A/N: Hewo my Beans!!! I thought about releasing a longer version but that would've included a pretty hefty cliffhanger so I spared you guys the pain and decided to shift that into next week's chapter instead so that you could get a longer one next week. My apologies for the short one. I just wanted to kick off the next location with a much longer chapter and I didn't want it split in this and the next. 

I really do like Indonesia and I've been to Jakarta and Bali on separate occasions and enjoyed both very very much. Hehe. 

For now, I'm focusing all my energy on driving the story first before I break it up with a special AU that should be coming around early September. I took some days off for my birthday that week so I should definitely have more time to write ;v; hehe. 

Enjoy.

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[Leroy]

Sixty minutes was a luxury. That's a lot of time for kitchen professionals, just in case you start thinking I'm cocky and have nothing under my belt to back things up. The first ten to twenty minutes saw most of us prepping countertop mise en place—peeling potatoes; dicing onions; that sort of thing. The weird thing about being a head chef was that you never really touch prep. You leave it to your assistants. Or station boys. Or anyone else but yourself.

The people on mise chopping up green onions and all that... that used to be me. Back in Andre's kitchen after dropping out of culinary school, that was me. Not saying everyone else in the room was shit at prepping their own mise; just that I seemed a little ahead when it came down to speed and precision.

I could see him taking all the credit. The homeschooling; the videos; the lessons; the stopwatch. Siegfried would've liked to see it all pay off. And for now, the plan was to let him have it.

It was moving from mise to getting herbs and spices into the food processor for a blitz that got me thinking about something else. One station down was Du Bellay with what looked like chicken Parmigiana on her mind. The ingredients laid out on her counter were the standard, and because the dish wasn't exactly the most complex Italian dish to ever exist, she looked pretty lax about making the cut.

On the complete opposite end of that was Andre with his fresh lobster up front—the station just several feet away from the judges and the one additional station for a special snowstorm. Even from afar, I could tell the cameras struggled to get a decent shot of him looking like he knew what he was doing, dealing with that lobster.

Sad.

The lobster, I mean.

"Forty-five minutes remaining, chefs." I heard Amelia call out from the front of the room and my attention snapped right back to the pesto for a final blitz, pulsing it for a couple more seconds before checking the consistency. Tasting once.

It got my hunger going for a little; made me think about Chicken waiting for me outside the gallery room, maybe with an extra tiny cat friend on his back. The thought reminded me of dinner. That we'd come into the challenge on an empty stomach and not much energy to spare.

I gave the ingredients on my counter a scan. Hm. Might work.

It's easy to take for granted the idea of having someone to share dinner with. I used to think it wasn't that big of a deal because eating alone was the norm back when I was away from Annie, living in New York with Siegfried under his care. Having people around while I was eating felt like a chore; having to accommodate to whatever they choose to have or want me to eat. It was easier doing it alone.

Meeting him developed the habit of wanting to have what he craved but at the same time, giving up all agency of actual choice when it came down to it. Meeting him again seven years later developed something new that was apart from the familiarity of 'him'; the habit of 'me'.

He'd made me something similar back in his apartment when I was down with a cold. A miso-based savory porridge, topped with crispy kale and a poached egg. I recalled him going on and on about texture.

Texture.

I glanced at the mushrooms I'd left in the crate.

"You seem distracted, chef." Siegfried was making his rounds and I hadn't noticed him stopping by my station for a chat. "This isn't the time for things like that."

"...they gave me a bunch of mushrooms," I said to him, feeling the idea burst in my head. At least he showed up right on time. "Can I ask for a specific type?"

He paused, gaze resting on my box and peering in. "What kind?"

"Enoki."

"That's not used in Italian cuisine."

"Can I do it?"

The look on his face was rare. I saw him glance towards the rest of the judges up front before turning back to me with a sigh. "It is not traditional to include that in an Italian dish. I don't know how you intend to use it, but it may alter the flavor profile. You'd be shooting yourself in the foot, choosing enoki over swiss browns and white button mushrooms. But yes... you may. Your ingredient is merely listed as 'mushrooms', so. If you insist."

I wasn't really expecting this to turn out in my favor. Might've sounded a tad surprised, even. "I'll take my chances."

They had someone collect my mushrooms and exchange it for the thinnest bunch of enoki I'd ever seen but it didn't matter very much. I knew they weren't going to be generous with the request I was making and one try was really all they were willing to give.

