A/N: I really didn't mean to take two weeks with this! ;-; IT WAS SO EXCITING I wanted to have this ALL out and didn't want it split into half because it wouldn't have achieved the same effect. So much food to write about. So much tension. So much EXCITE!! 

Also, the Baked Love proof copies just arrived perfectly :') I'll need to do the official release soon and the giveaway. I actually have no idea how the giveaway should be done. Maybe I'll have an additional chapter at the back of Baked Love on Wattpad to announce the release and then have participants just comment on it. I HONESTLY HAVE NO IDEA. I don't want to read compliments about Chip and Xander. HAHAHAHAAH -dies- 

Enjoy.

____________________

[Vanilla]

There was something strange about being invited to a culinary school as a guest lecturer for a semester and then being offered a semi-permanent position at said school at the end of it but having no other choice but to turn them down.

Chen was the one who made the offer on the headmaster's behalf and factoring in Le Cordon Bleu's incredible reputation and known generosity towards valued members of their teaching staff, I knew he wasn't expecting the answer I gave.

"Is there a reason for this?" He pressed a little. "I know it's not the money, but if—"

"Oh it has nothing to do with the school, Chen. Or you. I mean, you know that but it seems I have a track record of turning down your requests and I assure you, they have everything to do with circumstances beyond your control," I reassured, hoping to lighten things up. "This is about the... this thing I'm doing. I'll be away for two months, at least. The semester's over but I can't afford to have anything else on my plate—GLACE is counting on me."

We were in his office on the third floor of the school's main building, having this conversation by a window that looked out onto Bloomsbury Square. Chen nodded as I explained the situation, raising a cup of coffee to his lips.

"I understand. The show's important. It's the lineup, isn't it? I can see how this opens doors for you and your company but I just... wanted to ask anyway. Your students have nice things to say about you, and your lectures nearly always have every seat filled."

I paused. "Well. Most of them are just there for the pictures. My face was all over culinary Twitter at some point." I'd kept my answer short, processing his earlier reference to the show and his seeming familiarity with it.

On one hand, it certainly demonstrated the sheer success of the production team's media campaigns and getting the word out but on the other... there was simply no reasonable explanation for Chen knowing about the contestants we've casted. After all, the preliminaries were shot merely two days ago. The lineup was not public and even guest invites had not been finalized.

"I'll leave it up to you," he raised his mug with a smile. "The position stays open."

"This is pretty much a repeat of you offering me a spot on your team during the cross-year event in school and I can only hope you've kicked the habit of putting people on the spot in front of an audience," I quipped in return, sipping my tea and looking like an absolutely buffoon with fogged-up glasses.

Chen had laughed, rolling his eyes. "You're forgetting that Cox basically sniped us out in the open just to get you on his team."

"Oh that was all luck, I assure you."

"Pretty sure I was the first one to draw a blue so I don't think he won by luck. Layla drew the next one and what did you do? Turn her down."

We laughed and spoke about the old times while heading out the office and down to the ground floor where he had his next class scheduled. Just as we were about to part ways, Layla Tenner showed up at the end of the hallway dressed in her whites with a stack of papers in her arms. Chen did not miss the opportunity to bring up the topic at hand—Vanilla White rejects the world for Leroy Cox—and rope her into the conversation before leaving me to fend for myself while he headed off to teach Advanced Boulangerie B301.

"A-allow me to repeat myself and emphasize, again, that, um, this and high school have nothing to do with one another and I am not turning the position down because, well, that, it... has nothing to with Leroy, personally. This is work. And I'm sorry, Layla."

"Nillie, you're rambling." She pointed out with a laugh as we continued down the hallway together. "Ignore the big baby—he's just not used to rejection. At least I'll be seeing you next week."

"Oh no," did Chen forget to tell her? "I've completed the semester's work a week ago, Layla. Today was the final exam and I've just got papers to grade before... well, leaving for good. It's this production I'm doing. First Chef. Have you heard of it?"

This had her pausing with a blink in the middle of the hallway and I expected her to express theatrical disappointment and whatnot but all she really did was nod with a smile that did not say very much. "Ohh, right. Right." It felt slightly uncharacteristic of her. The usual Layla was honest and extremely expressive.

