A/N: The most thrilling chapter yet! GEHEE. One of my main inspirations for starting the new book and how it takes shape from here on out. Staying true to my original roots (not changing the dish Leroy chose to present during the preliminaries), but also switching things up a little. I hope the slow introduction of new characters has been doing you well!! This chapter is as long as the previous one at about 8k words, so either snuggle up with a snack (you might get hungry) or take your time.

Also, I'm delighted to see that so many of you are re-reading the Taste series ;-; I cri... I hope the new additions to Leroy and Vanilla's physical appearances have been entertaining to read about. And the new chapters as well in Wax! I hope you enjoyed that too. Updates will likely be weekly on saturday evenings or sunday mornings. 

Tuck in! 

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[Leroy]

The place was huge. Ceilings, sky high from the looks of it, and the way they'd filled the entire floor with rows and rows of cooking stations, anyone could tell it was at least the size of a football field. Sound was a technical nightmare, so mic'ing every one of us up made perfect sense; the quiet whispers from before turned into waves of nerves and excitement the moment they let us into the arena. Everyone was talking.

"This is the sickest set I've ever seen." "How big's the cast?" "Twelve chefs." "That's just twenty percent of us..."

Outside in the waiting room, they'd split us up to keep the talking to a minimum, but now with all sixty of us gathered in a single space, people were recognizing one another. Waving; shaking hands; clapping backs. This was not the case for me.

The closest I'd ever been to the industry over the past couple of years was dining out with Annie at some posh afternoon tea spot she liked on her birthday. And the occasional kitchen fire in a restaurant that clearly had no regard for safety. Five years down the road and one very inviting snowstorm later, I was back in the heat. These were head chefs; restaurant owners; experts from all across the UK. No Michelin stars or culinary red carpets but still, they were people in the scene who knew one another. Meanwhile, me—a nobody.

I liked it that way.

"Hey, it's you again." The voice sounded familiar so I turned. It was the girl with blue hair. The one I met in the elevator going up The Shard. Her brother stood beside her, checking out the additional equipment lined up along the sides of the hall. We exchanged a nod, and he signed something. She pointed at the cooler box I was holding on to. "What did you bring?"

I told her.

"Cool. My brother brought arctic char."

Everyone had a box. Whether it was on a trolley or under their arms, they brought something. It was part of the brief; to bring a couple of favorite ingredients. Probably what we were going to be cooking with. Took me some time, but I gradually spotted a couple of others I'd come across at the conference some time ago; the tech-savvy granny with a bunch of kids on her phone, and the guy who introduced her to Twitter. They were looking around just like everyone else was, figuring out how to operate the standard cooking station. Water and gas were all part of the deal, so were basics like salt, pepper, sugar, and olive oil. To the side, I picked out a rack of inexpensive essentials: eggs, garlic, potatoes, flour, rice. Even boxed pasta.

The stations were numbered.

Twenty-seven was somewhere in the middle on the left-most lane. Across me was a guy in a pastry chef uniform, complete with a blue scarf around his neck and an apron around his waist with the word Odette embroidered along the strap. To my right was the brother-sister combo from before. She waved. I nodded back.

Something about the way the entire place was lit—harshly on the main floor below, spotlighting the stations and nothing else—gave off mystery and intrigue. Instinct said they had more up their sleeves, and instinct was right.

The lights went out all at once, killing the buzz in the air. A mechanical whir from above had us raising our heads to the upper floor and a single spotlight said it all.

The judging panel.

Three of them, standing on a raised platform at the front of the warehouse, upstairs in the gallery. Not gonna lie, even without cut-ins or epic music playing over classic b-roll, the whole sequence deserved endless glaze. Peak cinema. Also, whoever did his hair knew exactly what they were doing because I could not take my eyes off how good he looked. The sides were gathered to the back and the rest was let down like the elves in Lord of the Rings. Again, peak cinema. Would. What?

"No way we're getting Amelia Streisand and Paolo de Castro on the same show..." "Who's the guy on the left?" "It's the new critic in town. You haven't seen him on your feed?" "Crossed fingers I don't get Streisand judging my dish..." "They taste everything, mate." "I rather Streisand than White."

Bad takes all around; most of them masked by the massive cheers echoing across the arena, backed by applause that only grew as they stepped into the light and introduced themselves. Pao and Amelia were industry favorites. Culinary entertainment aside, they were experts in their own right. Siegfried had built my curriculum around three texts back in New York: one written by him, one by the founder of L'Assiette Vide, and a cookbook by Amelia Streisand. She was that big.

"On behalf of Kitchen Atlas, welcome!"

The noise rang in my ears, but Pao did not stop; he got right down to business. "Sixty chefs, all gathered in one place... and all here for the same thing: a black apron."

