the thing about having the world's greatest genius all to myself for an entire day: Withdrawals. That's it. That's the tweet.

In all honesty, I wasn't expecting quality time like that on a crazy production schedule. For the most part, I'd get an hour or two with him like the other night in Portofino but truth was, it had been weeks since we did anything remotely close to cute shit like dining out or footsies under the table.

Don't get me wrong. I still feel the same way about having to keep my distance on set (it's hot) and catching his gaze on me every now and then but casual convos into the night as we headed back to the hotel about Parisian dressing and architecture were what I missed. And in case you didn't already know, I love it when he goes on and on about the most surprising piece of knowledge no one's ever bothered looking up on the internet.

So here I was on my morning run with my boy Chicken, dealing with withdrawal symptoms like the itch to drop by his room with coffee after hearing from a bunch of camera crew who set out early that the production team held meetings late into the night. Judges included.

I clocked two miles and a good amount of stairs on my G-Shock before stopping by a bakery on the way back. No googling involved; just a glimpse of the line forming outside of it before opening hours and I was pretty much convinced. Four elderly women, two middle-aged men. All conversing in French.

The pastries in the display were fresh out of the oven on two-tiered shelves, but made decisions a tad bit harder—everything looked great. Pain suisse, kouign-amann, and a bunch of classic French viennoiseries. Still, the Parisian signature was the way to go: croissants to start the day.

I sat out on the terrace with my boy who'd already gained the favor of the elderly women in a matter of seconds, sinking into my first bite of flaky, rich pastry. Buttery and crisp on the outside; soft and airy past its shell. Taste-wise...

"You're up early."

Syrup popped his head into view, bending sideways to wave a hand in my line of sight. I took another bite of my croissant and waited for him to continue, not exactly knowing what to say in return. The bakery was two streets down from the hotel booked out by the production team so I wasn't expecting to see another cast member out and about at six in the morning.

He gestured to the empty seat on my right and I let him.

Gotta admit, the guy was lucky. I was in the best of moods thinking about my personal snowstorm and the time we spent together yesterday. Enough to allow an acquaintance some room in my buffer zone of no social interaction.

Part of it was the whole duo challenge that went pretty okay back in Florence which somewhat upgraded his status in my head from stranger to acquaintance. Yeah. Great word. 'Okay' summed up my current impression of him. Not exactly like how I got along with Sparrow from the get-go but at the very least, I knew I could work with Syrup in a team if things came down to it.

"How did your food tour with Vanilla go?"

"Couldn't be better."

"Even on a budget?"

"He knows Paris like the back of his hand."

Syrup laughed. "I do too! It's my second home." I vaguely recalled something along those lines but made no comment. "Are you gay?"

His question was like a meteor crash landing in a motherfucking tea party out of nowhere. And somehow, this exact sentiment of surprise and discomfort felt weirdly familiar. Like I'd experienced it somewhere in my sleep.

"... What."

"Are you gay?" He went on to ask again, like we didn't just go from talking about work as acquaintances to straight up sexuality. "I had a boyfriend while I apprenticed at Odette as a junior. We broke up shortly after I moved to London to work on viennoiserie."

"... Okay," I went.

'Cuz what the fuck else was I supposed to say? No one asked. And to be completely honest, I was pretty sure no one gave a shit because gay or not, a croissant was a croissant. I was doing major mental gymnastics trying to figure out what his point was and how this piece of info was relevant to whatever we were talking about.

Nothing. No clue.

"You're not going to answer my question?" He tilted his head like this was a conversation about mistaking Sunday for Monday.

I did not hide my confusion. "How is this related?"

"Oh! I just wanted to know if we're... you know, in the same boat. I mean it'd be nice to have someone from the cast to talk to."

"There's a ton of other shit to talk about," I laid out casually, tossing all filters out the window. "You don't have to share the stuff you don't want to."

"But I do!" He insisted. "Like, I do wanna share."

"Yeah... I don't."