She did not stop to correct herself or, again, bid me the huge warm farewell I'd come to expect from her and instead, went for an unusually ordinary and unexciting 'goodbye' as we arrived at the end of the hallway and went separate ways.

Needless to say, this left me awfully confused and mildly anxious about something I knew not what but Jason soon arrived to pick me up for my tea time appointment at Andre's bistro with a very special guest.

"Good afternoon sir, how can I help?"

I approached the host behind a classic reception area that was, quite frankly, tastefully designed. Well, in any case, I never really had a problem with the general look and décor of Andre's various establishments—Michelin star restaurant or not. It was just the food. "Good afternoon. I believe I have a table reserved for two under the name White."

"Yes of course," said the host, who donned the head waiter's vest and appeared rather fazed. It was most definitely the piecing together of information; my general appearance and last name was all he needed to confirm that I was indeed, the know-it-all critic whose average score was two stars out of five with hair that looked cold to touch. I'd merely given my last name for the reservation. "This way please, Mr. White."

"Thank you."

I was showed to a pleasant spot out on the bistro's terrace with a perfect view of the gardens but also in full view of every other guest spending an afternoon out here. This would not have been much of an issue months ago when Andre's bistro was treated very much like a budget version of his restaurant and struggled to break even when Florence first told me about it. At present however, things were different.

To a certain extent, I would've liked to say Siegfried knew what he was doing, putting a certain idiot in charge of the kitchen in Andre's bistro. Not giving him an option to do otherwise was the only fault I had with this. If anything, it was clear that the guests were here for the food and not because of the media attention that Andre's Michelin star restaurant had drawn.

"My apologies," I glanced at the tag pinned to the head waiter's vest, "Charles. This is a very pleasant spot but I'm afraid I'd prefer someplace more... private."

He nodded in understanding. "Of course, Mr. White. This way please." He gestured, leading the way.

I was then showed to a seat indoors—by a cozy corner relatively close to the kitchen's double doors but away from the main dining area. Perfectly out of sight.

"Would this be alright with you, sir? I'm afraid it's a little... unpolished..." He referred to this area being the part of the bistro that was paid less attention to, being closest to the kitchen's double doors.

"Oh no, it's perfect. Thank you." I reassured, taking a seat while he placed the menu in front of me. "I'll be ready in a minute."

"Of course. Would you like a glass of water?"

"Two, please."

"I'll have that ready." Charles nodded before taking his leave and I was thus left to amuse myself with the menu. It wasn't very extensive, which surprised me because I'd always dubbed Andre as the kind of chef to put every dish he was proud of on his menu for a good ego boost (which only amateur menu designers would agree with) and thus come up with something six pages long.

Either way, most of the main dishes listed were rather standard for a bistro serving afternoon tea. The only thing that really caught my eye was the 'Chef's Special' listed at the bottom of Sides category, and according to the small text, was different every day.

I glanced at the time on my phone.

With stakeholders insisting on my full attention being directed towards the show, work-related emails and text messages had been, upon their insistence, re-directed to Florence and a senior editor on the team whom I had been working closely with prior to the mess. And quite frankly, as much as a certain someone was at crossroads in his life, I was, too, very much at mine. This was, perhaps, the furthest I've felt from my initial point of passion and drive; furthest from the dream of a nice little afternoon in a cozy café, writing up a humble review of a quaint little diner down the street.

GLACE had been everything I'd imagined it to be and yet was, against all odds, everything I hoped it was not.

"Vanilla!" I heard her voice then and looked up from the screen of my phone, standing to receive her with open arms. She hugged me tight.

"Chef Marseille. I'm so sorry this took us weeks to arrange," I said as soon as we got formalities out of the way and settled down. Her gaze was all over the room. "Everything leading up to next week has been quite disastrous. Poorly planned."

