A/N: Hewo Beans! Sorry I'm about an hour late. I wrote this skeleton yesterday thinking I was some kind of god and could finish that amount of content in a day but lo and behold, a severe case of over-estimation HAHAHA. I decided to publish it anyway since according to the question I asked previously, Beans would prefer weekly updates no matter the length over long chapters over 2 weeks. 

This week was terrible for me. My parents tested positive for COVID and they had to be shut in a room each while I looked after their needs and made sure they were okay. I'm still in the middle of that and I'm doing my best to take good care of them while they are down but it's been a little tough with work and all. 

I hope you enjoy this one. It was exciting to write!

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[Vanilla]

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

I'd reacted on instinct—turning to Leroy who had, along with the other chefs lined alongside one another below the platform, their attention on a waving Layla heading down the aisle in her usual disposition. The room was very much in her hands; everyone had not expected the young and established twenty-four-year-old with a three-star Michelin restaurant under her belt to turn up in the peak of her career. Time was of the essence when it came to a chef in the spotlight. This should be her period of maximum growth, and for her to think being part of the show could yield, sufficiently, said results, well... frankly, I'd disagree.

Still, questions remained. Leroy's reaction could not hold a candle to those gasping or gawking in surprise and awe at the last participating member of the show's chef lineup. The chef herself had a brilliant smile on her face as she waved, her attention fixed on the three of us up on the platform. Andre could be likened to a wide-eyed goldfish, and others with their hands over their mouths and either fear or admiration in their eyes.

There was a mere subtle shake of Leroy's head, as though this was culinary school and he was, once again, made to put up with her huge personality and flair. Needless to say, I'd expected a display of surprise that could, at the very least, level my own. After all, it had been years since they last met, and, well, Leroy hadn't exactly left the school after a proper farewell.

He'd met Chen in passing. Raul, the other day, at my office. Violet too, for his debut as the idiot mystery chef a-and so that's why Violet's been avoiding me. Good god I'll have to give her a call later, now's not the time to be distracted.

The bottom line was: Leroy did not seem a tad bit surprised by Layla's arrival. And though my senses tingled at present—a sign of something amiss—I had no choice but to brush it off and wait till after the shoot to entertain stray thoughts.

The moment all thirteen chefs were revealed and lined up accordingly, Chef Pao jumped straight into business and got the ball rolling.

"We all know you're excited to be travelling. To be learning new cuisines and how different cultures affect the food they make in the kitchen. But first, we'll start things off by introducing something we like to call... Banilla, I need you to say this," he turned my way with the velvet box containing a prized gold-plated brooch in the shape of a chef's hat, yet another instance of unscripted sprinkles.

"The toque blanche."

"Ay," he gestured with a teasing chef's kiss before turning back to the contestants. "You all here are chefs. You know what that means. It's the chef's hat. Every round has a main challenge—and if you win it, you call the shots in the next main challenge."

Chef Streisand followed up. "That, however, doesn't mean you're safe from elimination. Depending on the theme of the round, you get an advantage ranging from the ability to pick key ingredients, pick your team, or even get a head start for time challenges."

"It is simple; win today's challenge, and you wear the toque blanche. Figuratively," I was scripted to sum up the process. "Though I imagine things being less... simple when it comes down to the actual challenge. Today, you will be picking one out of the three key ingredients offered that must be featured in your dish."

"The catch..." Chef Pao slowed to a stop on purpose, waiting for the suspense to build with a smile before dropping the words: "We hate those ingredients."

There was a pause.

No surprises, those words deserved the additional time took to process them once strung together; a novel idea proposed by Chef Marseille who'd been selected as the surprise guest judge for today's challenge and of course, had designed it herself. None of the chefs would've seen this coming.

"Wait..." Chef Rahman, his name stitched on the right side of his chef's jacket was able to clarify amidst a buffet of curses and pained laughter going around the room. "Hate? You mean, we're supposed to come up with a dish you like... from the stuff you don't?"

Chef Streisand laughed, folding her arms and, like myself, relishing in the agony. "Trained chefs like yourself don't get to take the easy route, you know."

Heads shook; eyes perfectly amused but seemingly hesitant to digest what was ahead—a response I'd pretty much expected and was thoroughly entertained by. The heat I could feel in the eyes of a certain idiot, too, I'd expected as much. The kind sparked by a challenge.

"What can I say?" Chef Pao was enjoyed the atmosphere created by his reveal and one could tell by the spark in his eyes that he could not wait to begin. "Everyone has something they don't like. People can be picky. And we all know... the sign of a good chef is one who can turn poison apples into a five-star dish."

"So... pick your poison, people," Chef Streisand gave the cue and right as she did, three cloches—covered and with its contents hidden—were placed in front of its respective owner on the table before us. "Personally, I'd choose Pao's ingredient. I just can't imagine him hating on any ingredient that bad."

