A/N: SO. Because I'm such a fan of making others as hungry as possible, I'm here to terrorize you with images of food. Above is a close replica of Leroy's third dish (except the dip here should be replaced with creamed shishito peppers, which would look more like an herby, creamy pesto with a paste-like consistency). And right below is his first dish, in case you're hearing about stuffed chicken wings for the first time hehe. 

Still currently working my way through the manuscript while slogging it off at work ;v; Thank you for all the kind birthday wishes in the previous chapter. As always, I love reading your hilarious and heartfelt comments. They never fail to make my day.

Enjoy the chapter!

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[Leroy]

I like dinner.

I tend to think of it as the one final go at making someone else's day. Because sure, you could start things off great with breakfast, but whatever the fuck happens between that and the rest of the day—school, work, a twenty-minute lunch, life, people—could bring anyone down to their knees at the end of the daily grind.

Dinner was the reward, preferably spent with the one person you shared a space with.

That person does not need to exist. It also doesn't need to be just one person. And it also doesn't need to be a person at all. Dinner was the end-all; it was knowing the day was coming to a close. And in a couple of hours, would start anew.

A good dinner chases down the bitterness of a day.

To be the chef behind this meal is an honor. It means to see the workings of a day in the eyes of the one you cook for; to have those eyes tell you the events of the day and find comfort in the sharing. In the meal they are having.

Now that's something I wouldn't mind seeing for the rest of my life. Does it explain the seat I have permanently reserved in my head? Not really. Will I ever English the fuck out of my feelings? Probably not.

All I knew—all I could see in the moment he sat in that seat meant for him—was that the honor was now mine.

I was the chef taking in the events of this morning through his eyes and the one final chance he was giving to a day that wasn't his.

"Run us through your menu, Chef Cox." Amelia rejoined as soon as my VIP took his seat. "We're all dying to know what you have in store for us. I take it that this seat is open?"

She picked out the one right beside him, gesturing to the other on his left. "After you, Pao."

This snapped Carter out of self-induced shock. No surprises, he scrambled for the seat next to Pao. I watched it happen.

Yamazaki motioned his Japanese counterparts to the remaining seats on the far right, taking the fall and choosing the least favorable of the seven: beside Carter, on the far left. We exchanged a nod.

"Sanshoyaki Tebagyoza. Nori-crusted Hamachi sashimi. And ikaten, calamari with a surprise."

"Only the first dish utilizes the grill in front of you," the genius caught on quick. "Having multiple dishes prepared different ways consecutively could mean shooting yourself in the foot if you're not careful, Leroy." He slipped up without noticing, pausing when he did and raising a glass of water to his lips in hiding. "It, um, doesn't help that you've chosen to cook alone either. Chef Cox."

"What can I say," I set the first batch of wings on the grill. "I'm out to impress."

The sear and sizzle of the chicken as they hit the flames caught all eyes around the counter. I was doing things their way; unlike other teams who could've started cooking before the panel was seated, I wanted the experience to be authentic. As though this was just any other evening, and they were strangers looking for a good time after a long day. And everyone knows a decent chef doesn't start cooking until the order comes in.

"Ay this man scares me sometimes." Pao was shaking his head, thinking I wouldn't hear him through the crackling heat and whirr of the kitchen. "You know Banilla, I think I change my mind now. After today, he is not my favorite."

"Who even said you could have favorites?" Amelia.

"I don't blame Big P at all," Carter wanted in all of a sudden. "If I were one of you guys, I'd have my money on Leroy too."

I mused privately, wondering if anyone else in the room could see through his act. Geniuses aside, the general population liked Carter. A guy like him could cozy up to people, winning favors through words that were empty. I pretended not to hear him, keeping my gaze on the only person at the counter who mattered. He met my gaze, nearly choked on the water he'd been quietly sipping on for the past five minutes, and turned his attention elsewhere.

Sometimes I catch myself thinking when the kitchen sex was going to happen.

I figured it'd have to wait. Wasn't like we had private kitchens around on the trip and with cameras tailing us from place to place all the time, one wrong move had its consequences.

And like I'd said before... the first time had me hooked. Even thinking about it now proves exactly how much of an addict I am. The only reason I hadn't acted on my drive was the condition of my partner's back. Which reminds me... wonder if they had a pharmacy nearby selling meds for aches. Or those muscle relief patches the Japanese were known for. Guess I'll hit the store after the cook.

