A/N: Ah one of the most exciting chapters in this book I've written to date and also one of the most technically challenging (both in the culinary sense and writing as a profession) ones. There are a couple of phrases in here that are terms you'd only see in the kitchen and it was up to me to slide the definitions into the text without you quite noticing them while at the same time ensuring that there is sufficient relevant information for inference of its meaning. 

I've always loved competitive culinary as a genre of TV and now that I've watched Shokugeki no Soma, I regret not having focused on the rigour and heat and tenacity of culinary competitions. This one is on a next level of panic and I was fired up writing it myself! Ah, the music for Shokugeki is truly masterful ;v; I wish my babies can have their own anime series too! /.\ ah

Enjoy.

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[Vanilla]

"She's not turning up?" I struggled to understand this, wondering if I had, by some malfunctioning of my ears, made a mistake. "Are you sure that's what Birchwood, herself, said? What are your sources?"

The look on Chen's face made me question the memory I had of speaking to Violet at the gardens by the administrative building just yesterday and for a moment, I even entertained the prospect of it being all part of a very long dream. Si Yin was the one who came by to confirm that the supposed contestant had, in fact, changed her mind last evening and because the decision did not seem to bother anyone else in the room, we started at once towards the lecture room where further instructions were going to be briefed.

How no one else appeared to notice Si Yin's blatant anxiety of hiding something more than she let on, I could not comprehend. Needless to say, the urge to pull her aside and ask what exactly it was bothering her seized half of my brain as we took our seats in the front, but she was clearly avoiding my gaze. Something she couldn't tell me, then.

Fine Dining (Lunch) Service

Type: Elimination

Style: Kitchen Crew, Service Crew

Participants: 23 Red + 22 Blue = 45

Scoring: Guest ratings, teamwork, role competency

The organizers had done away with the suspense speeches present in every other briefing prior to this one and had, instead, decided to cut to the chase by having the details of round three up on the screen before even starting. And there it was again. Vague, non-transparent forms of assessment without concrete rubrics for proper judgement. How was one supposed to put a score to teamwork? They couldn't possibly mic them up on a production line.

Red and blue teams were assigned members across all three schools by a computerized balloting system, which sorted us into red or blue on a fifty-fifty chance. I was put on blue and in an instant, I saw his name directly below mine as though by some miracle, the computer was a wish-granting fairy in disguise.

My gaze would rest on the entrance of the lecture theatre every now and then in the middle of Chef Allan's further instructions, somewhat expecting a rejuvenated, confident Violet to burst through those double doors with perfect curls and flawless makeup. Fifteen minutes passed; the forty-five of us were split into our respective teams and led to separate dining areas.

"We're not gonna win." Leroy and I were walking alongside one another, somewhat apart from the rest of the team up front with our primary facilitator. A pointed look was all he got in return.

"Yes," I admitted, recalculating our chances of placing higher than anyone else on the team and my personal chances of elimination. "We're missing Violet, who should be walking in my very shoes this—"

"We're not gonna win," the idiot repeated, as though I hadn't already heard and understood four simple words, "because you are distracting in a waiter's uniform."

I nearly rolled down the stairs on purpose for a grand concussion, unable to conceive the sheer embarrassment and cheesy romantics of someone I almost hoped to spend the rest of my life with. Clearly, he was a mistake.

"Chef's whites or not, Leroy, your existence is impossible to look at. Please reflect," I adjusted my glasses that had gone askew from nonsense. "Without Violet, you'd have to work doubly hard to make up for my technical insufficiencies. That is, we don't know if either of us are on the kitchen or service crew just yet. I'm assuming it's another ballot, and should that be the case... well. Good luck."

It was not a ballot.

L'assiette's representative, Hugo Nicolas Hall, also the one who'd won the champion spot for both bonus rounds one and two, was given the advantage of assigning his team the roles he deemed them suitable for. For the students of L'assiette, this was indeed, an easy way to excel at their task but as competition, people like Leroy and I were at risk of being assigned a role that was completely out of comfort zone, such as—

"Head chef, then? Who are you picking for that?"