"Oh but for a production, they're faring pretty well I must say. Last-minute revisions and whatnot are the norm and so far, things have been rather smooth—although I'm saying this relatively, from my experience. Alright. Tell me," she leaned in after getting a good look at the bistro's interior, although not the most perfect view of the terrace from where we were seated. "Are we here to laugh at Andre's menu? I'm not getting this."

I blinked in surprise, having assumed she'd seen Leroy's face all over culinary news and Twitter alike but at the same time, piecing together her distaste for gossip and a specific type of journalism. I was very much an exception; and also the very reason she'd dubbed myself as one of her favorites after everything that had happened back in culinary school.

"Well, um... we're here for a chat over some tea and... if you'd like, an appetizer or two," I decided to go with, eager to see her grade the food like she used to. Chef Marseille laughed.

"Of course. Oh you should have said something. I would have arranged for us to stop by my restaurant."

"But it's your day off," I said in protest. "I don't wish to be reminding you of work while we're..."

Charles had returned to the table with a jug of chilled infused water and two glasses, filling each while asking if I was ready to order. I turned my attention back to the menu.

"We'd like to have today's special and, um," I slid the menu across the table. "Please pick anything you'd like to have. It'll be my treat."

"Oh don't be ridiculous, I'm footing the bill. And I know you're a tea person but I really need my coffee, so um, a flat white, if you please," she held the menu back out to me. "I'll leave everything else up to you. You're the student who always knew what you were doing."

I laughed, turning to Charles. "Alright then. Apart from the chef's special and a flat white, a cup of your best tea and... fish and chips. Would do."

Chef Marseille and I shared a look and I could tell from her eyes, she was trying not to laugh.

"Of course, Mr. White."

"But," I held him back with a word. "We'd like the head chef to give the fish and chips his own little... twist on it. After all, I have an important guest today."

"Of course, Mr. White."

"I do not wish to be disappointed."

"Yes, Mr. White." The head chef hurried off soon after, his face drained of color.

"Oh I love it when you scare them off," was all Chef Marseille said, not quite holding back on her laughter to which I responded with one of my own. "Remember when you were selected to help out with the mock service examination for the third-years as a guest? Hilarious."

"My goodness. They even had me read off a list of requests and dietary restrictions to put the chefs on the spot!"

"You were very convincing. I was the examiner in the kitchen and I could just hear the tremble in their voices as they spoke about 'that pale-haired first-year in glasses'."

We laughed and spoke about the past, sharing recent experiences in the industry and also exchanging opinions on the show. Chef Marseille was no participating contestant, but she had been invited as a guest judge for the first round held locally, and in a couple of days. After accepting that, she had been offered a spot to travel along with the team as a co-producer. I asked if she'd taken them up on that.

"No, actually. I... decided not to. It comes with consequences; them doing you a favor. I'd be letting them have a piece of my credentials in every episode and well, some people might like the idea of having their name next to Siegfried's in every credit-roll but, hm, I have my reservations. Perhaps I'll join you people somewhere along the way. But, at my own pace and with my own arrangements. They expect things in return once they start paying for a flight or anything. A word on socials, a nice little partnership... the... you know," her gaze rested on something over my head for the third time. "Those people in the kitchen, I swear, if I was in there, I'd strap them to their stations or something. One moment, someone's peering through the windows and the next thing you know, two other people join them!"

I laughed, glancing over my shoulder just in time to see heads bolting away from the circular windows of the double doors. "Well. As you've said, I have a terrifying reputation and am currently living up to it."

"Are they that afraid of you?"

"Every restaurant's a little cautious when it comes to having critics over. I just so happen to be rather... recognizable. And, um. Infamous, I suppose."

The conversation then returned to details of the show and my reservations about the current lack of transparency and overall fog of mystery the production team seemed to prefer working with. I told her exactly how the preliminaries went; the people who were handpicked by Chef Pao, Chef Streisand, and myself; and the people who were 'handpicked' to make the final cut; and finally, the fact that we'd wrapped up the shoot with only twelve people confirmed. Thirteen had been the supposed number of contestants.

"I'd only realized after reviewing the summary of the shoot sent the day after—we'd gone through a good number that day, none of us could keep track of every single signature dish we evaluated," I explained. "By the end of it, we thought wrapping up meant we had our final contestant."