I got the diced onions cooking in butter and olive oil while prepping the garnish; fanning out the enoki bunch after removing its base and whipping up a batter for deep-frying. The idea was to get it crisp. Done properly, it'd look like coral on a garden bed and give the contrast he was looking for between the risotto—rich, creamy—and something thin and crisp.

"Not so afraid of oil splashes anymore then," said the guest judge on his way back to the front after his rounds. I didn't look up.

He had a smile in his voice. The kind that could've been easily mistaken for care and kindness.

*

Not gonna lie, I had dinner in those sixty minutes we were given. The risotto was good but I wasn't about to start blowing up my own ego—dessert was due and I had the decency to leave some space for a special bite.

"Raviolo al Uovo with a savory sage butter sauce, parmesan and a crisp sage leaf."

As expected, he was asked to serve first. There weren't extra screens broadcasting camera feed live to the rest of us but from where I stood, I could make out a single ravioli. Pristine. Glistening. Filled and round as fuck.

"I see you pressed your herbs into the pasta instead of using it in just the filling." "Yes. I did." "It looks beautiful Vanilla. Another idea of yours that's paid off." "When I cut into this, will I see a perfect cook on that egg yolk?" "...I'd like to say you will." Quiet. "Perfect." Fuck yeah. "Liquid gold." "What an incredible aroma." "I roasted a head of garlic in the oven before adding it to the ricotta. Then, the spinach, and finally seasoned with pepper and salt." He sounded happy. "And the sage?" "Fried while basting the ravioli in butter sauce to finish." "I like it." "Ay, me too. Banilla... you have more?"

He paused for a bit. And then he turned; over his shoulder. Like he was searching for someone. It was me. I was that someone.

"Well I..." he turned back, reached under his counter to open the oven he kept on warm and produced another plate with what looked like an exact replica of his first. "I do, I suppose."

"Ah, were you saving that for yourself?" ... "No no, nothing like that. Just, um. Back up. I suppose." My dessert.

:( fuck.

"You surprised me by choosing this dish, actually." I saw him turn his attention to the guest judge. Them looking at each other was a weird scene to take in; neither of them seemed willing to give in to the other. "Raviolo al Uovo is... traditionally, a simple dish. Not many twists and turns. Sometimes, even, a little plain."

"It is simple," he admitted. "But complex. A dish like that can be rather unforgiving, Chef Cox."

That one caught him off guard. As avalanches do. "...you're not wrong. There is nothing to hide behind a dish so simple—one small error and it will fall apart. You took a traditional recipe, added nothing more, nothing less, but improved its process and delivered in both taste and aesthetics. I like that."

Must've been an instinct of mine. A habit. To be relieved at his word of approval despite knowing it had nothing to do with me. I watched them set all plates and silverware aside before sending the avalanche back to his station and calling Andre up front.

"I have for you... lobster ravioli in a spicy shallot and vodka cream sauce."

Not bad, I thought at first. The dish sounded pretty sick actually, which was rare for a chef like Andre and then I caught the look on their faces as he was heading up to the table with his dish and nearly laughed. Something about having glasses on and squinting hard as heck in spite of that just tickled me in every right way possible. I'd never seen him do that. He was also the only person in the room with glasses on.

"Cut!"

Stan came blazing out of nowhere, abandoning his director's seat and heading right up to the main camera on the dolly tracks and whispering something in the operator's ear. He then went up to Andre, grabbed his dish from the table just as he'd set it down, and made some announcement about moving his dish to a room 'with better lighting' for 'B-roll takes'. Huh. Funny they never did that with Vanilla's dish.

A co-director was then told to fill in while Stan was away with another camera operator and they continued rolling for Du Bellay's tasting. Most people were confused. Sadly, I was in the know of two pieces of information.

One, my station was somewhat close enough to provide a decent view of Andre's dish from afar and while it didn't necessarily smell weird or anything, it looked... eh. He had three raviolis plated on a big-ass bowl thing and what looked like saffron on top for color. The food was one-sixth the size of the dish.

Two, lobster ravioli was (and had always been) Siegfried's signature dish in all his restaurants. It was the one thing that was never off the menu all-year-round. Seasons didn't matter; it was always there. Andre's conscious decision to present the judges with lobster ravioli could've (and knowing him, would've) been a direct challenge aimed at the guest judge. Dude was really pulling out all the stops just for content.