His smile froze for a second like that thought hadn't crossed his mind. It wasn't rocket science, really. One look at me was all it took to know I wasn't the sorta guy to go about my day dropping details about my private life—stranger or not. Truth was, I'd only ever brought up the topic of sexuality with the one person I was (am) madly in love with and Annie never questioned the kid who called his genius friend in glasses his 'future husband' since all that mattered to her was my happiness. She didn't give a fuck who I was attracted to. Just took it all in stride and went straight into the realm of use protection.

So naturally, I never had to do the whole coming out thing.

Everyone kinda just... knew. Who I was attracted to.

Eventually though, I was going to have to lay the groundwork for the future husband thing to happen 'cuz, sure, things went well on my end, but I couldn't say the same about his family when I'd barely met them. Alfred Dempsey was known for being hard to impress, and I sure as hell did not impress him with the whole pumpkin pie thing seven years ago.

Still, I wasn't about to practice on some random guy on a TV show I just met a couple of weeks ago. And whose real name I didn't even know. Fortunately, he didn't even get the opportunity to back off or insist a second time because our phones buzzed with a text from the production team.

Said to be at the driveway in our uniforms by six-thirty.

Perfect timing.

"Gotta go." I grabbed the extra croissant I picked up earlier and tapped out of the convo, heading back to the hotel with Chicken.

The first thing I did was knock on winter's door and wait for snowstorms. He clicked it open in a fluffy robe fresh out of the shower, accepted the croissant with the words: "We shall convene tonight," closed said door, opened it again to thank me, and then closed it again. Something about the entire exchange felt like we'd been married for years so yeah I'll take that.

I got dressed and headed back down to join the Masters and Mavs at the driveway. All clad in their whites and blacks; shoes shined, jackets perfectly pressed.

"You know sweetheart, I've always thought you'd look amazing in a suit," Popo said to me while we waited around to board the production bus. "I got my eldest his first one right before prom night. Rosemary-green. I still remember it!"

"... Sounds cool. I never got to go."

She did a double take. "You've never gone to prom? What about a homecoming dance? Surely your school must have come up with something for the kids..."

"I didn't finish school." I kinda just laid out casually, knowing it was never that big of a deal. "Started fire academy early on and it's been that way since."

"Oh my. I couldn't tell!" She patted my shoulder like a grandmother would. "You've always felt very mature for your age. And you express yourself better than three of my children combined. And don't you worry about education. Will Carter never made it to high school and look where he is now! World famous Hollywood star, houses all over the world, a beautiful wife and four children—oh I hope he shows up today."

"She's been saying that since we landed in Florence," Raz added behind a hand while he and Popo exchanged a private laugh. "He's got to arrive on set in some fancy helicopter or better yet, a yacht."

Layla Tenner was a fan of the big shot. "Or the parachute scene, like in his first movie. He does all his stunts without a double! I was lucky enough to seat one of his co-stars at my restaurant last year. She came back the next day with his autograph."

"Oh! How wonderful. I miss him..."

"It's been only two weeks since we last met him at The Shard, Popo."

The buzz over our next supposed guest judge for the main challenge continued for the next half-hour until we arrived at the iconic Trocadéro Esplanade—an open plaza with the Eiffel tower in the backdrop. A prime spot for tourists.

Off-peak and the freezing weather this morning meant less crowds and an easier time for the camera crew. Minutes later, we were watching a vintage 1960 Renault Caravelle convertible in striking red pull up in front of the plaza with all three judges for a grand entrance.

The best thing about it?

World's greatest genius in the driver's seat.

Fuck him. He never said a thing about getting a license here; clearly going for the element of surprise and nailing the entire sequence from start to end, walking up the stairs alongside his counterparts straight out of a magazine, hair to the side in a low braid. He looked unreal.

"Good morning, chefs. I trust you've explored Paris to your heart's content?"

A chorus of yeses.