"Ay but these don't come easy, ladies and gentlemen. Right now, you see numbers on your stations. But! If you earn the right to wear an apron, your chosen alias will be printed on the spot, and the apron will be yours to keep." Stage lights at the front of the warehouse came on but with more than twenty stations between me and whatever they had on the countertop, it was hard to tell what we were supposed to be looking at.

I stared hard.

Six rolled-up aprons, in black.

"If you think your eyes are playing tricks on you, I'm afraid you have it wrong." His voice sounded different on surround speakers. "Today, out of sixty chefs, only six will receive an apron."

Instantly, it clicked. There was never an intention to pick all twelve contestants at the prelims, rigged or not; this pretty much confirmed my suspicions—half the cast had already been decided. By invitation.

The next thing that happened hit the ball out of the park in terms of production value. Behind us on the upper floor, across the platform the judges were standing on, was a door. It opened. Out stepped six chefs in their whites. One of them, I recognized right off the bat.

Layla Tenner. It took her less than three seconds to meet my eye, as though she'd planned this deliberately to send a message: snag an apron, or she'd personally kick my ass. The others, I could tell, were Michelin stars, culinary awards, years of experience under their belt. Naturally, Andre stood out in a stacked lineup. But was I surprised they put him on the show?

No.

Them showing up at the prelims though, seemed like something completely unplanned. Even the judges were taking a minute to recover from the beat of surprise. Turns out, the production team had kept this under wraps. Contestants were divided at the outset into six experienced chefs—Masters, they called them—who competed under their real names, and six more classed as Mavericks; the underdogs competing under aliases. It had to be Siegfried's idea.

They were reading out a bunch of names and accolades. Michelin stars. Restaurants they owned. Kitchens they headed.

"That's the guy who won Masterchef?" "Yeah, eight years ago." "They got stars on all of 'em." "Wait, so... we're supposed to be going up against them? Veterans?" "I don't think it's a team thing. The prize money's for one."

I could hear the confusion in their voices, shared among the row behind my station. The six invited chefs split up and spread out across the gallery on the upper floor for a bird's eye view of the place. Their intentions were clear; to suss out the competition, if there was any in the first place.

"Your task is simple," Streisand's voice brought all eyes back on her. "You've been told to bring your favorite ingredients. All you have to do is cook one dish—any dish—within an hour."

... That's it?

Part of me wasn't buying how simple they were making things out to be. Somehow, something was off. There had to be a catch.

"Give us your best shot. And a word of advice: prepare two servings. One for tasting, and the other for the camera. In case one of them falls through, the other can be used for footage. Yes, you may serve your dish before the time is up. Ring the service bell on your station counter, and the nearest judge will begin evaluation." Encouraging two servings instead of one was another way for them to check for consistency. Whoever came up with this was a genius.

Already, people were starting to lay ingredients out on their bench. The luxury kind. Stuff like snow crabs; lobsters; A5 wagyu; almas caviar; rare ingredients that cost an entire paycheck to fund. I popped open my cooler box and looked inside. The stuff I brought were nowhere near as fancy or expensive, but they weren't exactly the kind of ingredients you'd be able to get off the shelves in a supermarket either. I'd reached out to a couple of contacts Angie provided, including the butcher who came in clutch the first time I cooked in Andre's kitchen for winter snow.

A digital countdown in red pulled up at the very front of the arena—the numbers six and zero in minutes.

"You may begin."

I set the timer on my watch to max range with ten-minute intervals, and got to work.

Noise turned down low, flame cranked up high and on top of that, a cast iron pot. Mise had an order to it; no fixed rules per se, but onions first was a habit I never really kicked. Fingers warm and toasted, I rolled out the knives and every slice and dice rang in my ears. The blade ran. Garlic, minced. Mushrooms, sliced. Pancetta, diced. One whole chicken, cut up and broken down into eight parts, all under two minutes. I remember learning how to do it when I was nine, right after I was made to memorize diagrams titled cuts of chicken. There was one for every protein.

I checked the time and surprised myself. Sure, I'd spent the past couple of weeks doubling down in the kitchen, but it was easy to forget the machine I used to be—built and honed for perfection, trained to withstand the heat of a flame. Besides, I'd seen this coming. Like every other person cooking in the room, I had a couple of ideas backed up in my head. The good ones. Two days ago, the crew had this for dinner and agreed, hands down: the dish deserved to be on my list of favorites.

He would know.

For a moment, I turned the noise back up. Pots and pans; blenders; mixers; knives; beeping; cursing; crashing. Overhead, footsteps circling the upper floor. Watching. The red digits hanging from the ceiling of the arena were down to fifty-two and I was about to start browning the meat when two rows down, Streisand's voice cut through the racket.

