A/N: This chapter took a couple more hours than usual since it was written from scratch! So many new scenes ehe. I'm definitely enjoying this rewrite. It's also a little long at 8.8K+ words so take your time. And to everyone who left comments in the previous chapters and are just starting to reread Wax and Cinder, welcome and thank you! Hehe. 

Fall is coming to an end and thus, winter! Very soon. I had fun creating the dishes in this chapter and also writing about new characters (and old ones whoops). The next chapter will be up much sooner, I think. It features a core scene from the old Wax chapters but just slightly rewritten for context. 

Enjoy!

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[Leroy]

"You did it!" One of the other chefs who landed a spot on the show came over to say. He was the only guy with dessert on his mind for the prelims. "Congrats. That was a bold move you made, waiting till the very end to serve your dish." His delivery was bright and warm, extending a hand across the counter to introduce himself. "Syrup's my alias."

"Cinder." I shook it and got back to lunch. And by that, I meant the other serving of chicken and rice they said to prep for the cameras—which I got to enjoy as soon as they left my station with the perfect shot.

Most people were clearing their stations and packing up spare equipment they brought along. And because the buzz in the air had long died down, the arena felt a tad more relaxed than before with chefs going around; exchanging greetings and offering a word of congratulations to those who scored a black apron. Surprisingly, I received a couple.

One from Sparrow; the guy with bird tats on both his arms, and one more from Popo; the granny with children on her lockscreen.

"All six Mavericks, please remain at your stations for confessionals. Thank you." Production dished out instructions over the PA system while the rest of the set wrapped. Judges and veterans included. I spotted them heading out the back as soon as cameras called cut.

Whatever it is they decided to call us underdogs, I could get behind. Mavericks sounded like a combination of the Matrix and Everything; which, yeah, sounded pretty sick but definition-wise, left me in the dust. Neurons fired at the thought of some personal dictionary action, until they remembered that privileges like that were no longer readily available. Revoked, maybe. Everything he'd said about my dish made perfect sense, and I knew part of the reason he made the decision to single out wine choice was the achilles heel I had to work with. Anything remotely sweet spelled trouble.

If he hadn't brought this up, no one—not even Pao and Streisand—would have noticed.

"The pre-production launch party is in four days." An assistant came by, sending out a bunch of digital briefs on the spot and checking if I'd received them in my inbox. "It's all off-camera; we want chefs to prepare a dish that represents their concept. You will be cooking for a party of sixteen. Remember, we don't want your signature dish. It has to align with the theme you're choosing to identify with throughout the show."

"... What's the point if you're not filming?"

"Plotlines, character arcs... the usual. Our writers need to know what to run with, y'know," she snorts. "Anyway, take twenty. You're next in line for confessionals."

I finished up the rest of lunch and packed leftovers in airtight boxes, deciding to spend the short break elsewhere. Maybe run into a snowstorm and ask if he'd known about Layla Tenner and seen this coming.

Sadly, the next twenty minutes did not go according to plan.

I'd left the set through an exit in the back and headed down a hallway lined with unlabeled doors to suss out dressing rooms and whatnot when voices started coming from the left side. I made a right, not exactly in the mood for people but the one in power writing this shit said nope and slapped me with a dead end.

Thanks.

You're welcome! She said.

Reluctantly, I made a u-turn and just several feet from the T-section, could already hear Andre's voice jinxing the air before I got anywhere close.

"—pity? Just because you're a woman now? No one's buying that shit, Anthony."

I turned the corner to see him and Siegfried's sous chef in the middle of a stand-off. Andre had a finger in her face. The other had her arms crossed. They were hard to miss, taking up the entire width of the walkway. I pretty much had nowhere else to go since the way back to the arena was the direction I'd come from and the two of them were smack-dab in the center.

So I just stood there.

Andre noticed first. His expression was a cross between confusion and surprise; like he'd expected the judges to send me home right after the prelims (or during, whatever floats his boat) and wanted an explanation. I personally could not give two fucks.

"What the hell do you want?" He sneered next, looking me up and down. "Stay out of this."

I stared. If anything, Andre was a pro at bringing out the spirit of rebellion regardless of the situation. Everything he said, I felt like doing the exact opposite of. I got close, standing just a couple of feet away from them, hands in my pockets.

Guy was not happy. "I said it's none of your business, you arse."

Nothing. His face soured in a matter of seconds, like he'd been looking to tease a reaction out of me, but I wasn't giving him any of that so he basically had nothing to go off on. Clearly, my silence was getting to him. Andre looked like a fool, speaking to himself.

"... Slow git." He finished under his breath, turning away from my gaze and glaring elsewhere instead. Man, the dude made people feel like turning in their two weeks and spending the next lifetime on vacation. He was impossible to reason with.

One of the doors lining the hallway swung open in time and someone emerged from it, calling for Andre. Instantly, his expression went from angry kid to standard douchebag. He left us in a heartbeat and with him finally out of the way, I could head back in the direction I came from.

"Leroy, right?" Siegfried's sous chef said all of a sudden, stopping me in my tracks.

"... You can't call me that here," I told her.

"Oh. Yes, you're right." She read the name on my apron. "Cinder. Thank you, for... intervening."

"I just stood there."

