A/N: Beans! Welcome back. I'm terribly sorry for the delayed update, I'm currently working on the second cover for the Baked Series (Brave Love) and also Xander's birthday special. It will be a chapter from his point of view on Chip finding out about Atlas' hobby. Hehe. 

It's a long chapter, but I hope you enjoy it. I'll see you next week ^0^/ 

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[Vanilla]

The wait was nothing short of long and arduous. Andre had, himself, brought out three servings of his signature chocolate lava cake and presented them to us before, perhaps instinctively, glancing over his shoulder to keep an eye out for Violet—who had, for the previous four courses, swooped in with a cart full of surprises. Needless to say, by now, this was precisely what the rest of the room was truly waiting for; in anticipation and bated breath.

"Enjoy." Chef Andre prompted a second time, gesturing towards the dessert spoons.

"Should we be waiting for Miss Birchwood?" Beside me, Lockhart had carelessly expressed an eagerness for the mystery menu, which, by far, was not to Andre's pleasure. Unsurprisingly so.

Half the media had their eyes on the rounded entryway, fixed in stone and perhaps even more so with this being the final course of the evening; a chance to finish the evening with a splendid banger of a dessert. And for all intents and purposes, tonight's verdict was glaringly obvious: I was not the only one impressed by the anonymous chef. Already, I could imagine the headlines alluding the evening's events to that of a fictional tale about a cooking rat.

A brief but significant sign of movement turned heads towards the anticipated doorway, expecting yet another grand entrance of the celebrity pastry chef and her cart of delights when all bated breath came to a standstill at the appearance of a stranger dressed in a waiter's uniform.

"Coleman!" Andre was back to being on guard, gaze hardening in an instance of aggravation. "What are you doing here?"

The man dressed as a waiter had on his face a look on confusion. "I don't know. I ran into Violet Birchwood in the secondary and she told me to bring this here." He held up a decent-sized dish veiled by a cloche. "I was just going to get some stuff I left in the lockers and she pushed this onto me. Did something happen? You invited Violet Birchwood to dinner?"

The many questions and embodied uncertainty of a staff member chipped at Andre's reassured confidence and control over the situation. He crossed the room and nearly snatched the dish out of the waiter's hands.

"Enough. You've done your job. You can go now."

"Hold on," I raised a hand, stopping the young man in his tracks. "Did Miss Birchwood have anything else to say? About the dessert, perhaps."

"Um," he frowned with a pause, unsure. "Not much. Only that it's a new cake flavour she has up on her flagship store."

Andre was quick to snatch up the opportunity. "So a gift from Violet, then?"

"I guess so, yeah."

While this seemed to satisfy half the audience of the show, another half—writers and photographers hungry for some celebrity news—displayed an urge to scramble after the well-known pastry chef. Knowing her, she could very well already be on an Uber back to her hotel or on her boyfriend's luxury sports car to his apartment. Many years of training had made her out to be a professional at escaping cameras as much as she was at directing viewfinders her way.

Nevertheless, this did nothing to dispel the general cloud of disappointment hovering above the room.

"No dessert, then?" Lockhart directed this at Andre, particularly surprised. "I was under the impression that this was going to be, you know. A full five-course."

"Well it is, isn't it?" The Michelin-star chef gestured at his serving of chocolate lava cake. A version that had, by now, travelled far and wide and could very well be found in every corner of the world, perhaps even improved and perfected.

Simply put, a chocolate lava cake like Chef Andre's was neither trendy, novel, fresh, or masterful for a Michelin-star restaurant. An average diner scraping by in a shoddy neighborhood however, yes. Not too bad.

"And even better, Violet was kind enough to leave us a parting gift... her latest invention!"

I knew what it was. Only because we'd a huge falling out over communicating through emails for business-related matters and insisted things be made easier through text messages and text messages only. This included my late-night, mid-dream strokes of genius that often featured myself sitting up in bed, wide-awake, typing out a possible re-iteration or suggestion of flavour combinations for the company's contracted culinary experts.

This cake was one of them.

"White Forest Cake." The label under the cloche read.

Eyes feasted upon a tall drip cake, signature of Violet's luxury cake line. White coconut frosting, topped with white chocolate ganache that had hardened and broke apart upon contact with a knife at an audible, satisfying crack, revealing ruby-red layers of cherry and kirsch that oozed out of its white chocolate casing. A magnificent butterfly, made out of coconut white chocolate tuile, topped the cake with dusted chocolate pebbles containing cherry filling.