"That... is not the station of a chef who deserves to be on the show." I saw her reach for the number plate and turn it face down. "Pack up."

The entire room froze.

Above, a loud, obnoxious sneer worthy of reality TV. I knew it was Andre without having to look—he knew what the cameras loved and screentime was his drug.

I didn't think Streisand was serious until a voice on the PA system came through with: "Number nineteen, please leave the kitchen."

The guy just stood there. "What...?"

"Go." She had her hands behind her back, face void of any expression. "You're out."

And that was it. She turned away from his station after writing something in her notes and the entire warehouse started crashing the fuck out on cue.

"Wait, what?" "Did he call for service?" "No. Lad barely got started on his mise..." "You're kidding. Mate got eliminated for a messy station?" "They can do that...?"

Number nineteen was not going down without a fight. "You didn't even taste a thing!"

"A messy station is the mark of an amateur," Streisand cut him no slack. "Every chef knows that. And if your station looks like the aftermath of a bomb going off within five minutes of starting the clock, you are nowhere near qualified to cook next to any professional standing up there."

This was it; the catch we had all been waiting for. Turns out, the judges weren't just making their rounds for nothing—if cooking behind the safe, closed doors of a commercial kitchen was enough for chefs to believe that the final product was all that mattered, they were wrong. The message they wanted to convey was clear: the process mattered as much as the dish they intended to serve.

To seal the deal, producers had the rules reinstated for added effect; announcing that one, all three judges could request to taste elements of any dish at any moment in time after the fifteen-minute mark. And two, poor conduct, flavors, or behavior unbefitting of a professional chef was within reason for anyone to be sent home.

Just being able to complete and serve a dish was already considered a huge feat.

In other words, this was a lightning knockout.

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

[Vanilla]

I remember raising the idea two weeks ago after going through the script at our first read. The production team had planned a rough outline of the judging criteria alongside a general flow of events for the preliminary stage, estimating a shoot time of six hours in total including private confessionals and separate b-roll footage.

Attempting to dissuade a bunch of broadcast professionals from the regular cook-and-taste format plaguing all forms of culinary media proved extremely difficult. Not only was the industry standard repetitive and lacking, it was also far too simple; which only made judging all sixty dishes even harder than it already was. A regular cook-and-taste elimination meant having to taste sixty dishes in one go at the end of their given duration. Most importantly, keeping track of so many chefs in the arena at the same time was nothing short of a nightmare for both the camera crew and the judges. Not to mention, the sheer amount of footage at the end of it all!

I'd expressed utmost dissent toward such a format, emphasizing the need to whittle down numbers from the get-go. The ability to eliminate an unsuitable contestant early on meant one less dish to taste and one less chef to keep an eye on.

"Going up against Michelin-star veterans is no walk in the park," was the point I wanted to convey. "It is only appropriate that these sixty hopefuls are tested with something that feels brutal, technical, and unforgiving."

Fortunately, the production team was not immune to common sense. They agreed to implement the lightning knockout and made adjustments to the shooting schedule but lo and behold, to think they'd have more up their sleeves.

I raised my gaze to catch a glimpse of Layla on the upper floor, arms resting leisurely on the rails as she kept an eye on several chefs down below. To think she'd kept this from me despite weekly lunches in the school cafeteria of Le Cordon Bleu! I resisted the urge to head straight upstairs for a good shake of her shoulders. Unbelievable.

Chen had to have known something about this; Layla was obligated to submit an application for sabbatical leave as the school's culinary dean, and so his father must have known for weeks. It made sense for him to relay the news to Chen and the rest of the faculty. Alas, my role as guest lecturer meant little access to such information, but still! As... as lunch mates! Every week!

Heavens, I hope she's ready for a front-row seat to prime entertainment. Already, half the cast consisted of local legends—including a circus expert by the name of Philip Andre. Still, one look at their names and anyone would reasonably conclude that Siegfried's connections in the industry ran deep. Unsurprisingly so.

"Chef. How we doin'? You've got to see this."

I was making my rounds at the ten-minute mark when a man in a black chef's jacket stopped me in my tracks, holding up a nonstick skillet filled with shrimp and a bottle of bourbon in his other hand. Wild Turkey.

"Ah." I slowed down, glancing at the number displayed on his counter and taking notes. "I'm afraid I don't deserve the title 'chef', but... yes. Good, thank you. This is a bourbon shrimp flambé?"

"Exactly. I've been doing this for years," he claimed, unscrewing the cap on the clear bottle but not quite removing his skillet from the open flame. I was familiar with proper flambé technique; also perhaps the easiest way to impress any guest with a penchant for dramatic flair.

"Are you... not going to take your pan off the heat first?"