"Ay I'm sure you had a good time with your partner, Banilla." Pao had this directed my way with a cheeky grin. "Next time you have hot chocolate, remember to bring me. But I think today's challenge... there will be no time for that."

"Today, you will be facing your first..." He gestured behind us. Two unfamiliar faces stepped into frame; both dressed in chef's whites. "Restaurant takeover."

Streisand did the introducing.

"There are many different types of French dining experiences that encompass the spirit of Paris. The bistro; the café; the brasserie, and the bouillon; the Michelin-star haute cuisine where fine dining is about perfection beyond belief. In this challenge, the eleven of you will form two teams—one, to be trained under the head chef of Bouillon Vivienne, Chef François Linster, and the other, with the head chef of three Michelin-star Siegfried on Rue de la Roquette, Chef Gabriele Seine."

"Casual, versus haute."

It didn't take me long to know where this was going.

I wasn't about to land myself in a Michelin kitchen or be caught anywhere near Siegfried's brigade running the pass. In a heartbeat, I was set on team bouillon. But judging by the buzz going around, a ton of us were split between the experience of a lifetime and comfort zones.

"The chefs in team michelin will be in charge of tonight's dinner service at the legendary, award-winning restaurant. A five-course signature tasting menu that demands nothing but precision and perfection. Those in team bouillon must learn the entire menu of twenty-six items within the next couple of hours and work in a high volume environment typical of a restaurant as busy as Vivienne."

Neither option sounded like a walk in the park. Complete different dining styles; complete different kitchens.

"Chef Du Bellay and Chef Saito. As toque-bearers, you get the first pick of your preferred kitchen."

Fair.

As expected, Saito headed straight for fine dining. I honestly thought Du Bellay would've done the same but to everyone's surprise, she made her way over to join Linster, head chef of the bouillon. I wasn't complaining. At the very least, we'd have one less idiot on the team until Andre decides to turn the tables; except I was pretty sure he'd pick Michelin over diner dash any other day. Caviar was his thing.

By the time the rest of us were given a choice, the trend was crystal clear—most of us had stuck to our comfort zones. Masters in the high-end, michelin kitchen; Mavs in the low-end, everyday line. Everyone but Du Bellay picked the kitchen they were used to.

"It takes a certain type of persona to work in a kitchen, doesn't it, Chef Streisand?" My favorite critic turned away from us with a smile in his voice.

Instantly, I knew something was up.

"Of course. You'd have to be an absolute nutjob to be a chef; with an eight-inch ego and skin thicker than a crocodile's. Oh, and it helps to be just slightly mental." Most of us got the joke. Choosing to become a chef isn't exactly the wisest decision on earth. "That said, resilience, I believe, is the one quality I need to see in the kitchen. A good chef must not crack under pressure."

The head chefs of Siegfried's restaurant and Bouillon Vivienne switched places. Swapped. So now, instead of us Mavs standing on the side of casual dining, it was...

"Ay, Banilla! It always go exactly as you predict." Pao had been holding back a burst of laughter. "Masters choosing Siegfried's kitchen, and Mavericks going with the bouillon. You knew this would happen."

"Well, it's... rational behaviour, I suppose," he cleared his throat at the compliment. "Which makes the switch all the more enjoyable."

He met my gaze from across the plaza and it struck a flame along the side of a matchbox. A challenge.

"Chef Amaranth, Cinder, Popo, Raz, Syrup, Sparrow—instead of your preferred kitchen, you will be cooking as a brigade for fifty regular guests at Chef Siegfried's most celebrated three-Michelin-star restaurant. And Chef Tenner, Hyde, and Andre—you will be serving two-hundred-and-fifty regulars of Bouillon Vivienne."

"Chef Saito and Du Bellay, as winners of the previous challenge, you may choose to remain in your kitchen of choice." They had our tags displayed on a pinboard. "On top of that, you are given the option to remove or add any fellow chef to either brigade. For good, or for worse... that is up to your discretion."