White on white; the cake was elegance in name and showed its true colors only when cut open—a vivid contrast of wine red on snow white.

Needless to say, Violet absolutely hated the idea and therefore made it her most expensive, exclusive cake to date. She often saved that word for ideas better than her own.

"Exquisite. As expected of her." Andre's re-direction of the conversation was, unfortunately, to poor effect. While the fellow critics beside myself were appreciating the slice of cake (and by this I mean also quietly forgetting the abandoned chocolate lava cake), several members of the invited media had slipped out of the restaurant in hopes of catching Violet and, or, the mystery chef.

Knowing that she was a call away kept my curiosity at bay. I could demand an explanation right after the meal; and should she refuse, w-well, perhaps buy her over with the new Starbucks tumblers she had been eyeing. Otherwise, give in to her repeated requests for my 'active participation' in online dating applications.

"Please don't tell me you'd reject even the most prized, valued piece of art," Andre had directed this my way with a snort, as though proving his point. Whatever his point was.

"The cake is splendid. I do not expect any less of Violet Birchwood," I said simply, picking up my dessert fork and tasting the individual elements of the cake slice. "Although I am, indeed, rather disappointed by the absence of a dessert course from your... talented disciple."

This triggered a series of reactions.

Firstly, it put an absolute monster of an expression on Chef Andre's features and quite frankly, I couldn't care less. Fortunately, this was masked by a barrage of questions from the remaining reporters and writers, who then decided this was the perfect time to pry into the mystery chef's identity. A press conference ensued. Andre was tasked to entertain.

I on the other hand, gladly remained a secondary, forgotten party and therefore—uninvolved.

It was upon finishing Violet's cake slice and the other brown lava thing that I gathered and excused myself from the restaurant, thanking Andre and the critics for the meal before calling my chauffeur for pickup by the main road.

A truffle-infused eggs en cocotte to start. Seared herb-crusted scallops with mango salsa to follow. A small, warming bowl of chicken Harira soup; complex and appropriately spiced, balanced by the well-rounded flavour of something additional and perfectly ingenious—Medjool dates. A simple presentation of miso-glazed skirt steak without unnecessary distractions that diminished the importance of the dish's main ingredient and could have very well been finished with a deadly dessert.

A wasted opportunity, was all I could think on the way home, relieving the evening over an evening street view of city sound and lights, flitting by the window of the car.

"Jason?"

"Yes Mr. White."

"How long till home?"

"As soon as we pass this light, we should be arriving in just under fifteen minutes," said the new hire, meeting my gaze through the rear-view mirror. "I could go a little faster if you'd like, but with traffic..."

I shook my head, dismissing his offer with a wave. "That's alright. I was just asking. Thank you." The battery icon on the screen of my phone flashed red. A new device was due; it was increasingly difficult to last the entire day without an additional charge after lunchtime.

And thus, I lived the next fifteen minutes in dull agony, unable to scratch the itch that had surfaced upon the presentation of the very first course. Two itches, to be precise. One, answers from Violet.

Two.

Two, well... two was. Two was not an itch I was allowed to scratch. A silly, foolish, perfectly irrational thought.

Afterall, there was simply no chance in the world, no reason, no mathematical possibility of a firefighter turning up in the kitchen of a Michelin-star restaurant demanding to cook alongside the head chef just to... just for... well for no reason, precisely. Therefore, all answers of rational thought pointed away from a certain idiot. It couldn't be him.

I phrase it in such a manner to convince my mind of its own motivations. The urge to give him a call was entirely based upon the mysterious appearance of an unknown culinary genius; not some silly romantic desire to hear his voice.

"The same time tomorrow then, Mr. White? To the office." Jason had pulled up in the driveway of my apartment building and for a whole long instance, I hadn't noticed. "Sir?"

"Yes. Yes, that will do. Sorry, I've just... had quite the evening. I'll see you tomorrow." I nodded politely, alighting as I did and standing by the sidewalk in a daze, watching him drive further down to the building's private garage. Turning to the entrance of the lobby was my only way of noticing a lone photographer and his journalist partner standing by the steps, snapping away.

"How relentless." I greeted the pair with a smile. Tired. "Should you two really be spending time on myself with Andre's mystery chef and Violet Birchwood's guest appearance in the picture?"