"Sometimes, allies don't come equipped with loudspeakers. Even then, just being present is enough—I don't need anyone to speak for me. Either way, you... did look intimidating."

I paused. "I did?"

"Well you're much taller than Andre, and people like him don't exactly like the idea of anyone looking down at them," she explained, extending a hand. "Antoinette du Bellay."

The handshake was unexpectedly firm. She'd given the unassuming impression of quiet reserve, but her not coming after Andre for the shit he liked to say was solid proof: outsider opinion did not affect her.

Truth was, I remember seeing her around back when I was homeschooled in New York. Siegfried liked giving me tours of his restaurants as a substitute for the kind of learning journeys public schools had. Back then, she'd already been working in some of 'em. Not as sous chef though. And under a different name. Heading kitchens like that was no easy feat, and personality played as much of a role in maintaining this position as raw skill and hard work.

"Andre's different when Siegfried isn't around," she sighed, gaze resting on the door he disappeared behind. "I never know how to deal with people like him. I'm amazed anyone does."

"You ignored him," I pointed out. "The best and only way to deal with dickheads."

She laughed, and then out of nowhere, her stomach growled. The sound was loud and clear, and I sure as hell knew it wasn't me since I'd taken care of lunch moments ago. We exchanged a look.

"Sorry." She turned away, excusing herself and clearing her throat.

"... There's extra on my bench if you want some," I jerked a thumb over my shoulder, starting back to the main set. "Coq au vin, blanc. With cilantro lime rice."

The look on her face; I could tell she was seriously considering my offer, but then manners or something made her think twice. She took the entire distance from the T-section to my station in the arena to say: "That sounds lovely, but I..."

Siegfried's sous chef stopped talking the moment I snapped open an airtight container and slid it across the counter. She stared at the crisp layer of skin on the chicken thigh and the creamy stew over it, all set atop a bed of rice. It took her five seconds to give in to temptation, picking up the cutlery I'd laid out on the counter and thanking me twice.

"Ça alors comme c'est," she managed between mouthfuls. "I mean, this is... very good. Something about it that's comforting, you know? I can imagine having this in a cozy restaurant, underpaying for something so elevated despite being so... home-y."

"Thanks."

Spoon after spoon; she could not stop. A producer even stopped by to ask what she was doing at my station because apparently, they didn't want us interacting off-camera yet. Something about capturing authentic reactions on-set.

Du Bellay brushed them aside like she owned the place. Which she probably knew she could 'cuz no one on the production team would be in the right mind to mess with Siegfried.

"I can see your influences," she went on as soon as the guy left her alone. "Siegfried must have taught you the recipe for coq au vin. I remember how he emphasized the importance of fundamentals. And I've tasted something similar he made, only more... high-end, without the familiar comfort. The white wine and cream pairs nicely with the spices you used... roots the palate and warms the heart; very much like your mother's cooking."

The thought of her knowing Annie's cooking felt off. Her head chef was never proud of Annie's diner. No one at his restaurants—not even the media—knew about her, let alone her business. He'd kept most of family locked away under the guise of respecting our privacy; but that was until he saw talent and fire in the boy he called his son. Talent and fire he could mould with his own hands and turn into the very thing he'd always dreamed of being.

I brushed it aside. What would snow say? Something about 'dwelling' on it being 'detrimental' to the... something. Production came by minutes after Du Bellay had her fill and thanked me again, setting up a bar stool in front of my station and getting down to the solo interview stuff they were talking about earlier.

It took them just two questions to learn that I wasn't exactly the ideal guy for reality TV. Naturally, people like Andre fit the bill. Even Pao and Streisand did, after years of experience in the field.

"Were you nervous, presenting your dish just before the sixty-minute-mark on purpose?"

"... Not really."

"Why?"

"It's part of the strat."

"Please elaborate on your strategy."

"..."

Sure, I signed up for the kitchen and the heat, but I wasn't expecting to be talking this much with that many cast members on the show. The solution I came up with then and there was to sound as boring as possible so that they'd use someone else's thing instead of mine for the final cut. Which made sense.

The only thing that got me fired up was the Q&A session they held for all six Mavericks before we ended the shoot; announcing our first destination and the approximate dates. I asked about bringing my dog along for the trip. The logistics of it. Legal stuff I had to do. If the costs were covered.

"It's possible," the crew seemed surprised. Apparently, I wasn't the only one with a companion, and because whoever it was had the big title of 'key personnel', they were already in the process of making arrangements. "Currently, we're looking into the cost of purchasing an additional seat on board since the private airline we're engaging allows pets in the cabin. Send us your dog's size, weight, and carrier dimensions if he needs one."

For free?

I was in. Since living a life of fires and emergencies became a thing, East Dulwich and central London was all that existed to me. I didn't have the time or cash to take Chicken out on an adventure besides the weekly cross-country thing or frisbee in the park. Like me, my boy was a fan of the outdoors; but unlike me, he was a fan of social interaction. If anything, he was more cut out for cameras and interviews than I could ever be.

"So?" Zales had me ambushed the moment I got off my bike and headed into the commons to check on Chicken. Turns out he was out in the backyard with Parker playing hide and seek treats.

"... Didn't get it." I put on my best front but she rolled her eyes and flipped me off.