"That's—" Chef Marseille paused with a streak of surprise in her voice. Then, her gaze shifted to the top of my head and I knew we were about to be served.

"Today's special," Charles set a basketful of spiced chicken bites and the aroma of curry leaves and savory goodness hit us both. "The head chef's take on a South Indian fried chicken dish, Chicken 65. I will be back with your drinks."

"Oh wow, it smells... stunning," Chef Marseille took a closer look at the starter as soon as Charles took his leave, picking out a decent chicken chunk peppered with spices that seemed to have been double-fried first and then sautéd in a garlic-y flash fry of cumin, chilies, and curry leaves. "Well then, I won't stand on ceremony."

I laughed, gesturing for her to do as she pleased. She bit into it. A moment later, she was done and reaching for another.

"What's the number on this?" She took the dish apart, examining a stray fried curry leaf before sending it into her mouth. The crisp was incredibly audible. "Thirteen? Fifteen quid?"

"Well. It says on the menu... special orders maintain a price of six pounds."

"Six?" Her reaction was perhaps the reason Andre's bistro had been gaining traction over the last couple of weeks—a chef's special at a posh, high-end bistro known to many but at a reasonable rate. "You don't see that very much in places like these."

I laughed, helping myself to a portion. As I'd expected.

In the batter was a peppery hit of garam masala and red chili powder, complemented by a tang of yoghurt and finely chopped curry leaves for added aroma. The chicken was double-fried and then sautéd for extra flavor—this time, with a spike of Kashmiri chilies and cumin.

"Flat white for the lady and a signature black tea," the head waiter returned once more to fill the table. "Fruity notes and an aftertaste of berries, anise, and vanilla."

Charles retreated soon before we could thank him and while Chef Marseille and I exchanged a look of confusion over the seeming rush he was in, a certain idiot showed up.

He always knew how to make a grand entrance.

"Wh... Cox," my guest was blinking in confusion the moment I sensed his presence, gaze alternating between myself and said idiot. "You never said anything about..."

I could smell the beer-battered cod, crisp and fried to perfection before it entered my field of vision; head chefs weren't supposed to be carrying out the duties of a waiter. One could only make wild guesses about the appearance of a rare species outside of the kitchen.

A glimpse at the plate had me stifling a laugh. Lotus chips. In place of fries. Or um, chips, as they call it.

"... Chef."

Leroy sounded mildly surprised, but also sufficiently reserved. His gaze met mine briefly before resting on our ex-instructor. "So you're the 'important guest'."

I paused at his seeming emphasis on those words, recalling my request to the waiter and slowly piecing things together. So. The silly idiot had decided to drop by just for a glimpse of my guest! How absolutely befuddling.

I reached over to receive the dish he was holding onto but in a swift motion, he'd moved it away.

"...think I'll make another one."

I blinked in return. "Oh. But why?"

"...never mind."

"What are you talking about?" This of course, activated Chef Marseille's boss mode. Clearly, Leroy had forgotten how she worked. "Give me that plate. What, afraid of a seven, Cox?"

As you all may know by now, Leroy was not one to back down from a challenge. Upon receiving the invitation, he'd want in at once. So of course, he set the plate down immediately.

I had to remind myself that it had been ages since Chef Marseille tasted Leroy's cooking. This was going to be rather exciting after all.

She dug in.

"Mm, close." She shrugged after her first bite into hot, flaky cod. The crunch of the batter peppered with herbs and spices was clearly audible from where I was seated. "Seven-point-nine. Lacking a little on the size. I'm not a fan of tiny-ass fish bites, dries out the fish too quickly. Although, I suppose you knew your timing on this one. I like your tartar sauce. There's sriracha in it. Maybe it's the air. Some people like their fish puffed up. I don't. Personal preference. Either way, it's a decent plate of fish and chips. You're missing the mushed peas though... alright now run along."

Chef Marseille dismissed him with a wave while I reached over to help myself to a bite.