"We have other people on that story," the writer cut to the chase, holding up her phone close enough to record a decent conversation. "We're approaching the story from a different angle. You've tasted the food and seen Violet. What are your opinions on the secret chef and is this a new start to Andre's career as a master chef? And will you be participating in the challenge as a food writer yourself, for your magazine? Will you be publishing a review of the five-course tonight?"

I held up a hand, parting the pair and continuing towards the lobby entrance where security was positioned. "It is in poor taste that a journalist poses two or more consecutive questions before receiving an answer in return. Yes, there will be a review. No, it will not be published tonight. The meal was impressive, but you might want to re-phrase your question. No, this will not be a new start to Andre's culinary journey as a master chef because no, he is not looking for a new start, and no, he is not a master chef. Good evening." I passed the automatic glass doors and security was there to stop them from going any further.

A long day. It was in the elevator that I decided upon the luxurious treat of a long, hot bubble bath whilst condensing pointers for the evening's review in my head. A perfect opportunity to put the strawberry-flavored bath bombs to good use, gifted to me by my godfather several weeks before my flight.

Something I quite appreciated about the serviced apartment I was privileged enough to live in was the view of the city from the bathroom. I put my phone to charge whilst waiting for the tub to be filled and then stood by the charging point to make a quick call.

It was Violet first.

She picked up on the second ring—only, it wasn't her. "Hi. This is Violet Birchwood's manager, Kristine. How may I help you?"

"Oh," I looked around, as though this would help form an answer of sorts. "Kristine. Hello, good evening. It's me, Julian. Um... I suppose Violet's off preparing for her flight tomorrow?"

"Mr. White, ah yes, hm, actually I think she's over at her boyfriend's place right now... before that, she said she was going out for dinner or something to meet an old friend."

"She said that?" I blinked, reasonably fazed by the lie. Well, she must have had a reason for saying that to her manager but, then, would she not have known that involving herself with Andre would have made the truth so terribly clear?

"Uh, yes. Why?"

"Well I suppose you'd know very soon, Kristine. Either way, could you let her know I was looking for her? It's about something urgent. And what time is her flight tomorrow?"

"She'd have to be at Heathrow's by five in the morning."

I thanked her manager and ended the call soon after, gathering the notes I'd taken over dinner at Andre's and pouring myself a nice glass of wine to enjoy in the bath. Truly luxurious; I was in the odd, rare celebratory mood of the century.

Picking out a bathrobe and matching pyjamas gave the tub a little more time to fill and eventually allow for the fascinating addition of Chip's strawberry bath bomb. I watched it fizz a little, admiring the swirls and the faint, nostalgic fragrance of sweets.

He appeared then.

Needless to say, the mind was, again, fond of the silliest thoughts in the most relaxed of states. I took another sip of wine and there he was again. I got up, retrieving my phone that was now at a decent battery percentage before returning to the bathroom and undressing. And there he was again.

It can't be him.

I slipped into the tub and everything—thoughts, rational and those of opposite nature—eased further out into the flow of a warm embrace. The notes I made over dinner stared back at me by the dry ledge of the tub. The words, in English and personal handwriting, made no sense. Beside it was my phone.

"First course... first course... eggs. They were... good." And that was it. Nothing was of conclusive value, and I was far immersed in the warmth of the bath and the smell of strawberries. And there he was again.

"Oh for goodness sake." I reached for my phone. With wet hands.

The sane, sober, perfectly rational Vanilla would have made certain an entire mental map of conversational progression, in which a list of topics to cover, key terms to express and phrase would have aided in. Unfortunately for my sorry state, none of that happened. It was a disaster.

He picked up in the second ring.

One, I had, perhaps at the back of my mind, not expected him to pick up at all, knowing that he was about to pull an all-nighter for his current shift. Two, no proper firefighter on call would have been in the right mind to pick up on the second ring.

For the first good ten seconds or so, neither of us said a word.

And when the stunning phenomena of Leroy Cox on the phone finally dissolved and gave way to simple vocabulary (hello, it's me), there came yet another stunning phenomena. On the other end, he began to laugh. A sound warmer than the strawberry-scented water around me. A sound so awfully, criminally low and attractive.

"So you called to say nothing." He mused.

I put him on speaker, relaxing in the bath and sinking further into the water, leaning against the side of the tub. Gazing out of the window and resting on the skyline.

Frankly speaking, I could barely piece together a concrete reason for calling; only a semblance of an emotion that slipped through my fingers hinted at longing. People usually had reasons when they called someone on the phone. It was absolutely inefficient, weird not to have one. I couldn't possibly be missing someone I'd only just seen yesterday.

