A/N: A long chapter because I fell ill last week and couldn't finish it ;-; I'M SO SORRY. Hehe. But ohhhh my gooddddddness I was dying (both because of the nausea I was experiencing but also because I was very eager to write this too). 

Without further ado, please enjoy. And after reading the comments from the last update, I see that most of you prefer the weekly updates no matter the length. Again, I'm sorry I missed last week update! ;-;

Also, I want to write a Vday special! Haha. There will be a vote on IG about what you'd like the special to be about. At the same time, I don't know, do you guys like the AUs that I write? Or is that, like, not as good as the SeeSaw chapters? Hmmmmm

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[Vanilla]

The list of names was fairly short. Five, to be exact. Out of the final thirteen we'd be picking for the show, these five—by means of simple deduction, judging from the placement and the seeming quality of these names as part of the cast on the show—had to be the select few who'd, by the production team's standards, secured themselves a spot.

I wasn't surprised. It was no secret; that reality TV competitions in general had scripted or pre-selected members of the cast even after filtering out profiles that were unsuitable for entertainment. Yet, it made no sense to add this to a judge's brief last-minute. I'd nearly been duped into thinking they'd actually forgotten about such a thing.

Hesitant, I approached Chef Pao regarding the matter and he laughed, patting the empty space beside him. I sat. "First time in TV like this?"

Although not quite understanding what he meant by the question, I answered in truth. "Yes."

"This list is special. When you taste their food later, you cannot say anything bad about their dish."

"Which would therefore warrant their acceptance into the thirteen?" I tried to piece together but again, missed the mark.

"Yes, and no. It is just to make sure the post-production team can edit smooth. In any case, these people's cooking will not be, uh... these people's cooking will look very good on camera. That, I can confirm. So we cannot contradict this and they would like for us to say... good things. You know?" Chef Pao did his best to explain this in the simplest manner and although I most certainly expressed some form of disappointment, I wouldn't go as far as to say it wasn't expected of entertainment.

"So... not a word of helpful criticism?"

"Okay that one, grey area. Right?" He gestured to the uh... imaginary grey area. "If you think one of these people's dishes is bad, just keep quiet. Like that, easy for post-production. Actually, criticism also okay because preliminaries, they can cut out. Because not live. Just more work for them, you know?"

I shook my head and he humored me with a laugh. Just to further illustrate my dilemma to another judge who seemed much more experienced in the field of entertainment, I asked: "Correct me if I'm wrong. We are to lie about the taste of their food?"

"Ah, not lie, not really, just uh... say nice things instead of... okay yah it's lying," he ended up admitting and it brought about some laughter in the room. "Are you uncomfortable with that?"

I paused. "Are you not?"

"I mean if you ask me to say nice things about anyone of course I can lie," he did this thing with his hands and face, as though demonstrating the obvious. "But if you want me to say it's bad when it taste very good, then of course no—I cannot do that. But uh... if it's difficult for you, maybe I can talk to one of the producers for you?"

I politely backed out of his suggestion, not wishing to involve the producers who could potentially ring up the stakeholders hounding myself for a good performance on the show or attract the attention of Siegfried Cox, a co-producer.

"That is quite alright. Thank you for offering, Chef Pao. I will leave the um, the 'saying of the nice things' to you and Chef Streisand." Although frankly, my interactions with the other judge, Chef Streisand, had given me reason to believe herself equally honest with her words. But then again, she, like Chef Pao, had won numerous solid accolades in the entertainment industry.

As though my words and thoughts combined were the very cue for her to show up, a brief knock on the door was soon followed by the entrance of two people: Raul first, holding the door open for Chef Amelia Streisand with the very same, boyish suavity in his smile I'd seen far too often throughout culinary school and other co-curricular activities—reserved for the opposite gender.

I'd given him a look, to which he caught and winked. I rolled my eyes in return.

"Amelia! Come, sit down. You eat breakfast already?"

"Pao. Yes I've had my fill. How are things? You seem excited. Mr. White on the other hand, looks like he'd very much prefer the day to end as soon as possible," she turned to me with a wry smile and I cleared my throat, embarrassed by the apparent exposé.

Raul pulled up a chair from the dressing table behind the couches and sat by me, handing over a couple other documents I'd told him to prepare the days leading up to the preliminaries. Florence should be arriving soon too.

"Any revisions?"

"Just two. Nothing major," I reassured. "There's a list of names added to the end of the brief..."

"Ah yes. I was wondering if they'd missed that out by accident." She seemed perfectly unfazed, scanning through the pages impassively. "Mm, you're right. Nothing major. It says eight to six on the call sheet but twenty minutes per contestant... I'd say the shoot's going to overrun. Two hours, at least."