"You motherfucking liar." We broke into smiles and the rest of the room shot up like it was Christmas again. "Ay! That's our boy." "Let's see it!" "Woah they even got your name-thing embroidered on the spot, sir?" "Yeah." "I'm liking the black. Makes you look hella cool." "Nah, he looks better in PPE." "Damn, Capt. Just a couple of weeks without him and you're already—" "Shut the fuck up."

I gave Annie and Rexi a call that evening. They wanted a feast. I told them it was too soon to celebrate, and that I was already the feast. Annie said: "Yes sweetie, that's why we're celebrating. And unless they start asking you to cook in your apron and nothing else, you're not a feast."

I flipped her off. "Just wait."

"Oh I hope they cut to Vanilla's face right after."

"... Same."

There were times I'd just be staring at the screen of my phone.

I would catch myself doing it in the middle of the day, halfway through my routine of dropping by the firehouse, heading the bistro, leaving before Andre came in for dinner service, and then going for a run with my boy after cooking for the crew.

It wasn't going to ring or buzz, that much I knew. And I didn't know what exactly I was waiting around for, but I just did it anyway. Couldn't help doing it.

On slower days, I'd work on the kickoff party—both the dish and my overall concept. Relying on the Notes app was starting to get on my nerves. Thoughts were all over the place. Things would click one moment and then I'd lose track of it entirely. I thought about the handwritten recipe book I'd given away more than seven years ago, certain pages dipped in pool water receiving careful drying treatment by gentle hands.

Ideas would come to me in the shower; before bed; on a run; in front of a burner with a pan on the stove, cranking up the heat. Cooking for the crew was one thing, but cooking for Andre's staff was a different story. These were trained professionals.

Hate to admit, but working at the bistro did well for my confidence. Besides running the pass and pulling off a smooth service day by day, it made me realize how head chefs could eventually get to a point resembling Andre's, stuck in their kitchen with the same menu in the same restaurant—never needing a reassessment of their skills or culinary knowledge. Unsurprisingly, some of them start to think they're the best.

In many ways, I was brought up not to fall for traps like that. It was the state of competition; of never being the best; of there being room for improvement, always, that kept me on my toes, open to criticism and feedback. Trying, again and again.

That was how I came up with the dish I'd serve at the kickoff. Half my experimentation was done in the firehouse. The other half, in Andre's kitchen.

I did most of all this alone, like Siegfried used to have me do back in homeschool.

There would be a weekly schedule. I knew what I had to do at ten in the morning. What recipe book to read, what videos to watch. What I'd make for lunch, for myself. Live demos were on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Timed tests on Tuesday mornings. Spelling on Thursdays.

Right now, I was nowhere near on par with sixteen-year-old Leroy Cox on a fine brunoise. Those one to three millimeter cubes were killer even for trained chefs in the kitchen. Prep cooks doing this every day on the other hand, might have an edge, but still. I practiced.

Did my research. Looked into the science behind hot and cold. Experimented with different equipment, different tools. The complex, the simple, the old, and sometimes none at all. No equipment.

I spent the four days alone with myself.

Not in isolation; just in my head, thinking about the past, the present—maybe even the future. With food. The kitchen. With Annie and him.

I thought about what he said that day. Having the culinary knowledge to figure out exactly which type of wine I should be using was one thing. Being able to taste the way it changed the flavors of the dish was another. At that point in time, I had neither. And I wasn't even sure if past me would've done anything different.

So desserts were out of the question. I had no problem serving the crew a plate of disaster but deep down, I knew I wasn't ready. Facing the very thing that led to us being apart wasn't just hard, it was something I knew I had to do eventually if I wanted to love the kitchen.

Avoiding it wasn't going to do me any good. He'd effectively pointed this out without having to say those exact words. Just a matter of wine.

"Here's a menu of what everyone else is serving today. If you made any changes to your dish, you will have to tell the guests yourself... and judging by the name you gave it, you'll be doing just that." A producer whose name flew over my head tapped a finger on the third item labeled Red White Soup. Unlike the rest of the menu, this dish did not feature a short description of its ingredients or what it even was.

"You have two hours till service. Use the kitchen however you like. Two chefs will join you shortly—Syrup and Popo. Their dishes are number one and two on the menu respectively but keep interactions to the minimum; we want organic reactions on-screen, so you're not supposed to be getting to know each other off-camera."

I scanned their descriptions.

Vegetarian Mushroom Wellington

Seared portobello mushrooms layered with apple cider-caramelized onions and sautéed mushrooms, served with a cranberry maple syrup sauce.

Letters from Grandma

Nostalgic handmade pork wontons served in a clear winter broth, paired with a side of dan dan noodles and minced lamb.

Red White Soup

Nil.

Right off the bat, both dishes sounded pretty good. I could tell what they were going for without needing a full-blown explanation of their individual concepts. I on the other hand, had no clue they were going to be printing this shit out on paper for the guests attending the kickoff. They'd asked three days ago what I planned to serve and back then, I hadn't thought of a name for the dish or words to describe my concept, even. So... yeah.

Red White Soup.

At the very least, I wasn't the guy serving the last thing on the menu—Caviar Three Ways. Chocolate, eggs, and blinis. This was, without a doubt, Andre sticking to his roots. Luxury ingredients with just about everything.