"Trust me, I got this."

"... Wait." I stopped him just as he was about to add the alcohol straight from the bottle. "If you pour it like that, the vapors could ignite midair."

"Relax. I do this all the time! It never goes wrong."

Coming from someone who nearly put a hole in a firefighter's private kitchen, I wasn't feeling too positive about his confidence. "Please put that down. Triggering the fire alarm would be—"

"Look, you said so yourself," thirty-eight snapped back all of a sudden. "You're not a chef. I've done this many times in my restaurant and it's all good, mate."

I explained that different kitchen equipment meant different temperatures, and high-proof spirits like the one in his hand could trigger a flashback ignition, especially if the pan was extremely hot. Regrettably, a hostile response was what I received in return.

"We do this all the damn time at my restaurant. You just don't know how it works."

Then without warning, he proceeded to pour the bourbon straight from the bottle, holding it far too close to the pan—and instantly, the open flame leapt up the vapor trail like a fuse, causing the bottle to flash blue and shatter in a matter of seconds courtesy of the sudden spike in pressure.

Pieces of glass littered his station and a medic came running. So did Chef Pao.

"Banilla! What happened?" He checked for injuries. "Are you okay?"

"Thank you. I'm quite alright," I said to him, side-stepping the visible shards of glass while assistants rushed to clear the scene. Reaching for thirty-eight's number plate, I turned it face down before noting the expression of shock on his face. "... I suppose the fire department will be visiting your restaurant very soon. Good day."

"Number thirty-eight, please leave the kitchen."

I did not bother shaking his hand; merely crossed him out on my clipboard and moved on down the row.

So be it. Chef Streisand and I were fast-tracking a fearsome reputation for ourselves by sending the most number of chefs home thus far. Whether it was tasting elements of a dish or punishing amateur mistakes, no mercy was shown. A station with overcooked scallops and the saltiest beurre blanc demanded 'another judge' to taste the components of his dish I'd tried separately. It had taken me three seconds to conclude that his final product would not meet the competition's high standards. Either way, he promptly kept his mouth shut the moment he learned Chef Streisand had sent someone packing for poor knife skills.

The first fifteen minutes of lightning knockouts conveyed our intended message loud and clear: no horsing around.

Meanwhile, Chef Pao had not sent a single person home.

Granted, the three of us constantly exchanged notes throughout our rounds—dishes that had piqued our interest, ingredients and elements that stood out, caution flags, and of course, the promising few with most potential. Still, he remained generously lenient.

"Number seven is doing roasted beet tartare." "I saw that. Instead of beef, she chose to feature a root as the star of her dish. A very interesting concept." "Twenty six has the best knife skills I've seen so far." "Ooo I shall go see later. Right now, I like twelve." "Vanilla, will you taste forty-seven? And the last station. I told her off for not tying their hair back." "Forty-seven... and... sixty. Duly noted." "Thirty-four smell like socks! What do you think?" "Well then, Pao, go taste something of his and do what you must! I can't believe you haven't sent a single person home." "Ay Amelia, this is not a competition among us!" "Hm. It could be...?"

We mused quietly behind our notes, hiding smiles and laughter. Admittedly, I was starting to find this all rather enjoyable.

As requested by Chef Streisand, I stopped by forty-seven to taste.

"Oh." I paused the moment I peered into the wok sitting over high heat; its contents were shockingly red. "This is...?"

"Stir-fried crawfish, sir." The chef removed the lid of his wok and added half a can of beer that instantly gave the dish a startling aroma of spicy, savoury goodness.

Nodding, I gestured to a small ramekin on his countertop. "I'd like a taste of anything you have, please."

He did not question my authority—ladling spoonfuls of broth from the wok of simmering crawfish into the ramekin before finally offering it to me.

"Thank you." I smelled it first, preparing my tastebuds for the anticipated punch of heat. Then, sipped.

Oh. I understood at once; why Chef Streisand had the inkling to point him out. "Was the broth... made from scratch?" I phrased carefully.

"Yes, I cooked the broth."

"How did you make it?"

"The natural juices of the crawfish, some sauce, garlic, Sichuan peppercorns, and other seasonings."

Briefly, I searched his countertop for clues. None. Taking another sip of the broth, I asked again: "Nothing else? Store-bought stock, or... premade soup base?"

The problem with his dish wasn't the addition of a ready-made ingredient, but more so that it was used as a key component to enhance the flavor of it. Not only would the recipe taste entirely different without this star ingredient, it wasn't even something the chef made himself. Closing one eye to his transgression would be nothing short of unfair.

He shook his head. "No sir."

Alas, his gaze betrayed him; a single glance toward the end of his station. I set the ramekin aside and went over to the personal trashcan placed on the far right, stepping on the foot pedal for a view of its contents.