"—at do you think, chef?"

I caught the tail end of Carter's question before heads turned my way 'cuz I had the habit of filtering out unimportant info every now and then.

"I think you'll enjoy this." I dodged his question entirely, serving up every guest on the counter with their portion of the first dish, sanshoyaki tebagyoza.

"You know me well son," Hollywood was back at it. "I love grilled chicken wings."

Carter was missing the point. I was not his son. And those were not 'grilled chicken wings'.

"...it's gyoza. Dumplings. You de-bone the wing without ruining the skin and the meat, fill it with ground meat and vegetables, seal it, then grill it." The whole thing felt like a fever dream; having to explain all this to a man who thought himself a master of Japanese cuisine. "Sanshoyaki is a grilling technique... used a spice mix I came up with on the fly."

Carter nodded away, taking a bite of his wing and nodding more. He had this look on his face—hard to say, it wasn't something you'd like to see on TV.

"I've heard about these stuffed chicken wings," Amelia was on her second one. "Couldn't wrap my head around it before but if this was a real izakaya, I'm putting in another order."

Pao was next. "That sear on the skin peppered in the spice mix—it's crispy. Savory. Has a little kick. Chef's kiss. Ay I think it would be hard to go back to normal dumpling with the flour wrapper. The chicken wing exterior adds a whole... what's the word, Banilla. The one you teach yesterday... dimension of flavor."

I turned to my VIP seated down the middle. Two slender fingers on each side of the wing; small bites savoring every flavor that hit his palate. Mental notes running through his head. Possibly the most elegant anyone's ever been seen with a chicken wing.

Our eyes met briefly, and I caught a smile forming behind the napkin he reached for. "I... agree. Very dimensional." He turned to the Japanese guest judge on Amelia's left while his counterparts cracked up. "What does Chef Hirano think?"

The interpreter relayed his question from the side and Hirano nodded as she did, wiping his hands with a towel and responding in Japanese. I picked out key phrases and concluded general positive sentiment.

"Chef Hirano says this dish is a staple at every good izakaya in Tokyo," she paused as he went on. "And that if he had his eyes closed, he would not have thought this was made by a foreign chef. He... says he had not expected it to taste so... Japanese."

I asked what he meant by this.

Hirano glanced down at the plate he'd emptied. Only the tail end of his wings remained. "I was... expecting a little more special," he began in English before turning to the interpreter to elaborate.

"Chef Hirano says that he's always seen foreign chefs put their spin on Japanese cuisine. It's mostly their interpretation of a certain Japanese dish. A fusion of flavors from abroad. So he was surprised to see that you decided on a classic izakaya dish and a primarily Japanese cooking technique, using Japanese spices and flavors. Though he also admits that it is an interesting combination... not many chefs use the sanshoyaki technique for tebagyoza.

"But because there was a lack of... 'uniqueness', Chef Hirano says that if he had his eyes closed, this dish would have gone unnoticed, under the radar. But since he had seen you, clearly, a foreign chef, make something this authentic that is on par with a professional Japanese chef, he thinks guests will find it novel." The interpreter finished with a nod.

"The chef—interesting," Hirano added in English. "The dish—boring."

I gave this some thought, taking in his line of reason but the next thing I knew, Carter had other plans.

"Respectfully, Chef Hirano, I'm going to have to disagree with you on this one." He cut in the moment the conversation came to a pause, hands out with a smile on his face. "These stuffed chicken wings would be a hit in New York. I could see this on my menu—a special, say, every Saturday—gyozas and chicken wings, the two best things in the world, in one dish. I'd say it's far from boring, and clearly Chef Cox thought the same. Not saying everyone else isn't entitled to their own opinion, you know. It's just," he shrugged, "yours seemed like criticism. And people can choose to turn a blind eye to that."

The room went quiet.

Hirano was waiting for the interpreter to relay whatever the fuck Carter just pieced together in that head of his but she looked seconds away from shutting down. The man's confrontational tone did not help.