At this, I felt the urge to speak out of turn, adding something unscripted by will. "Sorry, Chef Streisand, but that is precisely the reason I'd avoid Chef Pao's ingredient. For someone so agreeable to dislike anything in the world at all... I'd say it's likely something absolutely unpalatable."

"Oh... oh right, didn't see that coming," she laughed and cursed under her breath before stopping short. "Sorry. Didn't mean that. Beep it out, I guess."

However short, this pleasant, casual interaction between Chef Streisand and myself had somehow smoothed the edge I'd been feeling towards programs like these, reducing the discomfort in my chest that I'd felt since the beginning of the day. That I'd risked a little something extra, unscripted and true to my opinion, and that it had resulted in an amusing reaction amidst a lighter mood—I'd credit all to my counterparts for bringing out a side of myself in the most natural manner.

Already, Chef Pao refused any further delays. "Quick let's start now! Ay I can't wait to reveal my ingredient. Andre! You first. Let's go. Take your pick."

"Right," Chef Andre clapped and rubbed his hands as though deep in thought, a rather typical display of decision-making on TV. Admittedly, he'd mastered a good seventy-percent of body language in entertainment. "Think I'll go with Streisand's. Might be something exotic."

This made Chef Streisand beside me laugh a little, but she held it in and prompted Chef Du Bellay to choose next.

"I... would like to go with Chef Pao's ingredient."

At once, there was an amusing commotion on the other side of the room, seemingly surprised by her choice but also giving Chef Pao the reaction he yearned for. All part of entertainment value.

Leroy was next. Needless to say, I was almost afraid to look at him—terrified by the prospect of our eyes meeting and sparking some sort of, well, badness because even a fool would've known he'd pick—

"Pao."

Another round of excitement made waves across the room but inside, I had come to a stop. W-wait. But why didn't he... I thought he'd... I missed my cue to move down the line and Chef Pao stepped up at once, prompting the next chef on my behalf. I recalibrated at once, narrowing in on the present and shutting out stray thoughts. This was not the time to let my counterparts down and expect them to pick up after me.

Interestingly enough, Chef Streisand's ingredient was the star pick for the next seven chefs in a row until Chef Pierson decided to opt for Chef Pao's instead of hers. And by this point, everyone had noticed the elephant in the room. For some reason, everyone had steered clear of my ingredient.

With a current total of three contestants on Chef Pao's ingredient and eight on Chef Streisand's, the remaining three were under high pressure. Picking me would necessarily mean the highest form of entertainment value and therefore, more screentime in the first episode. This also would have made an impression on viewers with a strong personality—someone daring enough to choose the path less taken.

Alas, eleven and twelve had other priorities and being in their zone of comfort topped all. Each chose Chef Streisand's ingredient.

Then came the long-awaited, grand finale that was Layla Tenner and just like anyone else, I'd expected her to feel the pressure of picking the only ingredient that hadn't been picked; the one seemingly feared choice that no one could brave.

"Before I say anything," she held up a hand and at once, the room was hers. "I would like to say that this decision, I'd made before hearing everyone else's. And frankly... I was hoping to have a little bit of a competition on this one," she laughed and already, I knew what she going to say. "So yes. I'm picking Mr. White's ingredient."

Layla flashed a signature smile my way and instantly, I was unable to control the shake of my head—a smile threatening to surface. Of course, at the back of my mind was the burning question. What is was, exactly, that made everyone steer clear of my ingredient and if my reputation had anything to do with it. And if it did, then, well, I suppose they thought me the most critical person alive.

Still, it wasn't like I'd be the only one tasting their dish.

"Okay, now we're done choosing our key ingredients, it's time for the reveal," already, Chef Pao was moving on, an excited lilt in his voice. "We start with Amelia's, since she has the most picks." He gestured and right on cue, Chef Streisand rested her hand on the handle of the cloche.

"Firstly, I'm confused. I don't know why you guys seem to think I'm an easy pick," she said to lighten the mood and was rewarded with a couple of smiles and quiet laughter. "And secondly... I think some of you are really not going to like this."

She lifted her cloche and at once, all eyes were fixed on what was beneath it: black licorice.

Cue the collapse of confidence and comfort zones. I, a relish-er of challenges, appreciate-r of avalanches, could not help but amuse myself with the terrific response to Chef Streisand's key ingredient. How extremely delightful! Merely the first official round and already, such excitement!

Black licorice as a key ingredient was begging for dessert unless a chef, extremely skilled in the culinary arts, could turn it into the star of a savory dish. Of course, I'd witnessed several utilizing it as a spice in select few cuisines and meat dishes but to ensure that it remained the star ingredient and not some secondary, supporting role was simply a tough challenge. This was most certainly not the right choice for some.

"Now, let me explain," Chef Streisand held up a hand. "I just—I can't stand the aftertaste. And the instant it hits the nose, by god, I feel like throwing up. I hate it, I hate it. Change my mind. Alright Pao, you next."