True enough, the red packaging of store-bought soup base stared right up at me in broad daylight.

Having proven my point, I crossed out his number on the list and turned his label face down. "Thank you for your time."

Forty-seven did not argue. He sighed, throwing in the towel and taking my extended hand for a shake. "... You have a sharp palate."

"I try to." I nodded back, glancing at my notes with the intention to continue Chef Streisand's requested tastings when I decided to check the time, courtesy of an odd hunch.

Twenty-five minutes in. Perfect.

For a moment, I opted to stand aside with closed eyes—fixing my glasses and bracing for impact.

Of course he had to be wearing that signature station shirt of his; a half apron around his waist and underneath that, a pair of dark, casual pants that looked worlds apart from the classic chef's getup favored by everyone else cooking in the arena. It had taken me a grand total of two seconds to tell exactly what he'd decided to serve the judges as soon as I saw the ingredients laid out on his bench.

Chef Pao would have loved it, no doubt. Perhaps even Chef Streisand herself might have approved his take on the classic dish. Alas! No one expects the formidable opponent that was, well, my harsh unfiltered form. His very existence deserved it for choosing to cook this dish despite the time limit.

"Hm. Interesting," I remarked quietly, stopping in front of station twenty-seven while Chef Pao decided to join me out of curiosity.

"Hey." Leroy put a pause on clearing his bench to uncover the pot simmering on low. The aroma was stunning. "It's braised chicken today."

"You have the luxury of freedom and yet, you choose a dish that is known to take as long as possible for flavors to infuse," I pointed out, reaching up to brush the chain of my glasses out of the way and fill the space beside his number with quick notes. "Coq au vin. Blanc, in fact—judging from the bottle of white wine on your counter. The traditional recipe calls for red, doesn't it?"

"It does," he smiled like I'd said something he'd been waiting to hear. "It's the first recipe I learned. And the first I put a twist on."

Chef Pao took great interest in this delightful nugget of trivia. "Ooo! I like when people improvise. White wine is more subtle; fresh and sweet. Good idea, can't wait to try it."

"Yes," I took the opportunity to echo his sentiments immediately. "In fact, we'd like to taste something now."

The look on Chef Pao's face was one of great surprise as he turned to me with five blinks and raised brows. "But, he's—it... it's braised chicken, it it it needs time, Banilla—"

"Sure." Leroy consented; just as I'd predicted. The idiot was never one to back down from a challenge, and upon recognizing his dish the moment I'd seen those ingredients displayed on his workspace, I knew he had to be punished for making such a foolish decision. He was practically asking for it!

You may be thinking: someone seems overly excited about finding fault with braised chicken and and and eliminating whoever made it by purposefully tasting the dish early. Well, yes. You are indeed correct. Admittedly, I was exhibiting unwarranted behavior of extreme bias for personal gain and ulterior motives. Deep down, I was afraid of this man; fearful of his talent, knowledge, and raw, unstoppable skill. God forbid he breeze through every challenge and rise to every occasion, because then, under the scrutiny of the public eye and the culinary industry, he might just crash and burn like he did. Years ago. On a day I'd never forget.

Lo and behold, Leroy proceeded to reach underneath his counter and pull out a pot of rice he'd been letting sit for a couple of minutes—fluffing it with a fork and adding a touch of lime as he did before plating up a sample each on two separate ramekins and drizzling a spoonful of creamy stew on top.

This came out of nowhere; as though he'd expected the curveball and decided to throw one of his own. Needless to say, Chef Pao and I were speechless.

"Cilantro lime rice!" My counterpart recovered first, picking up a spoon and helping himself to a serving without further ado. "Match made in heaven. You were hiding this, ay... when did you decide to make it?"

"After Streisand sent the first guy home," he held out another spoon in my direction. "No one said we couldn't decide what you taste." His smirk was infuriating; words vague on purpose, deliberately, conscientiously deciding not to serve us the chicken just yet because, well, all three of us knew, at the twenty-five-minute mark, it wasn't going to be at its best.

Alas.

Me, a fuming avalanche. Outsmarted; bested by the local idiot because just by observing the expression on Chef Pao's face and his utter delight upon leaving his dish spotless, I knew it tasted as good as it looked.

I raised the ramekin to my nose and instantly felt my indignation double at the heavenly fragrance wafting out of it. He'd browned the rice in garlic and olive oil before cooking it. This explained the undeniable look of approval on Chef Pao's face—although preparation methods differed from region to region, garlic rice was no doubt a favorite of Filipino cuisine. Lime zest and cilantro gave the deceptively simple side a third dimension that worked perfectly with the rich creaminess of his coq au vin blanc stew.