It was worth noting the reluctance in the idiot's voice upon seeing a past instructor at the table, which left me wondering about Chef Marseille's standards and if she was really that hard to please. The last I recalled, I myself had received a couple of eights—rare in her book but certainly not absent—so surely, Leroy must have had several nines and even tens, if possible.

Either way, the cod was unexpectedly delicate and moist despite its size, which said a lot about precise timing in the deep fryer; and the crisp layer of batter was, as I'd expected, flavored with a hit of paprika, cayenne, and bits of dill and parsley. Together with the lotus chips, they smelled strangely of red leaves and the fall.

I was afraid to say what I truly thought; that this was yet another star of his own. The entire purpose of picking something boring, something one could have, otherwise, found in any other bistro in London—the most typical, ordinary platter of fish and chips—was to see if he'd kept to his word.

If he was still that person who'd choose the most boring ice cream flavor over every other novel invention in the world. And here he was again. I mean, he'd always been good at it. Not at cooking; at Leroy's cooking.

It's strange how he'd never really come to realize that. Not that I minded the wait, really. The simple fact of it all was in his head, cooking was a chore. Not when it came to serving me, it wasn't. But that itself was the problem. I wasn't sure if the person standing in front of me was still in the process of fighting that war, as, well, as he'd put it a couple of days ago, but if he was, then the least I could do was help.

"What." I looked up to see Chef Marseille staring at Leroy as she spoke, who hadn't quite excused himself from the table. "Don't just stand there, you have a kitchen to run."

Needless to say, I could feel his eyes on me the entire time and though attempts to remain calm were made, none were enough to quell the heightened consciousness of my every move. I set the cutlery aside and dabbed at my lips with a napkin.

"Six-point-nine," I said quietly after a moment's worth of suspense. Heads turned. Or rather, just Chef Marseille's since, well, a certain idiot had his gaze fixed on me the entire time. "On ordinary circumstances, that would be the deserving score. The fish was perfectly cooked despite its size and you had the timing nailed. The batter was original but would have done much better with kaffir lime leaves, or perhaps fresh green peppers, sliced thinly. Any kind. The lack of acidity, you made up for in the dip. Either way, judging by the description of Andre's original recipe on the menu, I'd say there were clear signs of you having made the most out of an otherwise unexciting experience. The lotus chips were a pleasant surprise. Therefore, I'd give this dish... an eight. Depending on the context," I added after clearing my throat, glancing up for a moment to meet his gaze before reverting back to my cup of tea.

He let slip a laugh and the remnants of it, I rather appreciated in his voice. "Enjoy." He left Chef Marseille and I to finish the rest of our meal.

Some form of silence followed suit, lasting throughout three, four bites of fish and lotus chips; then, several sips of tea and coffee.

"You know," said Chef Marseille behind her flat white, eyes mildly amused and a smile in her voice. "Back when you and Cox were in high school together, the teaching staff always had a lot to say about the tension between you two."

"O-oh be quiet."

*

I spent afternoons leading up to the show's first official round in the same corner of the bistro with a cup of tea and essays, avoiding everything else on the menu just so there could be no further conditioning of my tongue to a specific someone's cooking whilst enjoying some peace and quiet.

Indulgence was the word I'd use to describe afternoons spent there. I could have very well dropped by other cafés for the same purpose—an hour or so of grading examination scripts and essays without Leo pawing at the papers and sitting all over them—but being known far and wide had a fair sentence of its own. Every kitchen was afraid if not wary of my presence despite my intentions. A casual visit to a bagel house turned into opportune moments for a photo and empty hard-sells of the place's signature recipe.

My own list of places to review and scheduled articles had been put on hold and most of my work in the office, handed over to the senior editor filling in for the next couple of weeks. Had it not been for my position at Le Cordon Bleu and the many entertainingly poor essays to read and grade, I would have had nothing to distract myself from the imminent production timeline ahead.

At the very least, I had Leo.

I wonder if large-sized dogs were allowed on board. Or if he'd figured out some arrangement with his crew members at the fire station... but surely, he'd miss him. And this was all very much none of my business.