This had Chef Pao rubbing his hands together and so eager he was that he waited no longer—not even a prompt. "Okay everyone, my turn."

He lifted the lid and all eyes were on a pale yellow, waxy, cone-shaped ingredient the size of an arm. Needless to say, I recognized it at once.

"Hard, thick, meaty... bamboo shoots," he nearly cackled, stepping away from the cloche as he did and giving the crew assistant on the side a cue. "I'm placing my bets that none of you have even tasted this thing by itself, so me, being the nice guy, I got you all some delicious samples."

The assistant went down the row with a plate of three samples—one each for the chefs who'd picked his ingredient. I caught the look on Chef Du Bellay's face as soon as she sniffed at it. It was a cross between a wince and her best attempt at concealing a gag. Leroy was an idiot. He held it under his nose for a grand total of one second before popping it into his mouth. Pierson, upon nibbling the end of the shoot, whined and made a face.

Chef Pao was laughing. "To me, they taste bad. So bad. The texture. The blandness. And when you simmer it—the weird, sour brine... smells like socks. Okay, too much info. You get what I mean."

He then gestured my way with a chuckle. "Now... what we've all been waiting for."

"Actually, Chef Tenner," Chef Streisand interrupted with a pause, turning to me with an apologetic nod before resting her gaze on Layla. "What do you think it is? Make a guess."

At this, Layla paused—meeting my gaze with a grin. "Frankly... I don't know. Not a clue. He tastes everything, even if he has a personal bias against it. It's what the best critics do."

I was pleasantly surprised, and also warmed by her words. Naturally, I hadn't quite been expecting any form of wholesomeness on a show like this a-and and and Leroy was clearly every form of bad, not, well, wholesome, so.

Either way, the attention had been directed back towards me and I then hovered a hand over the cloche; strange. Just as I was about to lift it, I caught a glimpse of his face and oddly enough, time slowed.

My mind jumped forth.

A plausible reasoning behind Leroy's choice, it thought, was that he knew what was under that lid. And if he did, he knew it wasn't going to be in his favor had he chosen the ingredient. But was Leroy not the kind to always rise to the challenge? Who liked the heat of it all? Only. Only if this was something he knew there were limits to. Limits like his physical capabilities. In which case, his taste buds would come into play. He was expecting something sweet. Or something that might involve the making of a dessert. And if so, judging by our shared experience and history and what we knew of one another, it would not be foolish to say that I knew, exactly, what he thought the ingredient to be but alas, I smiled to myself—he thought wrong.

"Coriander." I lifted the lid. "Also known as Chinese parsley. Or Cilantro."

There was, quite literally, a burst of flames.

"Ano ba yan that's so easy, Banilla! Why!" Chef Pao was doubling over and slapping his thigh while half the room had their heads in their hands for dramatic effect only because people on TV were always so awfully dramatic with their reactions. "Banilla... Banilla! Wha—how can you... why you hate coriander? This so easy, you cannot hate coriander."

I laughed, musing to myself because quite frankly, I could not disagree. This was an ingredient that many cuisines all across the world was extremely fond of and needless to say, there was going to be many ways to prepare it; therefore, many more ways to convince my palate otherwise.

The effect was brilliant, nevertheless. Everyone had expected something out of this world when really, that wasn't the case at all. Even the silly idiot was staring at the bunch of coriander leaves on my plate, standing stock still as though the vegetable was now his greatest enemy simply because he'd been completely wrong about what was under the lid.

Of course, he'd think it was vanilla.

"You know—I don't quite understand what is it about myself that everyone seems to be so afraid of. I'm simply an ordinary person with preferences. And, well, coriander tastes... very much like soapy, uncooked grass. Extremely alkali. Oddly enough, there has been scientific proof about the genetic causes of such a preference, influenced by the specific, alkali taste that it induces in a select twenty-percent of certain populations. Apparently, whether coriander tastes like soap to a person is pre-coded in our genes. That is all I have to say."

And so the idiot strikes: "The rice I made the other day had coriander in it," he laid out in the open and everyone turned to Leroy who'd basically just declared that he'd beat the challenge without even knowing he did and needless to say, I was reduced to... to pink.

Sigh.

"W-well. Well um... yes but... but that tasted... it tasted good."

Chef Streisand came to my rescue, laughing whilst providing comforting pats on my shoulder. "See everyone? Mr. White is harmless. He's not that hard to convince. Either that or Chef Cox knows how to get him to eat anything."

"Ay I'm sure Chef Cox knows," Chef Pao went on before thankfully re-directing the attention elsewhere. "But Chef Tenner! How are you feeling about this?"

Layla's response was to smile. The kind that was hiding a secret only she knew. This, she turned to Leroy with. "Hm. Thanks for the hint. But I got this one in the bag," she finished off with a wink and yielded a snort from Leroy in return.