"Coming up with something like this last-minute and pulling it off!" Oh dear. "I like you. What do they call the uh... the crisis... emergency?" Chef Pao turned to me.

"Crisis management skills, I suppose?"

"Yes yes!" He turned back to the man behind station twenty-seven with a thumbs-up. "I give you ten-out-of-ten for that skill."

Leroy nodded appreciatively. "Thanks chef."

His gaze eventually rested on mine and it was only after putting our used dishware aside that I finally met him head-on.

"It appears you are fond of taking risks," I said through frozen lakes and winter words. But all he did was welcome them with open arms like a fireplace that crackles once every so often. Laughing under his breath.

"Only calculated ones."

That was it. I was reaching for my phone, bringing up the dialpad and keying in the three simple numbers for the authorities to arrest the criminal before me. Not only did he see through my flawless plan for world domination (naturally, cooking braised chicken in a competition like this needed to be punished through means of world domination and nothing else), but devised a simple, seemingly effortless way to negate it!

I gave him a look, then left station twenty-seven with Chef Pao hot on my heels.

"Banilla... you are very naughty," he whispered in amusement, wagging a finger like my grandmother used to. Even if we didn't have personal cameras following our assessment of every station, we were still hot-mic'ed. Conversations, relevant or not, could be heard crystal clear by the sound crew. "You already knew he was making braised chicken! That takes long till the flavors are properly infused... if he didn't come up with something else to give us, he would have been eliminated immediately."

"But of course, Chef Pao. Why should we reward silly decisions like that? He could have picked any other dish! That man was practically shooting himself in the foot and asking for more—it would've been rude of me to ignore his blatant invitation."

"Sometimes, silly is good." My companion chuckled as we made for the last station at the back of the arena. "And the more we talk about it, the more I think: maybe you like idiots! You give them so much attention, so much care, so much concern..."

The alarm bells in my head went off at once and the thousand mini-Vanillas at work fell flat on their face in momentary dysfunction. "I-I'm merely being objective. Chef Streisand would have done the same... and, well, like I said; being harsh and stringent in our search for the top six chefs from today is the key to a good production. They must, at the very least, hold a candle to the six veterans up there."

"Okay true, we have strong contenders," Chef Pao pursed his lips and pointed them at the Masters scattered across the upper floor gallery, then glanced back at the station we'd just assessed. "But this boy is clever. I like him."

*

What was he doing? I stared at the digital clock with five minutes left displayed for all to see before turning to the fifth chef leaving his station to receive a black apron from the producers.

The fifth one, out of six supposed Mavericks. Only one spot remained.

Over the past thirty-or-so minutes, the panel had been making their rounds, tasting, observing, noting down details of the remaining hopefuls until the first of many rang his bell for service. A full dish, completed. Ready for the judges.

His appearance struck a chord in my memory—I recalled running into him and his interpreter (who turned out to be his sister) in the elevator, conversing with a certain idiot about a shared topic of interest. Their tattoos.

What he served was simple: a cold-smoked arctic char crudo paired with cucumber tonic water, picked strawberries, and white asparagus. Served under a glass cloche filled with applewood smoke. The cameras loved the spectacle, and it wasn't just for show. Flash-smoking the arctic char brought out a refined, nuanced flavor that perfectly complemented the sweetness of the raw fish and the freshness of the cucumber. The entire plate was dangerously balanced; had any one of his components tasted minutely different, the delicate, subtle nature of his dish would have been thoroughly ruined.

Such sensitivity toward flavor and balance was hard to come by.

"The best knife skills I've seen thus far, too." Chef Streisand added, to which his sister lit up and interpreted like she'd won the lottery. Naturally, his strategy paid off. Choosing a cold, but complex appetizer with the least prep time required that showed an understanding of flavors and flawless plating meant speed and quality.

He was awarded the first apron. Which he proudly put on and came by to shake our hands and offer a word of appreciation. I learned what the sign for 'thank you' was, and asked if it was BSL (British Sign Language) they preferred, ASL (American Sign Language), or something else.

"Finnish Sign Language was what we grew up with," his sister interpreted, gaze fixed on her brother as he signed. "It's completely different from BSL, so it's tough for Cill—uh, my brother to find an interpreter here in the UK. But he also learned ASL and BSL along the way."

I nodded, noticing the word SPARROW embroidered on the chest area of his black apron, and the show's minimalist logo in white right below. "Chef Sparrow? Good luck. And how should I address...?"

His sister extended an eager hand as soon as I turned to her. "I'm Cyan. My sign name goes like this," she tapped a hand curled into a 'C' twice on her chin. "And because the show wanted aliases instead of the real stuff, we made a sign name for my brother too. It's this." She places a closed fist across her chest and flicks it out twice, like a bird spreading its wings. "S, for sparrow. Taking flight."