Hall was standing right beside the facilitator with an iPad, keying in the names of the crew members for each separate role. Naturally, he'd started off with giving himself the one he was apparently most comfortable with. Menu Design and overall staff management. Then came the other big names.

It was strangely naïve for anyone to expect the name Leroy Cox beside every leading culinary role in tournaments like these but I had, myself, unconsciously done the same. In fact, the person himself had been waiting in a visibly indifferent manner; watching Hall as the latter swept the room before then resting an unexpected gaze on my own.

"Him."

He'd pointed, directly in my face and naturally, my first instinct was to dodge the invisible line and shimmy aside for Leroy beside me to fill the space since, clearly, he'd made a terrible mistake of mis-pointing his index. "V. J. White."

Good god! Good heavens, he must be out of his mind. I turned to Leroy at once, blanching the colour of my ivory dress shirt and quite frankly, feeling faint. "No. I-I mean, I appreciate the acknowledgement but as you can see, I'm dressed in blue accents. It means I'm a critic, not a—"

"Yeah, I know that," Hall finished with a cold, ghostly smile that frightened every streak of common sense I had in me. "And the guy beside you. He's on waitering."

All at once, the entire room seemed to understand exactly what he was doing and though no one had spoken a word since he started the assigning of roles, the silence only seemed to deafen upon comprehension. At present, I couldn't help but wish upon any reckless, magical star void of realism that could in some way or another, summon Violet Birchwood from the skies.

Leroy's face said it all. I could hear the fire in his gaze, the crackle and the spit; feel it radiating in waves of intense, livid heat. Hall ignored this and went on down the list in a casual tone of indifference, giving every competitor the same treatment of 'shock factor' by assigning them something completely out of their comfort zone, miles apart from their forte. Needless to say, not a single person could protest against such a vile strategy that would, perhaps quite certainly, give L'assiette an upper hand while leaving everyone else in the dust.

As soon as he was done with every role, the facilitator spared no time in getting us to the changing rooms and ignoring faces of reluctance and concern. Not because this was plain, open sabotage and, quite frankly, a stellar example of the student's complete lack of sportsmanship, but because the majority of us could not see a functioning kitchen, let alone a proper fine dining service.

"Coward."

Leroy had nothing else to say, rudely snatching up a uniform set in his size on our way to the changing rooms. The sole chef's whites with the title 'H.C' embroidered to its breast pocket was in a one-size only and after receiving it from the facilitator, I could, already, feel its weight in my arms.

"This is punishment, in a way. We were thinking too highly of others as though their grand priority would be the noble act of ensuring every guest a premium experience. We were wrong."

"Yeah?" He snorted. Frustration in the very tone of his voice. "He should sign up for Hell's Kitchen, if that's what he wants. Little fucker's too scared for fair competition."

He picked the locker beside mine and, after jerking the door open with full force, chucked his belongings inside before reaching for the top-most button of his dress shirt. I turned away whilst reminding him to keep his volume down. Everyone else on the team were filtering in.

"Now I know you're upset. It wasn't responsible or appropriate of him to deliberately sabotage his own team to make himself look better and at the same time, compromise the comfort of our guests but Leroy, what you're doing now—this is exactly what he intends to achieve." I pointed out in a lowered voice. "Do not let people like that get to you."

I changed out of my uniform into chef's whites just as Leroy was done changing into his. He'd glanced over, noticing the wide, open sleeves before reaching down to help me with them. I did the left while he folded the right.

"And you?" He said out of nowhere, gaze still fixed on the sleeve he was working on. "He getting in your head?"

"Well, quite frankly, I'd say he got me," I had the nerve to laugh, albeit nervous and letting slip a crack that, to others, would have otherwise gone undetected. Leroy met my gaze with what seemed like amusement in his eyes. "Head chef? Absolutely unthinkable. I don't know a thing about working in the kitchen, let alone heading one and leading several other culinary experts far more experienced in technique than I would ever be. So, yes. If anything, he most certainly played a strategic wild card I never though of anticipating!"