I was up after Du Bellay. Truth was, she'd always been tough competition; it didn't matter if she went before me or after, she'd never serve something average. Pao and Amelia liked her chicken Parmigiana, but Siegfried wasn't the biased head chef people thought he was going to be. "Lacks finesse," he'd said, after dropping compliments about how it tasted. "Doesn't feel like something I'd get at a Michelin restaurant. It is delicious, no doubt. And strictly speaking, while the recipe has its roots in Italy, adapted from the classic Italian eggplant Parmigiana, chicken Parmigiana is said to have been originated in America." He'd thanked her after and dismissed her from the table. She took the criticism professionally. Andre would've thrown hands in her position.

Anyway, I was up.

"Basil pesto risotto. Roasted tomatoes on the vine. Tempura enoki." I set the dish down in front of the judges and while they were reaching for silverware, turned, and went straight for the plate I'd been eyeing since he'd taken it out of the oven for Pao. Half of the raviolo remained.

Was I that much of a simp to be eyeing leftovers? ...no comment. It was curiosity and hunger combined; I wanted to know what went into the filling, see the results of his practice, taste it, be proud.

I cleaned up in a heartbeat. It was that good. Left me wondering, actually, what the raviolo was like fresh out of the pan and the satisfaction of cutting into that runny yolk. The thought was addictive and I savored its taste. It reminded me of the light in his eyes when he made that miso-based porridge and topped it with a poached egg; the joy in his voice when he'd succeeded at one of the two. Just us. And dinner.

"Ay—but—Leroy!" Pao was laughing, tripping over his words while I returned the now-empty plate to its original position and stood in front of them, waiting for a verdict. "Are you that hungry?"

"...it looked nice." It was.

"Oh? Oh okay, okay, are you going to, maybe... give Banilla some critique?" He played along, I guessed, for the fun of it and thought nothing of my spontaneous eating. Amelia looked amused. Siegfried was smiling but his eyes were fixed on my risotto.

"Not really, but... guess the practice paid off," I said over my shoulder. In my head, he was calling me an idiot.

"I quite like the concept of your dish, Chef Cox," Amelia said first, admiring the look of it. "The pesto risotto's pale green, adorned with tomatoes and the elaborate fanning of the enoki that looks almost like coral... a very natural look. Almost reminds me of a garden."

Not gonna lie, I never thought of it like that. The enoki was mostly meant as added texture and partly for the visuals.

"You chose the perfect mushroom. It not only achieves the look you are going for, it is also the mushroom with least moisture. It is thin—almost noodle-like, and is subtle enough for a dish like this," she added before digging in. Chewing. Then nodding with a smile. "I'd gladly order this again."

"Enoki in risotto," guest judge shook his head for a bit. "You don't really see that. Fried or not. Chef Saito offered you protein for your red wine... and yet, you declined."

"Yeah I didn't need it." I said. Frank.

"...I see." He tasted the dish as a whole and the individual components. The look in his eyes was one of surprise. "I wasn't expecting that. I have my opinions when it comes to fusion. The ask was a traditional Italian dish, after all. But I wouldn't mind having this in my restaurant as a vegetarian option."

I sunk into a slow, swimming in the past for a bit and seeing my younger self spark into a flame, irate, tasting his words that were always bitter; words that had to do with me becoming him. Becoming the person he'd expected me to be. I put out the flames. It worked pretty well. Years in the firehouse, it was the least I could've learned.

"Really, chef?" Pao laughed at Siegfried with a streak of genuine interest. "How much will you pay for the recipe because maybe we need to bid for it." Aside, Amelia looked amused. She voiced something about her surprise. That she hadn't expected a hard conservative like Siegfried to be complimenting a risky move like mine. I was on the fence. I knew he wasn't going to buy into this before tasting it; but I also knew he could tell good food from the bad. Though sometimes, he'd be reluctant to admit it.

I returned to my station.

"Vanilla," Amelia turned her attention to the restless avalanche in the back, anxiously waiting for his entrance and yet knowing he hadn't quite possibly the chance to do so for the current challenge. "It is a pity you cannot taste this." She held up the plate that was now clean, smiling sadly.

I couldn't resist the cue. She'd made it so that I'd save the trouble of having to go up to him afterward and mess around (which wasn't too bad either). "I mean..."

So I pulled out an uno-reverse from the oven just like he did and the look on his face—episode thumbnail.

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