I committed this to memory and congratulated Chef Sparrow once more before the next service bell rang. And then the next. And the next. Six dishes later, we found our next Maverick—

Chef Amaranth; with a roasted beet tartare that wowed the senses, surprising those who had a distaste for mimicry in vegetarian cuisines. The dish was sweet and earthy, tender and yet, firm. It tasted nothing like a salad, and had an umami-forward flavor profile that ultimately landed her an apron.

Chef Popo; an elderly woman with a warm disposition whose cooking reminded me of an Italian grandmother's kitchen reign. While most chefs in the arena fought to impress with extravagant plating and posh ingredients, she stuck to humble roots. Having worked as a chef at a middle school cafeteria in south London for the past eighteen years, a single dish in the span of an hour wasn't tough enough a challenge for her. She made six. Six dishes; all absolute show-stoppers.

Chef Ras el Hanout; Raz for short, served a classic Moroccan agadir sardine kofta, cooked in an iconic earthenware pot called a tagine. While it was true that fusion cuisine had seen an uptrend in the UK over the past decade, blending cooking traditions from various cultures could end up diluting individual cuisines instead of paying it due respect. Raz showed promise in having a nuanced understanding of that. It most certainly helped that he was the only contestant who offered to help Popo with her cooler box of ingredients when she struggled to bring it with her into the arena.

And then there was Chef Syrup—the fifth Maverick to receive an apron. He was clever, serving dessert instead of a main course like everyone else had done. His flan vanille pécan was the epitome of precision and finesse all at once, combining a melty, full-bodied praline with a smooth, roasted sweetness. Granted, this was well within his expertise, judging from the scarf around his neck and a strap with the name Odette, the leading pâtisserie in Paris, printed on it. His personality did not stand out very much but oddly enough, I found him... familiar.

Like I'd seen him in passing years ago, perhaps in school or summer break.

Skimming the surface of my memories yielded naught; and so I put the thought aside on my long list of to-dos, for a deeper dive when time permitted.

Alas, the filled five spots meant that only one singular apron remained, and as the timer above ticked down with every passing second, we were hit with dish after dish of last-minute luxury—all with the intention to leave a lasting impression for that final spot in the kitchen.

By this point, we'd been treated to caviar on sorrel mousse, Alaskan king crab curry, herb-crusted wagyu, and many other examples of fine-dining dishes plated like Michelin-star signatures. Still, they fell short of expectations. Besides shallow, amateurish knowledge of ingredient-use, the dishes lacked a fundamental understanding of flavor beyond slapping costly material onto a pan and calling it a day. Some ingredients were simply not suited for certain cooking methods, and attempting to raise a recipe's overall worth by substituting cheap proteins with something ten times its value was not going to work.

Leroy was waiting.

That, I knew.

It was very much like him to take a gamble despite the stakes. In fact, the higher the stakes, the greater the temptation for monsters like him. If he insisted on waiting for the perfect time to serve his dish (likely after a streak of fancy fine-dining courses for the sake of contrast and to give the flavors maximum cook time for infusion), so be it.

Being able to predict his thought process and intent to push the limits of the last apron did nothing to change my opinion. Worst of all, I knew it was going to work.

"Ooo! Here it comes." Chef Pao rubbed his hands together in glee the moment he heard the service bell and turned to see twenty-seven displayed on the electronic number board. Just a minute and thirty seconds left on the clock.

With only eight chefs remaining on set, the three of us hadn't much to keep track of unlike the beginning of the challenge. Upstairs, a group of Masters had gathered on the left side of the gallery for a free show—of which of course, included Layla Tenner.

"Coq au vin blanc with cilantro lime rice," was all he said, laying out a set of cutlery for us each and placing one of his two servings in front of me on the countertop. Chef Pao began portioning the dish without delay; as though he'd been waiting for braised chicken all day. Already, I was filling twenty-seven's little rectangle on my clipboard with a flurry of notes. Something in his head had programmed itself to track my every move and needless to say, I found it mildly alarming.

A beat of silence ensued as we helped ourselves, examining every component and picking apart strengths and weaknesses.

Chef Streisand was the first to speak. "I was not expecting to be served such a homely dish today. It's just been an abundance of wagyu, caviar, lobsters, scallops and whatnot. So. Color me surprised."

"You know what this remind me of?" Chef Pao was on his fourth spoonful and still, reaching for more. "Adobo." He chuckled with an expression of nostalgia.

"Of course, the recipe is different but it's also a type of braised chicken. My lola—my grandmother—she used to make it for me. We eat it all the time." He paused for a second, helped himself to more, and continued after. "Some food, when it's good, really lets you think about memories you thought you forgot about. And I think, to me, that is good cooking. I think that is what cooking is about."