Right. So they could either save a ton of us, or cherry-pick the shit show of a dinner service. Including Saito, the fine-dining kitchen had seven chefs running the brigade while those in the casual kitchen had just four.

Instantly, I stood out like a sore thumb. Experience-wise, I had close to nothing written on that CV that was pretty much filled with MVAs, structural fires, and broken ankles. Seven years ago, I would've made the cut, sure. But right now, besides the couple of weeks I'd spent running Andre's bistro like Siegfried had me do, I was as good as a commis in a local diner. The sort of precision and discipline that came with training in a fine-dining kitchen wasn't something people could master in a day.

"Oh I'm not cut out for this, sweetheart," Popo said under her breath. "You'd fit right in."

I was surprised. "... Why?"

"What!" She snorted a laugh. "Anyone can tell. We've seen the way you cut."

Huh. I paused. Always thought Sparrow and Syrup were the few among us Mavs we considered haute. Their cooking styles and culinary experience fit the bill perfectly; pretty much explained the smile on their faces.

Until Du Bellay gestured their way. "We'd like to have the both of you on my team."

Bouillon was stacked. Layla, Esme, Sparrow, Syrup and Du Bellay herself. Sure, most of them had spent their careers in high-end kitchens, but the skills they picked up in these places were transferable for the most part. With a good head on their shoulders, they'd run like clockwork with the exception of one guy.

Saito called out to him. "Chef Andre. Please join us in Siegfried's kitchen."

The bunch of us in Michelin turned to look at Saito. It didn't make sense to ruin a functioning team by adding a chef who couldn't tell the difference between a pot and a pan. Andre himself looked surprised by the sudden callout but recovered by clearing his throat and standing tall; as though this was all within his expectations and people wanting him on their team was standard.

"I don't have ten years of experience over at my Michelin kitchen for nothing," Andre laid out with a snort and that was when it clicked.

Saito nodded at us with a smile before quietly taking his leave, moving over to join those at the bouillon.

Now, we weren't just one man down—we were fucked.

The five of us up against six was one thing; roles switched up was another. Add to that a guy known for stirring the pot and we had a recipe for hell. Saito and Du Bellay weren't just setting us up for failure, they were sending us straight to the wolves. Their strat was a serious one. A bunch of chefs with little to no experience in Michelin-star fine-dining running one of the most renowned restaurants in all of Europe isn't a good idea.

What surprised me the most was Du Bellay's ability to wash her hands off a kitchen she used to head some eight years ago before moving to London. No sous chef would've liked the sound of their beloved restaurant falling apart in the hands of incompetence, not even for a single dinner service. Familiarity with the kitchen was a plus even if Siegfried's course menu had changed over the years too, so. Why pick bouillon?

"Keep it simple." She came right up to us as soon as the cameras stopped rolling. "The guests at Siegfried's aren't looking for a complete overhaul of the tasting menu. Every dish needs a Parisian touch. Just remember that."

She turned to the restaurant's head chef with a nod, and to everyone's surprise, he nearly sunk into a bow. Almost militaristic. Like he was saluting a retired general at an annual inspection.

We loaded ourselves into the back of a six-seater and pulled off a ride in complete silence. No one spoke. Andre blew raspberries beside the driver. Amaranth gagged.

They had cameras set up in the dining area. All ready for us to arrive on set with the owner in frame—the one celebrity chef whose name everyone seemed to know. Siegfried himself welcomed the bunch of us into this restaurant. White walls, gold paneling, marble columns, french windows; the place looked as posh as I remembered.

His entire back of house stood behind him. Chef de Partie, mise, commis, pastry, dishwashers. It was clear he'd spoken to the production team ahead of time and requested a segment to introduce his entire team. As though his three-Michelin-star needed any more spotlight than it already had.

"Morning chefs. Welcome to Siegfried on Rue de la Roquette. Before I show you around the kitchen, I'd like to personally introduce my brigade of sixteen chefs."