On the fourth consecutive day of my visit to the bistro, it began to storm outside minutes after I was settled into my usual corner indoors. Where I was seated, a window was present to provide a view of the street. Times like these, I'd come to appreciate the strange sort of quaintness that came with the London grey; an odd loneliness in the air that felt less of an enemy but more like a forgotten friend. Cold. But not unpleasant. I quite liked it.

And as I enjoyed the quiet music in the bistro and the dull drumming of a storm against the window—musing over the fantasy of international menus my students had come up with—Charles stopped by with a special little something.

Carefully, he placed a plate of something in the middle of my papers and already, I could tell what it was from the savory, wafting fragrance. Muted by the scent of rain.

Politely, I shifted the soup plate back towards him. "Sorry Charles, I don't think I..."

"Chef says it's today's special." The head waiter flashed a smile, hands behind his back with no intention of returning the chicken soup to the kitchen.

Stumped, I tripped around in my head for a moment or two before quietly conveying my thanks. He nodded, and left without another word.

The bistro had warm lights inside the main dining area, usually lit naturally by the windows wide open all around—some looking out onto the street and some, onto the bistro's terrace seating. I tidied the papers before me and slid the soup plate a little closer. It glistened at an angle, and for a moment, every wisp of steam rising from the surface felt like a memory.

I then picked up a spoon and before I knew it, had spent the rest of my afternoon with company.

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

"Numbers one, two, three—on set." "Lights, ready." "Get hair on two. Fix her flyaways please." "Mic one, two, three—ready for test." "Sound check for one, speak normally."

"I like Polvoron. Do you know that?" Chef Pao declared out of the blue, taking this opportune moment to test his mic and make conversation at the same time because, well, I was clearly showing signs of a nervous breakdown. "Banilla. Have you ever tried Polvoron?"

"No, um, actually. I have not," I responded as calmly as I could, searching my mental drawers for an information sheet on 'Polvoron'. There was none. "What does it taste like?"

"Toasted clouds that melt in your mouth," he dished out whilst rubbing his hands together, glancing over at Chef Streisand who was having her remaining flyaways fixed by a stylist. "Perfection."

"A very imaginative description... and how perfect an image it conjures. It appears you're a better writer than myself."

Chef Pao laughed, catching a thumbs-up from the sound crew before turning to Chef Streisand. "Amelia! What do you think about my description? Ay, why they keep touching your hair it's perfect already."

"Well apparently, a single flyaway can ruin an entire shot," our counterpart rolled her eyes, standing stock while another stylist came on board with a stronger hair spray. "On the other hand, Mr. White has himself on another level of 'groomed'." She shot me a teasing smile in an attempt to relieve the pressure on my shoulders.

"I, um, thank you. Chef Streisand. You look very nice yourself. After all, there must be a reason for double the number of cameras, this time round," I quipped in return, taking in the room with approximately thirty crew members on set. There were assistants rushing from one end of the room to another, fetching equipment, speaking to people, conveying or reporting whatever was happening out of set.

Before us were thirteen stations, lined up from the very front of the room to the very back; on both sides were the crew on dollies, tracked from all ends of the set; up front was a platform for the three of us and the same set of bar stools featured in the preliminaries.

Between the stations and the platform was a wide, open area. Presumably for the contestants to stand in line as whilst being introduced one by one—making their first official appearance on set. At least according to the script, that was the plan.

"I'm sure the contestants are dying to see us all dressed up deliciously for the camera." "Amelia, what do you mean 'for the camera'? I am always delicious. We are always delicious. Banilla. You agree?" "W-well um. Delicious? I suppose so. Not that this was in any way intended... I mean our clothes were chosen by Wardrobe."

Promptly, Chef Streisand's stylist came up to me after fixing her hair to undo the top-most button of my dress shirt. Appalled, I returned it to its rightful state as soon as she left. Buttons are meant to be buttoned!

Chef Pao was laughing. "Banilla! You don't feel hot? I thought that button was because if you're wearing a tie, you know?" We proceeded to have a serious conversation about buttons that quite frankly did well for my nerves and acted as a perfect distraction before the director soon called for silence on set.

It was time.