This was an ordinary day's work for Chef Pao and Streisand. Both were visibly relaxed and seemed very much accustomed to the workings of a culinary production. It would be disrespectful to brood over problems of my own while my counterparts—industry professionals—were hard at work. Their experience, at the very least, provided much reassurance.

More assistants arrived while the three of us were running through the script and soon, we were seated in separate chairs in front of large mirrors lined with lights that um... so I figured out this was a vanity and we were to have our make-up done.

Granted, I'd showed up for interviews on culinary programs and the like but make-up was never really a thing of obligation.

"I heard it's your first time," Chef Streisand, seated next to myself, met my gaze in the mirror while her stylist did her hair. "You were described as an honest man. By your assistant, I think. The one I met on my way to the dressing room."

I searched in the mirror for Raul and caught his gaze. He flashed me a grin before going back to speaking with Florence.

I sighed, afraid of the other things he might have revealed about my personality. "I'm afraid 'honest' isn't quite the word I'd appreciate, having experienced a fair bit of the industry thus far. Not everyone sees it as a stellar quality, so I am told."

She considered this with a glint in her eye. "You're not wrong, but some people do appreciate it. Myself, for instance. So I assume you have your reservations about the list of names?"

"It's a form of scripting," I admitted. "So I really shouldn't feel this... surprised. This is TV. And of course, it involves a script. To a certain extent, at least."

"You know," she sighed, reaching for the brief and flipping through once more. "I remember dining at Andre's ages ago. Back when he was... 'new', per se. Average experience but it was his personality that took the cake. He can be very nice when it comes to compliments. I mean, most people are. He did his research in the past, no doubt. But over the years, there's something about being stuck in the same kitchen with the same menu and being afraid of stepping out of one's... 'legacy', of sorts. Oh—we're not supposed to express any form of familiarity with their work, by the way. So. Forget I said all that."

"I understand completely," I reassured with a nod, having come to terms with my one-and-only strength in situations like these. The surface of a frozen lake separates the waters beneath and the world above; objectivity was the lens in which I perceived that which existed beyond my independent mind. It is unfortunate that some things, however... existed only within it.

Candles. For instance.

Either way, I'd understood long before today. My advantage was the ability to sweep aside any past culinary experience I'd had with any contestant, including Chef Andre and Chef Du Bellay. Leroy as well, would have to face the ice... and that was perhaps one good reason I never wanted him near the production in the first place.

In this space, everyone was new. Everyone was a first.

After agreeing to leave Chef Andre's antics in the hands of our friendly counterpart Chef Pao, we spoke about other past culinary experiences and go-to options for a weekend dinner in London. An amateur like myself could use some tips.

Then they had someone calling for our numbers on the call sheet. Chef Pao, Chef Streisand, and myself were #1, #2, and #3 respectively. The set was the main hall of the building, where most of the filming of the preliminaries would unfold. I was present for the walk-through of the location during the dry-run. Thankfully, the judging panel need only pay heed to the main hall, unlike the participants. They on the other hand, had individual interview sets to be familiar with, apart from the other room where they were allowed to prepare their mise and elements of their dish before finishing it in front of the judges.

"Looking good, chefs. And critics." Past the fancy double doors of frosted glass was a large empty room decked in cameras, lights, and boom microphones all around; the show's primary director was the first to welcome us. His name was Stan. "How are we feeling today? Awesome? Excited?"

Chef Pao took care of the talking and I was, very naturally, grateful and indebted. It gave me some time to observe the select new features of the room that weren't present at the dry run.

In the middle of the room was a lone cooking station. Just one. An island in the middle of the sea and several feet before it, three thrones. Fancy bar stools, really. But, well... might as well think of this as a one-in-a-lifetime experience, I suppose. Part of me was aware: the production team was acknowledging myself as an equal of experienced professionals like Chef Pao and Chef Streisand. I wasn't so sure if the participants thought the same. Impressing #1 and #2 could very well be their only goal and quite honestly, I didn't mind that very much either.

I was here to give my best (honest) opinion. And that was it.

We were ushered around for a brief introduction to the sound and camera crew before making a final stop at the bar stools and being mic-ed up.

Aside, Siegfried had on him a pair of headphones—script in hand, gaze staring down a bunch of monitors that showed every camera frame and angle. He stood alongside the other co-producers and assistant directors of First Chef, deep in thought until the instinct he so shared with Leroy seemed to trigger the raise of his gaze.

Our eyes met and he nodded in greeting. I looked away.