"I'm not saying this tastes like chicken adobo; it's very different. I just think it tastes like coming home after school to see your mother cooking in the kitchen. But, better. You changed the recipe, yes, and it worked! Flavors all came together perfectly. Most chefs here don't serve braised chicken with rice. Actually, most chefs here would not choose to cook braised chicken at competition with time limit, period." Chef Pao burst out laughing, wagging a finger in Leroy's direction. "You made me very nervous."

"Making alterations to a traditional recipe isn't a risk anyone would take under stress. Pao is right," Chef Streisand admitted, resting her fork on a napkin with a curious look in her eye. "And going as far as to serve only after we'd given away the fifth apron... I daresay you're either extremely clever or exceptionally foolish. In fact, line cooks are taught not to improvise on the job. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a firefighter."

"Ah. That explains it," she lowered her gaze to the cast iron pot on the burner, nodding in private amusement. "The opposite of risk-averse, then. Our kitchens would be nothing without firefighters. Vanilla? Any notes?"

In an instant, all eyes were on me.

Somewhere behind us, another service bell rang. I could hear stage assistants adding them to the wait list, displaying the next station to be reviewed on the digital number board. Unbeknownst to them, this was wasted effort.

"Thirty more minutes on that stove and your coq au vin might as well be dessert." I began, setting cutlery aside to dab a napkin across my lips. Making him wait was the least I could do; and from the look in his eyes, he knew what I was doing.

"White wine. It complements the lighter flavor of the chicken. Even better than red, some believe. Unfortunately, you opted for a sweet Riesling; I would have suggested dry—preferably from Alsace. That, or Sauvignon Blanc. Whether your dish is a product of sheer luck or genius on your part, I don't know. Had you cooked it down for twenty minutes more, the Riesling would have no doubt ruined your dish with an overwhelming sweetness... but as it appears, everything has worked out in your favor.

"Switching out red for white gave the coq au vin a gentler, sweeter finish, highlighting aromatics that enhanced the flavor of the chicken; adding a splash of cream at the very end changed the texture almost entirely. It became silky. A small touch, but it made all the difference... stands out from the standard French classic on every menu. The flavors are well-combined, which, as Chef Pao has pointed out, is surprising considering the amount of time you were given. You even broiled it in the oven for the last five minutes for that crisp layer of skin. My only qualm with this is your choice of wine. In a way, the time limit saved you—that, or you actually accounted for the short braise time. And, well, should that be the case, then I must admit, this dish is rather... impressive."

My last sentence cleared the clouds in their eyes.

"So it's three yeses...?" Chef Pao confirmed by looking around, eager to give the production team a green light.

"It's a yes for me," Chef Streisand met my gaze with a laugh. "And I daresay I haven't heard Vanilla speak so passionately about a dish all day, so. I doubt he'd deny the obvious."

I was about to stammer a protest. Alas, words failed; she was right.

"Banilla cleaned his plate. In fact, all three of us did!" "Exactly. Not to mention the sheer number of dishes and components we've tasted in the past hour..." "Well, yes. I-I did say it was impressive." "But you go on about the wine three times..." "It was important! He could have served coq au vin dessert. Theoretically speaking, it should have been far too sweet." "He has a point, Pao. But I must admit, this finally feels like prime entertainment! All that risk-taking and thrilling buildup for a satisfying payoff, no?"

Indeed. Knowing Leroy, however, none of this had been part of the plan. Sure enough, a gamble like that was going to put him on the radar of any dramatic plotline in reality TV, let alone a culinary competition with a budget as big as this one. I wouldn't be surprised if the first episode single-handedly built him a fanbase of risk-takers and, w-well, bread roll lovers. After all, Leroy was not only blessed with a criminally distinct personality embodying the term carpe diem, he was also cursed with an attractive physique. Ah, supporters galore.

Of course, pulling off such an incredible feat under pressure in the preliminaries showed confidence, familiarity, and unexplored potential regardless of his true identity. Thus, he was presented the final black apron after minutes of waiting—a mark of the Maverick team. It was embroidered by a machine and handed to him by Chef Pao, who welcomed him with a heartwarming clap on the back after a quintessential handshake, which Chef Streisand performed for the cameras with poise and ease. Offering a word of congratulations, too, was the norm.

And as fate would have it, I was last in line.

"I see your calculated risk paid off." The thing in my chest flatlined the moment our eyes met; hands connecting and fingers coming together like opposing poles of a magnet. Danger at its best. "Good luck, Chef...?"

Leroy unrolled the brand new apron, pointing to the name embroidered on the front with a smile that raised hell.

CINDER