My companion snorted. "Choosing not to play fair just to weed out others who could have competed against him on equal standing... that's being a coward, not strategic."

We made our way to the production kitchen of Hyatt Ballroom which the organizers had transformed into a fine-dining area (chandeliers, velvet seats, white tablecloths) with an adjacent practice kitchen hall. There were lines marked out for waiters and a steel tabletop with heating bridges doubling up as the pass where dishes that were ready to be served would be placed for pick up. Each station had a label to it—Rotisseur; Entremetier; Pastry; Sauté; Hors d'oeuvre—and by god, was I completely buried in information.

The terms, albeit familiar, swam in the reality of an actual production line when I realized I would have to be calling the wheel or expediting and that, while incredibly exciting for a select few up to the challenge of stress and pressure, was not what I ever imagined myself to be doing. At least not after traumatizing video clips of executive chefs hollering down the line and chaining expletives when they didn't get an echo in return.

At once, we were split into servers and kitchen crew for further instructions and I, together with the self-appointed menu designer, came together with the rest of the Line for a quick run down of what he had in mind.

"We're giving the guests two choices for each course," he started off with. "Hors d'oeuvre will be doing a thinly-sliced seared Wagyu with yuzu ponzu and a cucumber cream cheese smoked salmon canapé a la minute."

"Ah..." I offered to speak with a raise of my hand. "But should a table have four people and three of them order the Wagyu while one of them prefers the canapé, we'd be having the latter on the pass, waiting for the three of them that would take five to ten minutes longer, especially in the case of there being three orders."

Hall snorted. "Yeah but the cucumbers are cold, no?" He turned this into something completely different from what I had meant. "We have good cooks. They can handle a bit of pressure... unless you don't trust them?"

I had to prevent my thoughts from showing and it certainly wasn't as easy as I had thought it would be, given the circumstance. Nonsense was not my forte and Hall had, seconds ago, gestured at those he'd put on starters—two girls from CSS who had, earlier on, declared themselves students of the patisserie course—whilst having the gall to twist this into something personal. "You're mistaken. That was not what I meant—"

"Okay, then do we still have a problem?"

The urge to challenge him to a duel of logic then and there had me by my throat but reminding myself that this was, precisely, his intention all along was enough to rein in every desire of winning over some awful nonsense in the kitchen. Smirking at my hesitance to answer him, Hall moved on to the next course, which, to my surprise and confusion, was soup.

"Hold on. Soup? Is this not a three-course we're doing?"

He had the audacity to look at me like my question was the silliest thing he'd ever heard, goading the rest of the Line from L'assiette to do the same. "Hello? Head chef? Three-course in a competition? We'll lose if that's all we're doing."

"No, I don't think you understand—you just said we're going to give the guests two options for each course. Already, we are a person short with twenty-two of us against red team's twenty-three. You're forgetting that doubling the dishes on the menu doesn't mean we can afford to have more courses because that would quite frankly be insane." I could hear the panic in my voice and had to pause. "Please, listen to yourself. I promise, you will not regret re-considering your decision. A three-course can be superior to any other fine-dining option and it is fundamental that we prioritize quality over quantity. We'd only be giving the servers a hard time with the guests when the Line gets buried in orders."

Thankfully, the kitchen crew had the sense to agree for the sake of their own sanity and Hall, upon cleverly noticing the shifting tides, settled for a five-course instead of the seven he had in mind. That meant a soup, appetizer, salad, entrée and dessert. Two options for each meant ten dishes in total and by god, there were only twelve of us on the Line, including myself. Everyone else, however, seemed to think it was an average idea and did not voice a word of protest. I was stunned into oblivion.

"We'll have a traditional French onion and wild mushroom with white truffles."

Yet again, another dish that was a la minute with a variation that would take much longer than its counterpart! Already, the Line was going to be stretched and he was leaving it to me, the expeditor, to rush those who couldn't match the timing of the dishes on the same table. While the wild mushroom could be prepped ahead of time and plated in less than a minute (which was what the term a la minute meant, which, clearly, Hall had no understanding of), the French onion would take some time in the oven.