What are you doing?

I stopped myself short. It sounded, even to my insane, intoxicated mind, absolutely ridiculous—calling to know what someone else was up to. A text would have sufficed. But even a text to know what someone else was doing... what does it matter? Why was that information... important? Why was that piece of knowledge within my realm of desire?

"No," I re-adjusted carefully after a pause. "I'm calling my chauffeur to make arrangements for the coming, busy week ahead."

I heard him snort. "Wednesday's my next."

"Twelve noon at Le Cordon Bleu. Please be on time."

"Or you could try burning down one of their kitchens." He had the audacity to play. "I'll be on time when that happens, for sure."

I could not help the momentary malfunction of my verbal vocabulary. "What an idiot."

"Something up?" He went on, a smile in his voice. I could tell.

"The strangest thing happened today. Just this evening at Andre's," I started, and then realized I did not quite know how to continue. I shifted in the bath, water splashing a little over the sides of the tub. "I had, perhaps, one of the most... electrifying meals in a very, very long time."

On the other end, his interest seemed to pique. "Go on. But turn on your camera while you're at it."

I paused for a good second, then registered the meaning behind his words and felt a little warmer than before.

"You... I-I, that... that was not my intention."

Again, he laughed. "So?"

"Well there was this new chef of sorts at Andre's, which is surprising because, well, you know that man, he'd never let someone else steal the spotlight from him, so—um, actually, this story is rather long. Do you... are you sure you don't..." I was referring to duty. As though on cue, his crew members burst into distant laughter in the background. His response was to call back in the most informal manner for them to keep their volume down.

"Go on." He returned.

"Oh... um, no, it's fine." I settled with. "Wednesday. I'll tell you then."

Leroy paused. "You sure?"

I nodded, the water splashing a little. "Yes. Go be busy. Goodnight, Leroy."

"Wednesday." Just one word. "I'll be there."

Reaching for my device, once again, with wet hands, I'd intended to hang up by tapping the screen of my phone but it failed to register on the first and so I tapped, again, but this time missed the button and instead accidentally, unfortunately, tragically turned my front-facing camera on.

Panic was due.

I nearly flung the device across the bathroom. It dropped on the carpet right in front of the door, screen side upwards. I heard him laugh.

"Wasn't expecting that little surprise at the end."

"Oh god no that was completely unintentional that was, that was not, that... good heavens, please hang up," I called from across the bathroom in the tub. Leroy's amusement continued. "I hope you saw nothing. That would be ideal. I'm very sorry if you did; please erase whatever fraction of a second you caught it'd only occupy unnecessary headspace and result in further tragic circumstances."

"I mean..." He trailed off. "Could have been longer."

"I understand that the horrors of said image has made you speechless, yes. Oh good heavens I should never have called. How could I have possibly thought that this was a good idea—are you not going to hang up at all?"

"Waiting for you to do it."

He had the criminal skill of robbing my wealthy library of words and reducing it to nothing ore than once in the span of a minute.

"I am speaking to you from across the bathroom in a hot tub, Leroy Cox. Logically speaking, it would take much less effort to move a finger, as it is in your case, than walk across the now slippery bathroom floor to tap the screen of a phone that has its front-facing camera turned on—as it is in mine."

Already, I had the image of a flickering candle burned into the back of my head. Musing. "See you Wednesday."

__________________

To say that the culinary world had woken to a morning of flavorful conjectures and guess-making, seared by the flames of Michelin heat that replaced the otherwise sorry and insipid state of the culinary landscape, kept relevant only by the hook and line of Andre's poorly-spun stories and theatrical tantrums, was an understatement.

While the ordinary reader would have had their interest sufficiently piqued by the grabbing headline of 'London's very own Ratatouille story, mystery chef at Philip Andre's', culinary journals and magazines were quick to adopt my angle of the story—the food.

"Admittedly, their pictures were a whole lot better than mine," I said to Florence, who'd contacted several other publications for image use and rights. "They were simply far too focused on Violet's presence as a guest. The menu, by itself, could hold its own weight. It was stunning."

My secretary made several notes before glancing at the digital documents on her tablet. "I don't think half the journalists in the room invited by Andre realize that. It was only until an hour ago that they caught on to your article that has gained quite a bit of traction... the number of shares have doubled in just the past thirty minutes. Previously, they were all making guesses in relation to the people involved—Andre's secret child, one of the Birchwood siblings, a possible love interest..."