I got three names down before I started losing track. At the very least, I knew most of their roles: Sauté, Roast, Grill, Veg, Fish, Fry, and Cold. Eight stations, including bread and pastry. All eight of them working together to serve Siegfried's signature five-course tasting menu, Parisian style.

Amuse-bouche, entrée, entrée two, main, and then, dessert. With bread and cheese in between courses. Petit fours to finish.

"Tonight, the five of you will oversee one course each. An amuse-bouche to start; then, a vegetable entrée. Followed by a seafood entrée, and the signature main: beef bourguignon. Dessert is fruit-based. This season, we will use apples. Bread, cheese, and petit fours are standard—those will be taken care of."

"Lobster's mine," Andre said as head chef Seine introduced the menu. "No one's better at seafood, I can assure you."

Seine sort of paused. "... Perhaps, but the decision is not mine to make. You should talk to your team. Besides, it is not necessary to follow the direction of our tasting menu. Lobster is what we serve for the seafood entrée, yes, but if you want to use scallops for the challenge, I am told it is possible. As long as you retain the essence of the journey."

"Great. I'm going for oysters and caviar."

"Uh..." The head chef turned to the rest of us staring at Andre. "Any objections...?"

None of us knew what to make of the silence that followed. It felt like a school project group with four introverts and the one overbearing reject who joined the group because the teacher said everyone should get along only for said reject to start pissing everyone off by being a tyrant.

At this rate, none of us were going to get shit done.

"... Anyone want the other entrée?" I said.

Amaranth's hand shot up. "I'll do it. I mean I work exclusively with vegetables, so."

I nodded. "Amuse-bouche, next. It's egg."

Popo and Raz hesitated. It took me less than a second to know neither of them were willing to pull off one of Siegfried's most well-known signatures.

"... I'll get it." I put my name down and they breathed again.

"Raz, dear. You prefer savory dishes, don't you...? Why don't you take care of the beef," Popo turned to him with a smile.

He shook his head. "That's your specialty, chef. I won't take that away from you. Besides, I like apple desserts."

He was lying. Siegfried's legendary blown sugar apple crumble dessert was the most difficult dish to execute even with a culinary degree and Raz wasn't close to being a trained pastry chef. Still, he said something about spending a couple of years under the wing of hotel cooks in the middle-east, so.

"You're just saying that because you don't want me on the most complex dish of the five." Popo saw right through him. "Stop putting others before yourself, sweetheart."

"If he wants the spotlight, he'll have it." Andre shrugged. "What's so hard about apple crumble? My chocolate lava cakes—"

"Cinder on amuse-bouche. Amaranth on vegetable entrée. Andre on seafood. Popo, beef. Raz, dessert." I summed up, watching the team grow restless as time passed. "If we're good, we should get started on the kitchen tour and mise."

Mavs nodded in unison. The sore thumb did not look happy about me taking the lead. Chef Seine flashed a smile my way before showing us past the vestibule and into the back of house where real fires burned. The space was smaller than I remembered. Being eight years of age when I was last shown the workings of a Michelin-star kitchen meant seeing things from a different perspective.

Kitchens were all I knew.

So naturally, I thought they were the size of the world.

After running through all eight stations and a pantry full of fresh ingredients, Chef Seine wrapped up the tour right in front of the pass—a newly refurbished central counter where all the expediting, quality control, and service had to be managed like clockwork.

"Now I know we've come to the end of the tour and you have a lot to do, but the producers have something to tell you," Seine's gaze strayed to one of the cameras out of frame. "And that is, I will not be expediting today."

"..."

We stared, waiting for him to say something about the owner deciding to get his hands dirty for the night and landing himself some screentime again when Seine finished with: "One of you will have to run the pass and your station."

Okay, fuck. I thought.

Would've worked out if we were six heads instead of five but Saito just had to up and leave. We weren't just one man short; someone else was going to have to do double the work once dinner service started and run the risk of being in the weeds.

"Sounds easy."