"For the salad, we'll go with a nice summer salad, cooked and raw, Mandoline-sliced so that we get the paper-thin texture. The other option's going to be a charred citrus salad with an Aperol vinaigrette.

"Entrée. Some nice pan-seared scallops on a bed of miso asparagus aaand a Mediterranean-style herb baked firm white fish... striped bass, maybe, on some lime cilantro rice with panko in it for texture."

Strictly speaking, he had his flavour profiles perfected and quite frankly, the dishes, by themselves, sounded perfectly delicious. The main concern, however, came down to it being a curation for the planning of a fine-dining menu fit for realistic production. Hall's dishes were extravagant, elevated and professionally conceptualized but already, I could feel the pressure on the Line to perform against technically challenging dishes.

Unfortunately, most of the crew had yet to comprehend the extent of sheer torture they were in for, blinded by the mouth-watering dishes they were hopefully about to produce. Hall got to crafting recipes after laying out the menu for dessert in less than a minute before any word of protest could be made by anyone including myself. I was, quite literally, brushed aside. Made irrelevant in the span of fifteen minutes.

By god, half of us in the kitchen were going to be eliminated and I was most definitely the first person on that list to go down.

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[Leroy]

I was laying out fucking plates. Eight years of professional training and prior to that, culinary education from the age of two, now reduced to some dumbass shit that, guess what, was probably the exact thing that was going to get me eliminated.

If you don't already know, service doesn't like me. It doesn't like introverts. And people who don't give out smiles like they were grapes or something. Even for smiles, those needed to be practiced. Doesn't take a genius to know I don't have any.

"... H.C so that we'd mess up too. If the kitchen's buried, guests start complaining about the food, the waiting and... the stress we're under? Dude's out for all our throats." "Wait, you mean the restriction's removed? Aren't they... eliminate... equal number from each school?" "Doesn't apply in the second half of the competition, buddy... hey Cox."

I grabbed the plates they hadn't finished laying out to send a message ('stop talking because it's making you lag behind') and they somewhat stopped to drag me into the conversation.

"You okay? Man, he got you hard... I don't think I've ever seen you not in the kitchen... like, even during the service course last year, you were the ticket guy back there."

"Expediter," I corrected. Eight years of professional training. And without that role being part of the roster, head chefs were expected to do the expediting. Shouting. Expletives. Calling tickets. Making sure the Line doesn't crash and burn. Timing. Efficiency. More shouting. More expletives.

"Yeah, that." The guy moved on. "So... you okay with all this? No offence but I honestly thought you were gonna beat some sense into Hall or something."

I snorted. "Do I look happy to you?"

"Uh." He backed off. "I mean. Can't tell, honestly."

I told him to cut the crap and that we should be getting back to laying tables before Hall was done with the menu design and decided to micro-manage everyone else in the dining area. They listened, but mostly because we'd worked together prior to this—most of the student union had, since they seemed to need me all the time—and were used to how I roll.

We had some briefing by the facilitators on service and spent some time memorizing table numbers, familiarizing ourselves with the window and the pass (where ready dishes were called for service), where to stand in the receiving area and walking through the vestibule. I'd like to say that these were all 'coming back to me' but they honestly weren't. Even the exercises servers did to facilitate smooth transitions in and out of the kitchen... I'd mostly watched others do.

At least doing it myself sort of made me respect the servers I usually take for granted. I always thought they had it easy outside of the kitchen. Anything's easy outside the kitchen.

But an hour into training and minutes away from opening hours, I was part done with dish recommendations and practicing how to properly apologize for a bad dish. See, problem is, it wouldn't be a bad dish or subpar quality if I was in the kitchen, so, why am I apologizing in the first place? Because if you're raging about your dish, I'd probably stand on your side since, yeah, wouldn't mind the manager being called out on this.

Either way, I knew where exactly they'd put the blame on subpar quality and food being sent back into the kitchen. This was where head chefs did not have it easy, so either I eat that shit up, try to be a decent server, or feed the kitchen crew to the wolves.