"Clearly, we've seen a ghastly drop in journalistic standard over the past couple of months here in the west. I don't think I've read a single well-written column in a culinary magazine for... well, a good amount of time. Most of them are beat reporters turned leisure feature writers looking for options.

"I don't expect them to understand the difference between something newsworthy in beat-reporting and the same quality in the culinary world. The angle and perspective share almost no common ground at all."

What I'd done in the wee hours of today—four in the morning, with a cup of tea and a sorry stale biscuit—was draft an appropriately speculative article purely based on the menu design of the mystery chef, pointing out elements of individual dishes that suggest a quality or influence, thereby listing out several possible characteristics or features of said person.

One of it being fairly contentious.

"Yes I read the article but Julian, don't you think you're crossing the line by making such an assumption?" I heard over the phone, mildly perturbed by the client's use of words. "You said they were either mad or inexperienced! Everyone else has been dishing out praises for Ratatouille... this might not do us any good publicity."

"I understand your concerns, Mr. Hillman, but I think you misused the word 'assumption'. Assumptions are postulations without the proof—wild guesses, at best. I suggest you re-read the article. Slowly, this time, should you wholly believe my evaluations baseless. Most importantly, I regret to correct you, again, on the definition of madness. I have, in my writing, qualified its positive meaning. Every genius is a little mad. The menu was a favorable mess."

"Julian, no one's going to understand one fucking word of what you just said, okay?" Hillman, the publicity head of a partner company known for culinary productions like cooking competitions and docuseries, was perhaps merely one of the many others giving me a headache barely two hours into the working day. "If this gets a reaction out of whoever it was cooking that night, then fine. Do what you like. But we gotta be careful with where we go from here or it's going to be hard for us to fulfil the contract on our end, alright? You've been enough under the spotlight for the past week or two."

"Hasn't Violet landed in Shanghai yet?" I said to Florence as soon as Hillman got off the call, unbelievably impatient to hear her side of the story. Another call made to her manager earlier this morning confirmed that they were just as overwhelmed as every other celebrity would be under such circumstances.

"Not yet, Mr. White. Not until another two hours."

"Si Yin should be picking her up," I checked our personal chat group. Just the three of us. "Last seen twelve hours ago... I'll give her a call. Could I trouble you to deal with things on Andre's end for just a minute? They're probably asking for a statement on his original menu—which, as he should have noticed by this point, has become completely irrelevant in the face of an intriguing profile much, much more talented than himself. At present, he's not the person in the spotlight."

She nodded and excused herself from my office while I scrolled through my contacts for Si Yin's number. I made several attempts to reach her after an unsuccessful call, private messaging, tagging her in the group chat, emailing, and even scrolling through her social media just to see if she was currently in the middle of something.

Her last location tag was a florist near the airport. Flowers for Violet, then.

"Mr. White." Florence knocked, speaking through the door. "I just heard from Claire that Andre's restaurant is fully booked for the next four weeks. Currently, the line for walk-ins have extended two stores down. Apparently there's been some... challenge, or something. Proposed by the mystery chef. Personally."

It is no surprise that the world loves a fairy tale come true. Something as exciting as an unseen, mysterious talent would have done exceedingly well on any social platform and now, dropping some prized tidbit related to themselves in such a timely manner made for an awfully smart, clever move.

I let her in.

"... I'll drop by after reviewing the backlog of recipes we have for tomorrow's digital issue. Tell the hostess she can expect me at four. Oh but say it nicely. She's very pleasant."

"Understood," she noted. "Bistro or fine-dining?"

"Both are fine. All that matters is the state of the restaurant and this... challenge thing. I'd just like to see if the entire thing was part of some marketing ploy Chef Andre had miraculously developed the brains of executing. Sorry to trouble you."

She nodded, closing the door behind her.

At present, the media was scrambling for even the slightest sliver of a chance at speaking to the mystery chef. A word was gospel; an email, a miraculous feat; an interview, near impossible. They would not have left in such a shadowed hurry had attention been their goal in the first place. Half a day later, they were back with something fresh out of the oven.

Granted, I was curious. Having a genuine conversation with said culinary genius would on paper, merely add to my sizable list of high-profile interviews, accumulated over the course of two, three years in the industry. For all intents and purposes, I was not short on the A-list. It is, unfortunately, purely out of interest and perhaps even gratitude that I wished to hear and write about the story of the person behind an electrifying meal.