"Wow. Atlantic blue crabs?" Syrup dropped by my station while I was mid-prep, sectioning the protein for the cream soup after dealing with the vegetables for the gazpacho. "What are you making?"

I pointed to my item on the menu. He laughed. "Silly. That doesn't tell me anything!"

Behind him, Popo broke into a smile. She kept mostly to herself, wrapping wontons into perfect pouches over at her station, and at a speed I never thought possible. On her counter was approximately fifty of them, and we'd barely even started.

By the time I got the soup simmering on low and the gazpacho in the chiller, she was pretty much done with her dish and sitting leisurely by the pass, watching servers filter into the restaurant an hour before dinner service.

This was the sky lounge on the thirty-fourth floor of The Shard, one of the most expensive private hire spaces in London; either Popo didn't know, or didn't give a fuck.

And because they'd given us two hours to prep for a party of sixteen, spare time became part of the problem. I was bored. And hungry. Which made for a pretty bad combination since we weren't supposed to be using the ingredients in the kitchen for personal purposes and portion sizes for my dish were calculated to the T last night by the production team.

"Come sit," Chef Popo pulled up another stool beside her and patted the seat. I saw no harm. "Wait here."

She got up and went back to her station for a couple of minutes before returning with a small bowl of broth and three perfectly-cooked wontons in the center. Popo said nothing; only slid the bowl towards me and held out a chinese soup spoon.

"... Thanks." I looked up, wondering how the hell she knew I was starving when I hadn't said a word. "Extras?"

"It's been too long since I cooked for a table this small," she laughed, shaking her head and cupping a hand over her mouth. Sixteen was small for her. "Don't tell them, but I'm thinking of bringing the leftovers home."

I tried one. Then another. They were piping hot, but it didn't matter—the wontons were the best I'd ever had.

"I know you're hungry, but slow down. There's more."

"... How did you know?"

"All my children look the same when they are hungry," she said with a smile. It was knowing.

"I could get behind having this every day," I told her honestly. "They're that good."

"Oh! Thank you. Do all young men these days speak like you? Maybe you should meet my children. One of them has been on those... those swipe-y things. Left and right, every day. Dating just isn't the same anymore, you know what I mean?"

I didn't. But I just nodded anyway 'cuz she refilled my bowl with three more wontons and I was sold.

"A lot of things aren't the way they used to be. It's how I thought of my concept; Letters from Grandma. Family dinners are my favorite way of cooking—people brought together at the dinner table. It doesn't have to be thanksgiving or Christmas or the new years'. Just an ordinary meal on an ordinary day, but still... extraordinary." She gazed out the pass and noticed a producer crossing the room. "Oh, they always spoil the fun. Good luck, young man."

"Same to you ma'am."

I returned to my station to see a portion of Syrup's mushroom wellington on my bench with a note. He'd already left the kitchen to move all sixteen dishes to the lounge area for plating.

Here's some of mine!

Don't worry. Knowing your standards, they're going to love your dish.

Silence. I put the dish aside and tossed the note. There was something off about the entire thing. Giving out extra portions wasn't the issue; the note, I could see it working on nice people like Popo and Pao but I wasn't nice. Something about him 'knowing' me didn't sit well—because he didn't. Like I said, I wasn't nice.

Already, I could hear the world's best dictionary at the back of my head trying to reason with the devil on my shoulder but I snapped out of it when an assistant came by to ask how I'd like to serve my dish.

According to her, service methods were a choice between sixteen wait staff or just myself. I asked what she meant.

"Some chefs had theatrics in mind and wanted to serve all sixteen dishes on their own. Three of which have asked to plate at the table." An idea popped into my head.

"Poured tableside," I snapped my fingers, pulling out a ceramic jug from the blast chiller. "Lay out the soup plates in front of them. I'll pour."

"Understood. First service begins in five—guests are all seated. Please get ready as soon as we call for the chef before you."

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

[Vanilla]

One director, two writers, a script supervisor, four major stakeholders, us judges, and all five producers, including Siegfried Cox. This was the table.

"Mr. Caelum! You look great as ever." "Thanks, chef. Where's Will?" "Stuck in traffic, I believe. He'll crash the party at its climax like he always does." "Of course." "Evening, Amelia. Lovely dress." "Rubbish. I keep this in the staff locker of my restaurant in case things like this happen. Must we do this on a Saturday? You of all people should understand." "Indeed. And with my sous chef cooking this evening, I'm afraid I'm twice as anxious as you are about leaving my kitchen unattended." "Well then, who runs the pass?" "The Commis." "..." "I'm kidding." "Interesting sense of humor, Chef Cox." "Sit with me, Amelia. We should talk."

Ah. Parties. Not my area of expertise.

Vanilla Julian White—sipping a glass of champagne, taking particular interest in the oddly-shaped stem while jovial conversations fill the air. Conversations that do not involve or include him in the slightest manner as he stands idly by the corner of the lounge, not knowing when and where to sit at a table of sixteen as the chairs remain shockingly unlabeled.

Mm yes. The perfect setup for villainy; a scene adored by writers with a penchant for introverted characters. Even reading the essential text titled The Science of Social and Non-social Potatoes by L. O. Red could not save me from my distaste for parties.