Minutes into service and tickets flying up the window, the kitchen was the quietest I've ever heard anything in a restaurant setting. I was in for pick up table three's deuce for hors d'oeuvre, one of the first few tables seated, when, through the doors, I thought I was in a fucking library.

He was out of his comfort zone.

"Ordering table four: three French onion; one mushroom. Plating table three: one Wagyu; one cucumber."

He forgot to call for an all-day. There's probably ten starters by now. He's got three tickets before that on the board and no one's on the plating counter.

Not a single echo. No 'heard'. Nothing. They weren't responding to him and I couldn't even tell if it was his voice or just the Line collapsing in the first ten fucking minutes of service. Sauté wasn't even done with her mise—she wasn't going to make it in time for assembly and service was only going to pick up while she's off mincing parsley.

"Pick up, table three." I told him. He turned to the pass and, yeah, it was empty. Thunderstorm waves weren't supposed to be part of frozen lakes and yet, I could see them.

"Yes—hors d'oeuvre two, Adams? Could you please start on the plating?"

Hors d'oeuvre two, or whoever it was on the latter part of starters and doing all the plating, looked up across the kitchen and nodded before fucking standing there, continuing the slicing Wagyu when that was supposed to be hors d'oeuvre one's job. They hadn't been properly assigned.

"No please," I told him, keeping a firm grip on his arm. He was trembling. "Tell him to get his ass over to the plating station and make sure they hear you. Shouting is allowed here, y'know."

The last bit made him relax just a little so I turned back through the vestibule and out into the dining to appease table three just in case they were getting a little impatient, only to be slammed with another table for seating, and then, another that was ready to order. Hall on the other hand, was having a good time walking around the damn place, chatting away with guests, and not bothering to check in on the kitchen crew that was basically falling apart. The menu he designed was a blatant 'fuck you' to everyone trying to stay afloat and the best part? Not a word from the organizers.

Fucking rigged.

"Waiter?" Table one. Rim bowls empty, which means they're done with soup and salad needs to be up. I cleared the table whilst mentally preparing to fuck whoever was assigned here. "Thanks. Could you also help us check on the salad? We ordered this, uh... charred citrus salad and it's been ten minutes since we finished the soup."

They could've been exaggerating—a lot of guests do that—but having one waiter to three tables should mean less than a five minutes interval between guests finishing a course and a cleared table, at the very least. I tried to look apologetic. "I'll check on it for you."

Into the kitchen, I spotted table one's server in the receiving area past the vestibule and I was about to wake him up when they called for pick up table one, salads and I connected the dots. He'd been standing here, waiting for pick up. Great. The other two tables he was assigned to must have been neglected beyond belief by this point.

I looked over at the pass. Okay, table three starters finally plated. He wasn't losing; and I wasn't surprised. If anything, the strongest part of him was up there and, under any sort of pressure, it was going to be the last one standing. A first timer, but decently on track with the timing of every table's service... he had one ticket in his hand that wasn't clipped up on the board.

I picked up table three and glanced at the ticket. "What's that?"

"A special request by table five for wagyu without yuzu but with orange zest and then cucumber canape but for the salmon seared. All for hors d'oeuvre who are clearly under their production limit, so I'm holding this ticket before calling it a few minutes later."

I blinked, surprised. "Okay. Good call."

It's better to drag a table with special requests and wait out a couple more plates than bury a station that's cracking under pressure. I was out for service table three before doing nine's drinks and fifteen's order.

Someone had to remind me about some extra fork they needed because they dropped it. I got that, and then was met with another one for ice water. Then table one stopped me again and asked for top up. Problem was, I didn't know which wine they had. Only their server did.

I spotted the guy at his other table, apologizing for the wait so I went in to check on the status of soup for table three and send in orders for table fifteen before running into the guy and telling him about the wine. By this point, there were at least five hots on the pass—all mushroom soup—just sitting there, out in the cold.

He saw me coming in, eyes going to the line of mushroom soups in the window as soon as he did before going back to the tickets on his board and calling out for the re-firing of table two's French onion soup. Table two. Soup was falling behind.