"Cameras rolling." "Sound ready." "Lights!" "Slate please." "First Chef day one, scene one A, take one." Clap. The lights went out.

"Action."

They came back on one by one and lit the stations from the back all the way up to the front and then, up to the platform where we stood and Chef Pao opened with our scripted conversation on cue, speaking first about the preliminaries and then, about the final line-up.

"And just imagine. Four days later, it's Italy. What are you most excited about, Amelia?" "Olive groves." "Wait, really?" Chef Streisand had said something off the top of her mind that wasn't in the script, which was both nerve-wracking and interesting at the same time. So she was a fan of olives. Or olive oil. "I was thinking: sheep." Chef Pao kept up with an unexpected word of his own. "I like sheep. I want to see sheep in Italy. What about you, Banilla?"

"I um," I realized, scripted or not, I had to be pushing my mind to its limits. "Quite frankly, I just cannot wait to see trained chefs struggle with the local cuisine of every country we're going to. Sorry. Was that uncalled for?"

Chef Pao burst out laughing. Beside, Streisand was trying hard not to giggle. "Ay you like seeing people suffer! Same. So let's get started and call them in."

The double doors at the back opened on cue and Chef Andre, number four on the call sheet, came striding down the aisle in the middle—dressed in the standard uniform provided by the production team. Blacks instead of whites.

Upon every entrance, we were told, a general introduction of the respective contestant would be read out according to the script with information cherry-picked from the private interviews given by each chef after the preliminaries. The official cut, however, would have this excluded and instead be rolling select audio visual clips cut from the interview roll and other relevant archive footage.

The introduction, put simply, was for the judges and participating contestants. Just in case people were curious about their competition. Accolades. Restaurant names. Awards. Andre had a ton of them under his belt.

His introduction lasted all the way up till his spot marked on the floor. First of the thirteen.

"Chef Du Bellay." Number five.

Her list was much more succinct; and of greater quality, to be frank. The names of the restaurants she'd headed in the past and her experience with international cuisine was really what stood out. No awards were listed. Simply Googling would have dwarfed the number that Andre had. She took her spot next to Andre and greeted us with a smile.

And so he was number six.

"Chef Cox."

It had been long since I heard anyone call that idiot a chef.

A long, long time since I'd seen him dressed like that in person—well, apart from the encounter a few days ago but even then, he'd been in whites that weren't pressed and looked like they were borrowed from someone who hadn't bothered to care for a chef's pride and joy. Either way, he looked quite like a dream. The kind that was a nightmare because by god, did he look... bad. Just, bad. Very bad.

Good god.

"Firefighter. And..." The narrator paused, as though re-reading the script. "Local idiot."

At once, all three of us up on the platform snorted and broke camera personality for a split second whilst watching him take his position beside Chef Du Bellay. No accolades; no restaurants; no awards; not even his father's name. This was him and nothing else.

Strange. The production team had decided to give this a green light. It was extremely relieving.

Next was seven, eight and nine. Chef Garland. Chef Jones. Chef Lin.

Number ten was Chef Pierson. "Junior culinary instructor of L'Assiette Vide's boulangerie course. Prior experience include: Pain de Sucre, Paris. Odette, Paris. Maison Bertaux, London." He'd presented a stunning modern take on a rum-smoked Pavlova dessert that had Chef Streisand and myself equally impressed; and although neither of us seemed acquainted with Chef Pierson, we'd somehow found him oddly familiar.

The person himself hadn't expressed any form of past history between us either and so after a moment's consideration, the two of us had brushed it off. He looked nothing like the people we knew.

Eleven was a chef by the name of Rahman and twelve, Saito.

But thirteen was the one we'd all be waiting for. Chef Pao, Streisand and myself had been waiting for the final line-up to be completed after the preliminaries but not once was a name mentioned in the script. Why the production team had decided to keep the entire process opaque and refrained from transparency with their very own panel of judges, we unfortunately had no answers to.

There was a pause right before the cue.

"Chef Tenner. Culinary dean of Le Cordon Bleu. Prior experience: head chef of VIDA, three-star Michelin restaurant in Portugal."