"Vanilla." Chef Streisand spotted me from across the room. Instantly, I prepared a compliment in my head but she beat me to it. "Love the lapel chain. Pao just told one of the producers: his flight was cancelled. Originally, he'd flown out to Dublin with his family for a short vacation before the start of production. Made perfect sense. His return flight was supposed to take off an hour ago but they've decided to cancel it entirely. It's... just you and me tonight."

"Oh. Oh that's no problem at all. He shouldn't have to spend off hours worrying about work in the first place." Inside, I was dying. Chef Pao's liveliness had been my only hope for the evening.

"My sentiments exactly. Saturdays are the busiest nights of every restaurant. This isn't where I should be... and no. We have a problem—I was hoping to rely on him for table conversations. Speaking to stakeholders can be a nightmare and entertaining a bunch of pretentious is not my cup of tea. Oh look. They even extended an invitation to Will Carter."

At once, the lounge burst into a firework of feverish applause. Hollywood star Will Carter and his manager made a grand entrance, received by guests and phone cameras alike. It didn't matter if they were servers, bartenders, guests or production staff, everyone knew exactly who he was—the very face on blockbuster posters and billboards around the world.

Box office hits tracing back to the golden age of action films starring a suave protagonist, explosions, and CGI were the core of his filmography. International success had always been a part of his career but it was only recently that he ventured into the realm of culinary entertainment, likely after witnessing the appeal of celebrity chefs and restaurant owners like Gordon Ramsay and Anthony Bourdain. Just a year ago, he even decided to set up a restaurant in the heart of Tokyo, which, needless to say, piqued the interest of worldwide fans and boasted a waiting list of up to three months in advance.

"We'll need some red to start the party."

The gentleman brought with him not one, not two, but three delightful bottles of 1995 M. Chapoutier Le Pavillon; a generous gesture to start the evening and of course, perfect reason to seat him at the head of the table, beside Chef Cox and his manager. Chef Streisand, too, had been coaxed over by the show's executive producer and thus, I found myself all the way at the other end without anyone across me.

Alone.

Alas, the curse of the odd number. Now that Chef Pao wasn't going to turn up at the launch party, we were capped at a table of fifteen instead. On one hand, I was relieved to be left to my own devices. On the other, I'd noticed how no one seemed particularly interested in sitting next to or across from me.

No matter. I was here to vet and appreciate the concept dishes our Masters and Mavericks had come up with. Within seconds of being seated, we were presented a fancy print version of tonight's tasting menu, with ample space for notes below every dish. Very convenient.

One such item featured even more space for written comments; only because it gave no description whatsoever of their dish and named it Red White Soup. Of course, it had to be the work of a professional idiot.

He was third in line for service.

Servers came in with ceramic soup plates as soon as bowls from the previous course (Chef Popo's wonderfully hearty dish) were cleared, placing them in front of us. And then, he made his entrance.

"Chef Cinder. What do you have for us tonight?" One of the producers asked. "I say your dish-naming skills need some work... just like your interviews."

"It's not gonna get any better," Leroy warned with a smidge of amusement on his lips and instantly, the entire table was charmed. Ridiculous! Absolutely criminal. He must be locked up.

"I like this guy." Will Carter's opinion, too, seemed to influence that of the room's. We watched as the chef held up a pair of jugs and began to plate his dish tableside.

Oh. A soup duet.

"Cream of crab and Gazpacho," he said as he poured both white and red liquids into a ceramic soup plate—one, steaming hot, and the other, winter cold. They did not mix. Instead, they remained perfectly separate on two halves of the dish, curling into one another like the ying yang symbol.

"The concept is Hot and Cold. Enjoy." He served from my end of the table, w-which meant me, first, which also meant practically going against the typical rules of a dinner table and also the opposite of what the two chefs before him had done. To say I was flabbergasted would be an understatement.

"Red first. Then, white."

I nodded, meeting his gaze with the straightest face I could manage. "Thank you."

Leroy's method of serving implied that the dish was meant to be started on as soon as it was plated. Without further ado, I picked up my spoon.

Gazpacho first; an interesting decision that made me wonder if he'd experimented otherwise beforehand. A vibrant shade of orange-red, the soup was an emulsion of tomato, cucumber, and olive oil that produced a smooth, almost fluffy texture.

White was next. Black pepper; cracked over authentic, Maryland-style cream of crab made with Atlantic blues, known for their natural sweetness that added to the richness of the soup and the unexpected kick of pepper sparking an instance of heat on heat. The element of surprise. Most would have expected spice and higher temperatures in what was visually red, but Leroy thought otherwise. The subversion of expectations was exactly what made the contrast between the cold, summery, crisp nature of the fiery red gazpacho and the cream of crab that much more intense.

Both were the exact opposite of their own visual impression and taste. Yet, proved to work exceptionally well together—the epitome of a fine soup duet.

Everyone was in love.

"I've never seen or tasted anything like it!" Will Carter's manager said directly to the chef in question.

"Well, I have," Mr. Carter himself interjected with a serious expression before breaking into a smile. "And it's ten times better than the other pairs I've tried! Blown away. Give him your card, Henry."

"He has it."