"Re-fire?"

"The cheese clumped up," he explained. "Grease forming a layer on top of the soup. I can't possibly send that out." It was on instinct that we turned to the bowls of mushroom soup just resting on the counter. Timing was off. "I shouldn't have called for the mushroom soups."

"Maybe if they had a little common sense to drag the prep of a la minute, you could." I gave him the benefit of doubt. Cool phrase. Learnt it from him. "They don't think under pressure. You have to do the thinking for them."

Luck wasn't on our side without anyone else familiar on the team. Chen, Raul. Rosi, Si Yin. They were in red, probably popping off on their own regardless of whatever tricks L'assiette had up their sleeve.

If dishes for the same table weren't coming out the pass at the same time, sitting around out in the cold, there'd only be more complaints out in the front and, if you haven't guessed, I wasn't the best at mediating anger or frustration. I suggested using the heating bridge on the left end of the kitchen for sauté if he needed it, but to re-plate the rest of the mushroom soups. The look on his face.

He'd nodded firmly but behind those glasses, it was easy to tell the presence of something else. And here I was, reining all of it in, trying to keep my kitchen senses in check so that I wasn't overpowering his status as H.C. and also actually having to watch him struggle in the very slow burn of hell that was the heat of the kitchen. I left through the vestibule, not in the best of moods or thinking conditions; still trying to keep it together, still wondering how long it was till the end of service.

"Waiter."

I responded to the call. It was, again, table one without their assigned server. "Yes. Your wine's on its wa—"

"Oh no, it's not about that." The male guest dismissed, glancing down at his entrée and without even looking at it, I knew what he was about to say. "I ordered the fish and... as you can see, it's not cooked through. On the other hand, my wife's dish—the scallops—they're overcooked. They've gone rubbery." Ah, fuck.

I cleared their table, again, trying to look apologetic. "I'm so sorry. We'll get these replaced. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"It's all students like you at the back, isn't it?" The other guest smiled. "Must be tough. Take your time."

I thanked them, honestly surprised. Guests like that, you don't get them every day.

Out in the back, the soups for table three were ready and I was just going to leave the returned plates on the rack without telling the head chef who was worrying over the multiple tickets he was keeping track of but he saw right through me, even though his entire back hadn't so much as moved or turned an inch.

"You're forgetting something," he said as soon I passed him on the way out, thinking I'd gotten away with slipping in and out for pick up. Freezing up was the initial reaction I had. He wasn't frozen lakes for nothing. Sharp as always, no matter the circumstance.

"Table one. Scallops overcooked, fish under," I told him, tight-lipped. He actually cursed under his breath. I was stunned. And knowing him, he would've known the consequences of having two entrée varieties that had way too different cooking times. Amateurs weren't going to nail the timing on their first day on the Line, let alone the first hour. This menu was wiping out more than half the kitchen.

"On the rail: one scallop, one fish." He called. Highest priority?

I told him that table one wasn't rushing and that they were nice. He needn't put them above everything else. "Service for those who haven't gotten their food comes first. Put them two tickets behind."

"Are you mad?" Vanilla was the most frank and blunt version of himself I'd ever seen. It stopped me short. "All the more reason to fire their items first! Sending back food is as good as not having put the plates on their table in the first place. Even worse, they're being nice about it! Common sense: would you prefer serving nice, understanding guests so that they'd come back for more or silly adults throwing a fit over one meal of their lives?"

I backed off. He was too far focused to remember this was a three-hour service part of some dumbass tournament and he was right. I had been this close to stepping over a guest being nice like they were a carpet when they should be on a higher priority list than fuming idiots picking on a restaurant's choice of tablecloth. I didn't even stop to think about it when something like that made perfect sense.

"Fuck, you're right."

I stuck the ticket before the first one on his board and picked up table three soups before heading out front, serving, and then checking on the rest of my tables. Fifteen's deuce had both of them leaving the table. I had to make sure they weren't leaving for good.

"Oh no, just out for a smoke. Could you hold off the starters maybe? Ten minutes."