Andre stepping up wasn't part of the plan but if the guy thought this was his ticket to hollywood, good for him.

"Chef Andre will run the pass?" Seine confirmed and the bunch of us exchanged a look. Eventually, nods went round.

Amaranth added: "He's pretty much the only chef here who owns a restaurant and has been heading one for years, so..."

"Of course I am."

"..."

We were given some time to check out the pantry for ingredients and suggest substitutes or changes to the dishes to the team before getting started on prep. Instead, I asked for the maître d. Expecting a functional kitchen from the get-go would be a big mistake, and the only way to prevent that from happening was to build a safety net.

Front-of-house was just as important as the back.

"Chef. How can I help?" The head waiter came up to me. He looked familiar.

"Hey. Fifty covers tonight and the chef running the pass is on the seafood station for entrée two. Expect bottlenecks after the vegetable entrée so let the servers know we gotta pace it right. Keep bread baskets topped up between course two and three if needed. Expeditor's got a short fuse so the yelling isn't personal. Just keep at it."

He appeared surprised. "Of course chef, leave the tables to us, we will do magic and voilà, all taken care of. Any wine pairings you wish to promote tonight?"

"Not yet. Andre hasn't decided on his protein. Gevrey‑Chambertin for the beef. I'll leave the rest up to the sommelier."

"Good choice. And the list of allergens for every course...?"

"I'll get that over in an hour once the menu's fixed."

"Understood." He fixed his waistcoat with a smile. "It seems our young chef here knows how to run a restaurant. Not sure if I caught your name?"

"... Cinder."

"Ah." He did the French nod. "The ones with the code names. Avant-garde. I love it. I'm sure Monsieur Siegfried will be proud." His smile turned into one of nostalgia and right away, I knew he recognized me.

Back in the kitchen, I returned to my station with the battered notebook loaned by the one librarian I knew. Flipped it open; turned to a new page, and began to storm. An amuse-bouche based on an all-time favorite French classic, eggs mayonnaise. Served cold. Without exception.

On page twenty three, Leroy Cox from seven years ago: L'Œuf Chaud-Froid. Hot-cold egg.

Kid thought having it in French made the dish twice as sexy and guess what? He's not wrong.

I looked up.

The knife set on the pass where the head chef would ordinarily stand—calling all-days, inspecting every dish, ringing the service bell—was identical to my own. The exact set I'd been given at eight years of age. Siegfried made homeschool in New York different from the norm; instead of textbooks and stationary, I spent my days with cookbooks and knives.

I slid one out of its pocket. Caught its glint under the fluorescent lights of the kitchen. Felt its weight in my hand.

A familiar grip.

I turned it around.

Carved into the wood was Siegfried. Just like the ones he'd got me.

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[Vanilla]

"This is not a Filipino telenovela. You cannot have cliffhangers like that," insisted Pao as we settled into a table for three placed strategically in the middle of Siegfried on Rue de la Roquette. Cameramen positioned in every corner of the dining area. "Tell us what happened at the market with Cinder or else we cannot sleep at night!"

"You've been at this all day, Pao." Chef Amelia nodded at the maître d'hôtel who got her chair. "Thank you, Jacques. And no, I don't fault you for being curious, I mean, I was surprised a man like him would voluntarily put himself at a disadvantage, but Cinder's not exactly an open book, do you know what I mean? He must've taken quite a liking to our resident critic."

"Ah yes. The resident critic simply cannot wait to hear how terribly he's been faring." I put forth as impassively as I could. "I've heard things about haute cuisine and him; apparently they don't get along very well."

"Ay he cannot be that bad, look at the way he has full control over his station every time he cooks! It's in his blood."

"If it's precision we're talking about, his knife skills are a class above any other homecook I've come across, really. Felt like he'd trained for decades since we first laid eyes on him back in the preliminaries. And, well. I know you weren't a fan of his concept, but hot-cold elements and playing with temperature differences in a dish are a distinctive part of fine dining. I'd be surprised if he didn't survive this."