Compliment after compliment was paid down the row until eventually, it was my turn. And just like before, I had no intention to save Leroy any bit of the winter cold.

"... The dish was perfect, yes. But your concept is as complicated as it is intriguing. Modern gastronomy is fond of this Hot and Cold temperature contrast, often featured in appetizers as a sensory technique. Playing with perception and the mind is an interesting idea but the line between genius and mere gimmick is thin... Some chefs mistakenly emphasize the shock value of such dishes instead of truly understanding how it changes flavor and texture perception. Fortunately, you belong to the latter.

"But applying this to an entire course meal?" I paused, glancing down at my plate that was clean. "Imagine every single item on the menu falling under the category of temperature contrast—guests may begin to experience novelty fatigue. Above all, the concept, although explored by other experts, remains extremely niche. It does magic for piquing one's interest but from a practical point of view, I foresee public hesitation. Most of the population are of the opinion that hot food should be hot, and cold dishes, cold. Not together, on a single plate."

Instantly, the room was deathly silent.

Whether it was a matter of genuine distaste for my sentiments or an inability to understand them, I did not know. After all, I wasn't saying this for anyone else in the room but the chef himself, standing several feet away. Tableside.

"Are you?"

I blinked. "Sorry?"

"Of the opinion that they shouldn't be together," he held my gaze. Candles in the night.

"... I am." My eyes lowered. "Or at least, I was. I enjoyed the duet, and so that opinion no longer stands as firmly as it once did. I just... merely wished to warn you—about the dangers of playing with fire." I finished quietly.

"Ladies and gentlemen?" The head server interrupted with a bow. "The next dish is ready for service."

"Clear the table." Siegfried Cox made the call, and when my gaze returned to Leroy, I saw that he was, still, looking at me.

His eyes; they disarmed. Burning slowly like a match on a snowy evening.

"I look forward to changing your mind, Mr. White."

Instantly, I felt the weight of guilt upon my shoulders. I did not know if I was swooning internally or just, very simply, collapsing under the pressure. There was regret and disbelief all at once, unable to fathom how I'd somehow thought separating work and personal life to be easy.

So caught up I was in my head by the brewing discomfort of what had happened and the subsequent draining nature of being surrounded by business partners and social interaction I wasn't meant for, I'd left the notes section of dish four and five completely blank.

This would not do.

Not only was my behavior unbefitting of a person with values, it was wholly unprofessional. Rationally speaking, this was my first-ever significant overlap between work and private matters, thus explaining the crippling discomfort and overwhelming emotions. I needed to pull it together.

Determined, I excused myself from the table and headed for the restroom.

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

[Leroy]

I was done for the day; packed up in five, retrieved my duffel from the lockers, and left the kitchen through the vestibule when I spotted a snowflake in the distance. I'd recognize his back a mile away, and no one would be in the right mind to question my abilities—I was that good at playing Where's Vanilla.

He turned before the end of the hallway, past an arch leading to the gents and into the common space. I followed.

The moment I pushed the button and automatic doors slid open, our eyes met in the mirror.

He jumped, freezing behind the wash counter before easing up the moment his mind went 'it's just him' and returning to the slow motion of soaping his hands. Something was bothering him; he had it written all over his face.

First thing I did was give the bathroom stalls a scan. Empty. All three urinals, unoccupied. We were alone.

I joined him at the wash counter, picking the tap right next to his. Our shoulders brushed, and when I looked over in the mirror, his gaze was lowered. Deep in thought. Then, as he raised his head to check his reflection and right his glasses, I asked:

"Favorite dish so far?"

Our eyes met again and the flame in mine melted his in an instant.

"Chef Popo's wontons." He folded with a sigh, turning to face me while drying his hands with a paper towel. "But I've heard great things about Chef Du Bellay's masterful lobster ravioli. Originally Chef Cox's recipe but they say she made it her own. I was looking forward to it the moment I saw it on the menu."

Sounded pretty good. "... So why the face?" I mirrored his moves, noticing we were mere feet apart.

Guilt cut across the surface of frozen lakes. Thin ice. "Well, was I... did you... think I've been, perhaps, a little. Um. Harsh? On your dishes? After you left, I overheard someone at the table saying that I was rude and mean-spirited. Granted, I've been trying my best to strike a balance between my undeniably positive feelings toward you and your cooking with constructive criticism but it appears I'm overcompensating and taking things a little too far, so. I... I'm sorry."

"No." I stopped him there. One step closer. "You were being objective. That's all there is to it."

He searched my gaze; unsure. "Well, I might not have come across that way despite my intentions. Are you...? You're not... mad at me, are you?"

I gave him the look—the one I knew he was weak for—taking my time but knowing he needed the space. A short breather in the middle of a marathon. "If we're gonna do this thing, we can't have you feeling bad over doing your job. You know that, right?"

Instantly, he let up. "Yes, o-of course. That should be a given."

"And why would I be mad? It's hot."

"Work and private matters are..." He slowed to a stop. Then, his ears turned red on cue. "W-wh... oh be quiet, you."

I fought the urge to be intimate in those precious few seconds, appreciating the softened look in his eyes. "Better?"

He nodded, breathing a sigh; turning back to the mirror and checking his topmost button. As though talking to me was magically going to make it come undone. Not wrong.