I told him we were a smoke-free campus and offered twenty minutes instead, since they had to spend some time walking to the gate and back. They agreed on that, so I headed back into the kitchen, just barely through the doors.

"Hors d'oeuvre, drag table nine twenty minutes. Out for a smoke." He made the subsequent call and moved their ticket down a couple others. This time though, he got the call back from Hors d'oeuvre, which was a good sign. They were waking up.

I was out front with table one's re-fired entrée and only just served them when a facilitator with a pass came up to me. Just as I was about to head back to my tables for clearing.

"Cox, right? You have an emergency call from the administrative office," she said, handing me a weirdly gigantic phone and already, I was fucking up non-existent heavens for throwing all this shit my way. If she'd left without saying goodbye, I was—

"Leroy? It's head nurse McCartney."

"Please don't tell me she's gone."

"Annie's in a stable condition and she's awake—"

"Oh thank fucks."

"We have her transferred to another room for further monitoring but as of now, she's just had her first meal of soft foods and we have nurses with her around the clock, so don't you worry. I know you have school."

"I'll be there." Already, I thought of forfeiting by simply choosing to leave. "My phone's in the locker, but ask her what she feels like having for dinner. Leave me a text."

"Sure thing. She said not to tell you because she knew you'd be in school, though. Yes, and as for the ICU charges, Mr. Cox has already paid in full."

This was where the 'I'll be there' sort of paused and looked over my shoulder, like it was having second thoughts. He wasn't even giving me a choice by this point, paying in full. He expected me to win.

I couldn't leave.

Doesn't take a genius to figure out I haven't got the patience to continue watching kitchens crash and burn before my eyes—not when he's right in the middle of that heat, cracking under all that and still trying to keep his waves in check. The head nurse dropped our call and I handed the phone back to its owner and, on my way back, was already loosening the black tie, ready for chef whites.

Past the vestibule, back into the heat. Our eyes met and he threw the ticket he had on hand onto the board. I was already moving. Past sauté, rotisseur, drying racks and out through the back door, up the stairs, unbuttoning the black vest, through the first door; undressing.

"Table nine's drag is down to fourteen minutes," he started, unbuttoning the tunic. Then the pants. "Table two has a citrus salad on the rail which I was about to call. Table five needs a re-firing of wagyu. It was overcooked."

I tossed the dress shirt his way. He caught it and slapped the chef's whites in my face.

"Three. Nine. Fifteen. Those are mine," I buttoned up. "Three has some attitude, but rest are okay. Someone asked for water but I forgot who... yeah we both know I can't serve." He laughed.

"Sauté's reaching their production limit in two orders. For the love of anything, please help them." He did his tie, slipped into the vest. It was in my size, so, definitely too big but still hot. "Salad's mise en place was a terrifying mess. He ran out of Mandoline-sliced cucumbers thirty minutes into service and had to start slicing them up again. Help them too."

"Serve me something in this," I played, lowering my gaze. Holding the door. "And I'll consider."

He rolled his eyes, cheeks dusting pink regardless. Heading down the stairs first. "I want Hall destroyed. He's an unintelligent idiot. A brainless fool. Just... vapid! Pea-brained! Absolutely idiotic."

I laughed. "No one's stealing my title."

He glanced over his shoulder, a wry smile on his lips. One that I could definitely get used to. It was very sexy. "Then earn it back. I'm waiting."

He pushed through the back door and we were back in the heat. I took a moment while he headed for the front, just scanning. Someone looked up; saw the chef's whites on me and froze. He watched me take over the wheel, jumping at my first word.

"Salad: rail a citrus in two. Starter: re-fire one Wagyu. Kill it again and you're paying. Five cucumbers all day, four Wagyu all day. Ordering: fire one mushroom soup, one French onion. Soup: six mushroom all day, three French onion all day—table eight pick up—Sauté two, Mandoline cucumbers at salad. I'll take over for ten or until you wake the fuck up. Heard?"

They better not be fucking idiots and disqualify the people saving this ship. They better not.

"Yes chef!" Good chorus.

See? Only place you can get away with shouting.

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