"Y-yes but the challenge is very much about working in a brigade than it is about, well, individual aptitude." I hid behind the elegant sheet of paper that was Siegfried's original tasting menu, glancing through the courses that were already familiar after long meetings held the night before. "The team must retain the essence of each signature course. All I can hope is that Chef Andre exercises some restraint."

"I'm expecting caviar," said Chef Amelia with a dash of wit. "Wouldn't be surprised if he insisted on overseeing the amuse-bouche. He's been doing that egg and caviar starter for nearly a decade in that restaurant of his."

"Ooh! That one. I tried it before my little princess was born. It was new that time so everyone thought it was genius, including me. But now... eh. Not so much." Pao glanced over his shoulder in the general direction of the kitchen. "Don't worry friends, I am sure the one at the pass will make good decisions."

I turned to Jacques, the restaurant's head waiter. "Auriez-vous l'amabilité... de m'indiquer qui est au passe ce soir?"

"Of course monsieur. It is Chef Andre at the pass tonight." His smile was one of utmost compassion. "Would you like me to send your regards?"

All three of us paused.

Chef Amelia looked away in a whisper of concern. "Oh dear."

"But how did that happen?" Pao was in disbelief. "No one objected?"

"Chef Amaranth might have, but Raz and Popo aren't exactly the sort to voice conflicting opinions..."

I did a quick rewiring of expectations, glancing around the rest of the dining room to gauge guest reactions. None so far; it'd been barely five minutes since the start of service after all. Most tables were enjoying a drink or holding their phones up for some behind-the-scenes footage of the show. "I hope Andre's sensible enough to learn a lesson or two from the past couple of weeks. He's not silly enough to turn every course on the menu into something reminiscent of his own restaurant, is he?"

My counterparts exchanged a look. None of us had much more to say.

The establishment itself had been the pinnacle of culinary wonders for the past three decades. Siegfried Cox had extended his business ventures to Paris mere months after his first restaurant in New York saw instant success alongside his career in entertainment as a TV chef. Back then, his model for tasting menus was touted as one-of-a-kind, but with nearly every fine-dining restaurant following suit, many hesitate to call his food novel nowadays. Just, original, would be the word. Frankly, I'd been lying in wait for a moment of surprise all afternoon but alas. Perhaps not.

"Good evening judges."

The man himself, Siegfried, had come to greet us as the owner of the restaurant. And, well, executive producer on the show. He had on a tray, what appeared to be three porcelain coffee cups. Louis Pitaud, vintage.

"I don't suppose we have the privilege of you being our personal server for the night, Chef Cox?" Chef Amelia squinted at the contents of her cup. "Is this a flat white?"

"Close enough," said Siegfried with a charming laugh that was unfortunately practiced. "It's a new amuse-bouche we came up with for the new tasting menu starting next week. Tonight, the three of you shall be the first to enjoy it."

I raise the cup to my lips. Not a hint of coffee. Then, sipped once.

"Truffle velouté?" I paused. "Roasted. And a parmesan milk foam that honors the illusion... very clever indeed."

The owner turned my way with a smile. "I'm glad you like it."

Pao emptied his cup in seconds. "Ay, I bet you're serving this because you're scared how bad the rest of the evening is going to be!" He teased with a wink. "Must be chaos in the back if you had to pull this out."

To my surprise, I caught the slip of his mask for a mere second before it resurfaced. "Well I can't have these chefs ruining my reputation, can I?"

"Oop." Pao's eyes widened in a heartbeat and his brows headed skyward. He looked left and right before pointing his lips at something in the distance. "Ay, ginoo ko... it's starting. Look."

Across the magnificent dining room of chandeliers and plush velvet seats was, unfortunately, not our servers emerging with appetizers to start the evening—but Chef Popo coming up to us and quite frankly looking seconds away from passing out.

"I'm sorry dears, but I think we need a medic in the kitchen."