"Thank you. That was... much needed. I'd forgotten how tiring social events like these can get."

I snorted a laugh. "Be me. Own the introversion—no words needed."

"Ah yes, and name my dishes Red White Soup while I'm at it, of course." He humored with a quiet laugh of his own, and then after checking his button, started hunting for mine that was in its natural state of non-existent. Owning dress shirts was one thing (literally, I owned just one); owning dress shirts that were actually my size was another.

I could see the cogs in his head turning the harder he stared, itching to fix the buttons now that they weren't covered by the chef's apron I was wearing before.

"Which, um, reminds me... I was thinking about your concept and, just a suggestion, completely optional—you might want to look into custom crockery made half out of metal and the other half, stone or ceramic. Imagine heating half the plate and chilling the other without having to worry about cracks and potential dangers. The experience would be twice the magic! Guests would touch the side of their plate and instantly feel the contrast."

It was a no-brainer. Had to be done.

"... Looks like Mr. White is more of an expert at Hot and Cold than the chef himself."

"It's a frightening concept, I can assure you," he huffed, arms folded. "Heavens, you could have picked anything else!"

Already, I felt like smirking. "Someone's scared."

"I am, indeed. Utterly, tragically afraid you'd win this entire thing with just one hand."

"... You're serious."

"Of course. If anyone can pull off a concept as challenging as this one, it's you. Oh and don't get me started on how you've already practically won every heart in the room with skill and personality. And looks too, if, well, if it matters. E-either way, you're undeniable. As in, undeniably one of the strongest contenders in the competition thus far. Can't believe I just said that! Excuse my biased opinion."

My confidence was through the fucking roof. "Does every heart in the room include—"

The doors slid open at the worst time possible.

Whoever it was seemed to recognize the two of us, nodding in our direction before heading for the urinals. His attire was on the fancy side, which probably meant he was one of the guests attending the kickoff. No clue; all sixteen faces were a blur except one. Sadly, the stranger's presence cut things short and we returned to silence until I followed him out the gents.

First thing I noticed: how slow he was walking. We were heading back in the direction he came from, towards the sky lounge. Two possible reasons popped up in my head but neither seemed to make any sense. One, he didn't want to return to the lounge. Two, he didn't want the conversation to end.

"Well...?" Winter snow cleared his throat, stopping right outside the door to search my gaze. "What about you? Favorites, I mean. You've seen the menu, after all. Did any of the dishes pique your interest?"

I said nothing.

Only looked him up and down with an appreciative nod that had him combusting on the spot. Favorite dish, alright.

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

I spent the next two days of rest mostly with Annie. With a production timeline as tight as the one they'd given us, I was going to be out of town for the next couple of months after the intro round in London. Which meant grilling her over the flame twenty-four-seven about safety rules and general health shit.

The doctors were keeping close watch on her condition, because at her age, falling and landing on her tailbone could very well lead to issues with her spine and past medical records of hers further complicated things, so. We agreed on once-a-week checkups, and no fucking messing around in the kitchen—which Rexi also endorsed.

Sunday night, we were having fried chicken takeout from a local favorite of Annie's, a suggestion of mine since meals for the cast were mostly catered and I needed one last fix before the start of production, when she asked about my dish. The coq au vin.

"So you got the sweet Riesling after tasting it at the market, and completely forgot to bring someone with, y'know, normal tastebuds," she gave me the look a chef would give to an apprentice. "Vanille's right. A couple more minutes on the stove and you would've served them dessert. Sweetie, you got so lucky."

I filled my boy's food bowl with pieces of boiled chicken. "Yeah. I know."

"Well, it turned out to be a happy accident, didn't it?" Rexi came to my rescue. "Because of the shorter braise time, you would've needed the flavors to be twice as intense, no?"

"Kinda. Pao and Streisand had no notes," I told her. "Vanilla was the only one who noticed and bothered giving me a heads up. Without revealing my condition."

"That's Nillie for you," Annie sighed. "What if... what happens if they put you on dessert? It's not like you can get someone tasting your dish every ten seconds."

"Unlikely." I had already thought of this. "They're spending big money getting us around. With that many countries and so much to learn in a short span of time, I don't see them forcing dessert onto the menu for all of us. Maybe in a team challenge, but. Even then. They'll assign it to the pastry chefs."

"That is very confident thinking," Rexi pointed out. "Although I wouldn't be so sure about eliminating all possibilities of, you know. After all, Annie used to go on and on about every dish, savory and sweet, needing a balance of flavors. Eventually..."

I paused, reaching for a glass. It was empty. "... True."

"Free had the most terrible recommendations for therapists," Annie snorted. "Made him see all those doctors that amounted to a load of bullshit. Paid for it too."

"That's how he thinks it should be treated. Snap a finger and I'm back to normal."

The topic was stale. We'd talked about Siegfried and the doctors he'd sent me to many times, and beating a dead... dead something wasn't what we wanted to do for the rest of the evening. After playing some cards and them sharing a bunch of packing lists for different countries and their seasons (bold of them to even assume I had that many clothes in the first place), Rexi sent me home with fruits.

And a business card.

"It's not an official referral, but." She placed both hands on my shoulders. "I've known her for years and Annie likes her too."