I hadn't actually known tebagyoza was a thing in izakayas. Siegfried never talked about a dish like that over the months we covered Japanese cuisine back in New York, homeschool; a staple dubbed 'boring' was bound to come up in the heck load of texts we had to study for the Asian cuisine course in my second year of culinary school, too. Of course, the real world was always going to be different.

Years had passed since then, and as much as something could seem brand new to me, others in the field could also think the opposite.

To ease the air, I turned to Carter first.

"As a kid, I never really got to learn the stuff you were meant to pick up at that age from my dad. But if there was one thing he got to drill bone-deep in my head, it's that not all criticism comes from a bad place."

I got to working on the Hamachi sashimi, eventually broaching the subject of an interesting chef and his boring dish.

"You have a point. Maybe I should have dug deeper about tebagyoza. Made a better decision about my menu. I see that.

"If that was the mistake I made, I'll admit to it. But I don't think it changes anything about the chef who made the dish. Truth is, we never see the chef behind most of our meals outside of a private kitchen. If meeting the chef and watching them prepare our meals changes the way we think about them and the dish, that's... no longer objective, is it."

I paused for the interpreter to catch up. Logical reasoning wasn't the job of local idiots (you leave that to the geniuses nearby) but it made sense, somehow. Judges weren't allowed to be physically present during the finals of a proper cooking competition.

"... Chef Hirano says that he doesn't disagree with what you said, Chef Cox." The interpreter rejoined, and I turned to see the Japanese chef with his hands together, nodding with a smile. "It is as you say—knowing the chef behind our food makes it... not objective. And while there is much contention about that in the context of a competitive scene, Chef Hirano ultimately believes that food is never meant to be objective. And so he stands by his opinion. That your dish was boring."

His response threw me off a little. Hadn't expected someone to bring a full-on debate to the table.

I thought about it. "Do you like tebagyoza, chef?"

He understood my question. "Yes."

"Do you like all tebagyoza."

"..." He thought about it. "No."

"So you have a place you'd go to for this dish when you feel like having it."

The interpreter relayed this. Chef Hirano nodded. "...yes."

"So even among the boring, there's special." I shrugged, looking past him and out at the rest of Tokyo's busiest alleyway dining. "You come back for the boring—so do I."

This made Hirano pause. In his eyes, I saw mutual understanding.

The seat down the middle housed a quiet snowfall; but in the waters behind his glasses was the glint of a midsummer pool. Warm and proud.

*

"...So you're saying you came up with this recipe seven years ago helping someone cheat their way into an A-grade on their practical assessment... over a call." Yamazaki summed up with a laugh. "I'll have to tell Marseille about this." I keep forgetting he used to teach at our alma mater.

"She knows." I dunked a ring of calamari into the creamed shishito peppers, finished with some lime and aonori in the tempura batter. "Asked for the recipe after we got found out."

"We?" Pao caught on quickly, invested in the story despite his low energy throughout the panel. "Ay give me more. This student; you help him cheat, score top of the class, then what?"

Aside, Yamazaki was trying hard not to look too entertained. He'd started out without much input but gradually warmed up to the conversation when Carter began to simmer out of touch. I wasn't sure what the producers were thinking, adding more guests to the judging panel without a proper introduction last-minute, but I figured like Pao had said—something went wrong, and additional opinions helped level out the drama. After all, negative stuff could get cut out all the time but the lack of usable material was going to be an issue.

"Chef Fujiwara is impressed that you ran the stall alone," the interpreter raised a hand to interrupt, rejoining as soon as the third local expert gave his opinion in full. "And like Chef Hirano, he too, was surprised by the lack of fusion ideas. But unlike Chef Hirano, Chef Fujiwara views this positively. He believes that foreign chefs—including your fellow contestants—often incorporate cooking techniques and ingredients from abroad that he considers as international fads of Japanese cuisine. Flavors like miso butter. Wasabi mayonnaise. Those are not ways true Japanese chefs use miso and wasabi, Chef Fujiwara says."

Felt a tiny bit betrayed 'cuz I always thought those were real. Miso butter was the good shit.

I turned to the only guest who hadn't spoken much all evening, the one with the prime seat, best view, and all of the chef's attention. He raised his gaze when he felt eyes on his. The moment was brief, but the exchange—long.

"Thank you for the meal."