How strange it was to relive the scent of spice in the air—a crisp, re-kindling of a flame that once belonged only to the very first person on the list of people I as a food writer, have interviewed. Also the most difficult one to date because, well, what should any journalist do with single-word replies and an answer condensed into a single expression: an indecent finger?

*

Florence was not lying about the horrendous line that had formed outside Chef Andre's. Of which nearly half, I recognized. Needless to say, they, too, did the same.

All around, writers from varying media outlets had turned over their shoulders as I passed and not to mention, quite shamelessly pull out their phones for a picture. I headed straight for the front of the line, nodding at the doorman who made way at once. Inside, a crew member informed the hostess of my arrival while I waited by the reception.

She received me with a smile that weighed heavier than a day's worth of exhaustion. "Mr. White. Thank you for coming."

"Where is Chef Andre?"

"In the kitchen with a temper, I'm afraid." She laughed uneasily. "I am aware that he was the one who reached out to you first, for a word regarding the... um. Well I'm sure you know what I'm referring to. But he's a little held up with the orders for the challenge, so he sent me to speak on his behalf. Fortunately, I'm much nicer."

I returned her smile, politely extending a hand. "That is quite alright. Andre is very lucky to have someone like you serve as his hostess."

"You can call me Angie."

"Angie," I nodded. "I assume all the... attention is a result of yesterday's events?"

"Um. Yes. And no," she qualified. "Initially, Violet Birchwood's guest appearance took off on socials, as you may have already known. But that was last evening. The talk of today had mostly been re-directed to the mystery chef that culinary media outlets have been reporting about. Yourself included. All that guess-making gained a lot of traction and people were given the wrong impression that the chef himself would continue to prepare the five-course here at Chef Andre's restaurant. I'm sure you understand this is, of course, false, and so Andre has been a mess all morning and afternoon despite the influx of table bookings."

I caught something, just then. Something she said.

"But just two hours ago, we received news from the mystery chef. A full recipe of the third course." Third course. That was soup.

"The chicken Harira?"

"Yes, that. Along with it came a set of instructions. So, um... this is kind of hard to explain but basically there is a secret ingredient in it and guests are allowed to order the soup to give it a go. The first person to correctly list all the ingredients used in the soup gets something in return."

"A reward?"

She nodded. "It's unspecified. But the response we're getting from the publ—"

"You must have said something, Miss Angie," I put forth, surprised at my inability to resist thoughts running ahead. "Andre would never have agreed to something like that."

"Well he knows its working," she pointed out with a sigh. "Which is the entire reason why his mood hasn't improved since last evening. The challenge issued by the mystery chef, in a way, saved us the embarrassment of not actually having him in the kitchen, whipping up last night's five-course. And I'm sure you've seen the publicity..."

"Yes, I can see why it has attracted much attention, as food-related challenges often do. But you see, the reward itself is vague and ambiguous. This isn't some 'eat ten bowls of ramen under ten minutes and you're off the bill' thing, is it?"

The restaurant's hostess paused. Quiet. In the distance, clinking of utensils and soft chatter coming from the main dining area; and the faint scent of an amazing chicken Harira soup, wafting in the air.

"Do you know this person?" I looked her in the eye, cutting across the strawberry fields of small talk and getting straight at my point.

"Sorry...?" Her eyes stilled for a moment.

"Do you happen to be acquainted with the person who prepared the five-course last evening?"

Angie held my gaze, laughing lightly. "Of course not, Mr. White. None of us are. I think only Violet Birchwood does."

"Ah... but logically speaking, how would he have gained access to one of your kitchens had he not, perhaps, known someone amongst your service crew? And that aside, you... well, I don't think any article has yet specified the gender of the chef. You on the other hand, have referred to this person as 'he'. Stereotype or not, I am genuinely asking out of curiosity," I added quickly upon noticing the disengagement in her eyes. "I do not mean to intimidate you in any manner."

She shook her head, dismissing my conjectures. "I don't know him." And then, with a seemingly hardened gaze, re-directed the question towards myself. "Do you?"

I blinked; mildly surprised. "No. No of course not. I wouldn't be here if I did."

"Well, Andre thinks you do," she finished, folding her arms and shaking her head once again, but this time with a smile. "He's actually the one taking this challenge most seriously out of all of us. No one's taken a look at the recipe except him and the sous chef. It's a good idea, I think. As long as no one lists all the correct ingredients anytime soon, we'll be experiencing a huge increase in sales."

I nearly laughed.

"Pray tell me. How do I submit my answer?"