Dr. Sarah E. M. Knight

Psychological Therapist

PhD and PsyD in Neuropsychology

I did not question the unspoken words. Part of it felt, almost, surreal. That after all these years of avoiding the problem, I'd end up at the exact spot I started at and feared to return to. This was their version of 'it's about time.' Annie and Rexi had always known, but respected my decision to bury the flames. I'd chosen ignorance over proper understanding—the only coping mechanism I could stomach at that young age. Now, having to face it all at once was enough for me to realize that some extra help wouldn't hurt.

So I went.

"Afternoon, Leroy. Please, have a seat." Knight stood, motioning to the chair across her. Her office was unbelievably quiet despite the busy road on the ground floor. In the corner was a zen garden; complete with moss, pebbles, bonsai, and a water feature made out of bamboo. Didn't know what it was called.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Hey. Uh... I'm good." I sat, not knowing how else to respond. Or feel.

Now that I was going into this for real, with time and perspective on my hands, it didn't take me long to register exactly how out of my depth I was. Naturally, I never considered myself to be anything close to someone who genuinely needed help like this 'cuz, y'know, most people don't give a fuck until the bad stuff up there in their heads starts affecting everything else in their system, but. I was here to do this.

"Would you like to tell me why you're here today?"

"..."

She poured me a glass of water before returning to her desk; patient file opened and turned to the page I'd filled up outside in the waiting area. Her gaze alternated between this and her monitor. Then, back to me. She smiled after a while.

"Would it help if the questions were more specific?"

"... Yeah."

She obliged. "You stated hypogeusia as a past diagnosis. When and how did you find out?"

"About seven years ago," I told her. The memory was bitter on the tongue. Unpleasant. "Pumpkin pie, I think. Or some tart I made."

The questions were rhythmic. Almost as though she was following the sound of the bamboo cup behind her every time it got filled with water and tipped sideways to pour everything out. She mostly listened, writing notes on paper and nodding. It was a lot to unpack, but nothing about the space or the people in it felt like I was running out of time. Talking was not something I enjoyed doing; let alone talking about myself. To make things simple, I kept to the facts. What happened, instead of how I felt. A general timeline; the doctors I was made to see; the tests they made me do; the reports that came back.

It was a long time ago. And to unearth what I'd buried was tough.

Dr. Knight pulled up something on her screen after I glossed over the results of my treatment. These were stuff they had me send over before the appointment.

"Your medical records point toward the assumption that your condition is chronic or caused by autoimmune diseases, but, as the test results have come back negative, no progress has been made in your treatment... and the fact that you're here tells me that you don't think your issue has anything to do with physiological factors, either." She smiled knowingly. "You think it's neurological. Psychological, even."

"..." This was the most I'd ever had to face about myself, head on. "... Is it reversible?"

"Your case is special, so... let's take things slow." She got up to retrieve some snacks from a cabinet. Some sweet, some savory. "Turns out, we're in luck. There has been a ton of development over the past couple of years on hypogeusia-related research, especially as a symptom of poor mental wellbeing and other stress-induced factors."

"Try these. Have you had them before?" Cheddar-flavored Goldfish crackers and a pack of mini Oreos.

"No." I popped one of each. Cheese, salt, and butter, I tasted. The Oreo was just texture in my mouth. Crumbly. A hint of cocoa. Bitter.

All this, I told her.

"Selective hypogeusia is... well, it's not unheard of. In fact, I met this young man once; spoke passionately about selective hypogeusia and the lack of research on the psychological aspects of the condition. We met in a restaurant. He was working for the New York Times back then, and... I think even started a business of his own. I forgot what it was about, but. That was the first time I heard of it."

I watched her turn and slide a ring folder out of the shelf behind her.

"I gave him my card and we worked on a paper about stress-induced hypogeusia alongside other experts. This was years ago, of course."

In the folder was a collection of academic writing. Research papers; science stuff; something they called qualitative and quantitative research. She had a content page filed at the very front, logging the title of every piece of writing and the people involved in producing it.

There were more than fifteen. Not a lot, but still. Significant enough.

"I'm not asking you to read any of this. Just assuring you that the lack of research in the past might have led to disappointment in your diagnoses and unknown treatment methods. Doctors working with uncharted waters tend to lead to varying success rates, after all. Now, with a better foundation of knowledge about your condition, perhaps more can be done."

Something caught my eye.

"It says here you're going to be out of town starting next week. If you'd like, we can come up with a workaround that would suit you and your current lifestyle. Online sessions, mood trackers. Things like that."

Names. So many of them.

Psychologists, qualitative researchers, lab experts, chemists, food scientists, universities, culinary schools, funding, funding, funding and one, single name that never left the list. Accompanied by a phrase.

"Doesn't have to involve medication if that's too big of a leap, but I can certainly refer you to psychiatry if that is your preferred solution, or maybe tell you what's currently available—both experimental and developed. Otherwise..." She reached into a drawer and pulled out a ballpoint pen. "What are your thoughts on journaling?"

If anything, this was it. Cleared the clouds and stoked every bit of fire left in cinders; drove me straight to his door for the conversation we never had since that night he told me fire and ice were just not meant to be.

Funded by GLACÉ

and co-authored by V. J. White