The cue to leave came from one of the producers and Carter was the first to make a move. The others got up to leave and after lingering a little, so did he. The feeling I got was reluctance. To leave or to get on with the rest of his evening, I wasn't sure.

I grabbed one of those markers they'd given us for the menu and scrap paper lying around, scrawled a word, and held it up. Waiting for him to turn.

He did. Over his shoulder one last time just before the corner.

Impressed?

A laugh made its way to his lips and he stopped dead in his tracks, pausing. I read his lips.

Very.

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[Chef Amelia Streisand]

"What a mess, Pao. Have you spoken to Vanilla yet?"

"Ay Amelia... no, not since this afternoon. You know how it's like with Carter. Did you see his face when Layla and Antoinette won? He was the only one who did not vote for their team. Oo the look on his face... I'm glad Banilla's teams did well. You saw he become so quiet today. Even at Leroy's. The energy is so low. He had to ask Yamazaki to come on the program last-minute to help out too. Ay... so embarrassing."

"It is," I sighed, heading down the hall with tomorrow's notes in hand. "I asked Siegfried for a moment earlier today. He hasn't gotten back to me. Carter was scripted to join us for the final challenge the day after tomorrow but I just can't see that happening right now. That man single-handedly destroyed our dynamic... if only I was a better host."

Pao gave me a look, waving my words aside. "Don't make me angry Amelia. You say that again, I throw you out the window. This problem is not because of you, okay? We three are all the hosts. Responsibility is equal. What time you speaking to Siegfried? I can come too."

"I don't know. Twelve, maybe? He's still in the room checking shots with the director. It's a miracle we're allowed back in the hotel with the contestants this early," I pushed the button for an elevator. "Which reminds me. Where the hell did Leroy run off to after our visit? He could've won if he hadn't dropped out all of a sudden—his numbers were this close to Layla's."

"Ay that boy! Oh my god. Please. Why can't he behave sometimes? The intern told me he want to go to the pharmacy before they close. So he just clean up the store, talk to the owner to take over, and then he just left the set!"

"Well at least he was present when we announced the winning team. Oh, right. You'll be joining Antoinette and Layla at the winner's masterclass tomorrow. I won't be seeing you then."

"Oo, yes. Good luck with the tea ceremony. Banilla will join you?"

"Yes. We have an odd number of contestants so either one of us would have to fill in as a partner... the class is conducted in pairs. Pre-arranged, so I heard."

"No they told me it's a lottery system, Amelia. Random pairs."

"Is that so? I swear that's not what was said in the notes last night... perhaps they made some changes to the script... I mean production couldn't possibly have predicted the winning team so pre-arranged pairs does sound quite out of the question."

The elevator arrived just as our conversation slowed to a stop, doors sliding open to reveal familiar faces right as Pao and I were about to head in.

"—pick a fight." "No one's picking anything, Leroy. Pity I didn't catch the look on his face... must've been quite the expression." "Think they'll cut that out?" "I sure hope not... oh!"

The resident lovebirds. Or so Pao and I liked to call them.

"Pao. Amelia." Vanilla held the door open but it did not take Leroy very long to nudge him out of harm's way and replace him instead. They had a border collie on a leash and a kitten lying flat on top of its back. "Did the team call for another meeting? By god, did I miss it entirely?"

"Ay no Banilla, Amelia was waiting for someone and I was talking to the interpreter about the masterclass schedule. Rest time now. You have the notes for tomorrow?"

"The script? Yes. An intern handed them to me right as we were wrapping things up on set earlier. I... I'm sorry I left without a word."

We switched sides—Pao and I heading into the elevator and them heading out. Vanilla appeared visibly apologetic, yet oddly more energetic than he'd been earlier in the evening. It was clear: someone's presence had put him in a good mood.

"There is nothing to apologize for, Vanilla. It's been a long day and if I were you, a second more of Carter's babbling would have made for an unsightly explosion. Please, get some rest. Where are you two going at this hour?"

"The store." Leroy answered shortly. I observed the distance between their shoulders. Less than inch apart.

"Oo, okay. We have another early morning tomorrow ay. Don't stay up too late you two."

"Yes chef." "Thank you Pao. And take care Amelia. I'll see you here tomorrow."

The doors slid close at the push of a button.

"... Banilla should buy another leash." "What, for Leroy? Doesn't need it; see how well he deals with all that teasing?" "You don't understand Amelia. Oh my god. The man is unstoppable... he plays around too much." "Interesting how he can get so serious when he wants to be. I loved the nori-crusted Hamachi. And the tebagyozas." "Ay but the calamari was my favorite. Good idea about the batter. And the dip, ob course." "Do you think Vanilla liked any of them?" "I mean I want to say yes but... he was very quiet today. Maybe Carter's team talked to him privately after the thing that happened at the tent." "..." "..." "I like how we're questioning Vanilla's opinion on Leroy's food as though we aren't aware the two of them have something going on." "Ay that's because we know him well." "That he would never allow his feelings to influence the way things were...?" "... yes that."

We arrived at our floor and made parting words brief, knowing there was a chance Siegfried might arrange for a short discussion in a bit. I headed down the other end of the hallway where my room was situated, turning the corner and running into yet another surprise.

There was a second lift lobby a couple of rooms down my own that had limited access to the rooms on this floor. In front of it was Maple Pierson. One of our chefs.

"—the shots?" "You have to. Just me and Cox, like she said. We've talked about this."

He was speaking to a man with a camera—likely a part of the crew... who should be wrapping things up together with those we'd left downstairs. I'd walked in on some part of their private conversation, taking in the words that traveled down the enclosed area. They stopped abruptly, an unnatural air around the two before Pierson started down the opposite end of the hallway. Away from the lift lobby.

Something was off about the entire interaction.

I'd pulled out my keycard only to slide it back in my pocket, continuing down the hallway as though I'd meant to stop by the exact lift lobby they were speaking in front of. The cameraman tapped his foot against the marble floor, hands in his pocket as we waited for the elevator to arrive.

"So... Stan let you off the hook early today," I tested the waters. "No 'let's check those shots from take seventy-two' or... 'prep those SD cards for tomrrow'... stuff like that?"

The man cleared his throat. "Yeah. None today."

I blinked. Why'd he lie about that? Unless.

"What's your name? I haven't really seen you around before." I extended a hand. "Amelia Streisand."

He took it. "Just your average camera person. I'm uh. Just here for Japan and the next couple of stops. Temp guy."

The sound of the elevator arriving cut through the rest of the silent floor and the doors slid open. Layla stepped out with bags of takeout in one hand and a boba drink in the other.

"Chef Amelia? You're on twenty-two? My room's just down this way to the left." She came up to me with a smile and I'd turned my attention away from the cameraman. The split second had him heading straight for the closing elevator doors, sliding right between them in the nick of time and disappearing before I could say a word.

"Chef?"

I stared up at the digital numbers above the push buttons, watching it stop at fifteen. "... sorry Layla. I just... experienced something very strange."

Layla Tenner was a young chef. Bright, lovely, brimming with potential. She was one of those; chefs with a Michelin star way before the first digit of their age hit the feared 'three'. Granted, I'd heard stories of how her days in school. Her talent was undeniable, but it was perseverance and raw determination that got her this far into the game.

"... Layla, you... attended culinary school with Leroy, is that correct?"

She blinked, sipping on her boba. "Technically, yes. We did. Before he dropped out."

"But Pierson attended L'Assiette Vide... excuse me, I'm talking to myself."

"Haha, I do that all the time." She softened, then lowered her voice. "What's up? You're frowning a lot."

"Oh yes," I laughed. "That is my constant state nowadays. Halfway through my forties. Anyway... I don't suppose you were acquainted with Pierson before the show?"

"Um... no. Not that I... I don't know. Can't say for sure."

Of course. They couldn't have attended school together; she would have recognized him. Even if she did, there was no guarantee anyone would be able to remember the face of a random schoolmate out of a hundred others in a different class, different year, different course altogether. How old was Tenner in the first place? High school was ages ago. Ten years, almost.

Either way, Pierson had earned his spot on the program fair and square. I was sure of it. After all, Pao, Vanilla and myself had tasted every dish presented to us over the preliminary rounds before coming to a somewhat decent decision—Andre aside. Not to mention, he had the credentials to back it up. Odette. Maison Bertaux. His mentors had nothing but nice things to say about him.

Yet...

"Any chance, you think... Pierson was in some way acquainted with Leroy in the past?"