"So... alphabetical order, yah?" Chef Pao nudged Streisand and I while we were standing in a circle having our hair and make-up touched up. "Everyone ready for Andre?"

I laughed. "It's amusing. Him, I mean. Starting the day. Which is brilliant."

"Oh we all know he's your favorite." Chef Streisand quipped, sending a wry smile my way and I found that I quite liked her sarcasm. "Chef Cox's sous chef goes right after him, I believe. How lucky."

I caught her drift but said nothing, only returning the expression with something reserved. Of course, the audio crew hadn't stopped by to give our mics a sound check but I'd learned the hard way that at any point in time, as long as the mics were pinned to our collars, someone could be listening.

"Antoinette? Oh she's very sweet. Nice person. You know how long she work as Siegfried's sous chef?" "A little more than ten years, I believe. Though I've heard she was over at Arpège's in Paris for some time in between." "Ay! Arpège's is a vegetable heaven. Chef's kiss."

Serious matters aside, I could tell they were having a good time. Whoever picked the judging panel clearly knew what they were doing; pairing Chef Pao with Chef Streisand was a combination of expertise, wit, and chemistry. The odd one out was myself.

Florence came by to run me through the revised script one last time—memory work was by no means my weakness but the nerves, after all, was not easy to deal with—and it was two, three sound checks before the chief director called for places and silence on set.

"Can we get Pierre Andre." "Chef Andre on set!"

Prior to their formal assessment, the contestants were each given thirty minutes in another room where they were to prepare the mise en place and complete—to a certain extent—the dish they wished to present. More time would be given during the assessment, should they wish to demonstrate certain other relevant skills. The signature dish should demonstrate a learned, experienced culinary sense or potential that would 'deserve' a spot on the show. After all, plane tickets were at stake.

"Morning gentlemen. Ladies."

Chef Andre came through the doors dressed in his whites and atop his head, a classic toque blanche chef's hat. He had in his hands a cloche that kept his dish hidden from view. Quite the expert at theatre.

"Pierre," Chef Pao greeted across the hall with a beam. "Welcome. You look confident and ready to show us what you have."

"Chef De Castro. That I am," Andre headed straight for the station in the middle of the room, placing his dish on the counter and stepping back. "So. I'll start by giving a short introduction of myself..."

Oh. He didn't even wait to be prompted, I observed privately, glancing at the team of producers behind monitors. Hm. Well... small deviations from the script, albeit troubling, wasn't going to cause a disaster.

Multiple accolades, self-proclaimed titles and countless compliments from vague sources later, Chef Pao was given the cue to ask for Andre's signature dish.

I tried not to laugh after watching him lift the lid in the most spectacular, dramatic fashion and present to us and the cameras: his signature chocolate lava cake of doom. The room was silent for a fraction of a second.

Granted, the dish was plated beautifully. It was a level above the usual back in his restaurant—featuring an elegant caramel tuille and what looked like dulce de leche piped around the cake. At the very least, he appeared not to have forgotten my word of advice on acidity and added to the plate a grand total of two raspberries on the side.

We were invited up to the station for a closer look just as Andre began describing his dish. "A Michel Cluizel Noir de Cacao lava cake, paired with Beluga caviar and dulce de leche. Everyone loves this."

"Beluga caviar?" Chef Streisand was the first to speak, surprised by his description and indeed, upon taking a closer look at his dish, spotted the most coveted delicacy in the world. "This is a highly-restricted import and very, extremely expensive."

"I have reliable sources," was all he said with a smug little smile and I nearly laughed.

Despite my every will to approach this objectively, I was well aware of Andre's habit: throwing expensive ingredients together and crossing his fingers. Of course, purchasing the best fundamentals was everyone's first step to a tasty dish but nevertheless, excessive spending to impress was otherwise completely unnecessary in the preliminaries. If, ever.

"Chocolate and caviar?" Chef Pao appeared rather amused himself as dessert spoons were handed out while cameras, above and to the side, panned around. "Very interesting. So... lava cake must be molten on the inside, ya?"

He was confident. "Of course."

"Timing is key, Chef Andre," I reminded. Albeit to his advantage. "You had just thirty minutes to prepare this. Granted, it takes less than that to prepare one from scratch but timed wrongly—perhaps the moment it's been cooled for more than two minutes—the inside of your cake will look like any other dessert."

Andre appeared unfazed, looking me in the eye. "Yeah, I know that."

Cameras prepped for the shot and Chef Streisand was the one who cut into the center of the cake; splitting it apart revealed its perfectly molten core. Along with the flowing chocolate came the bits of caviar that had been sitting on top of the dessert.

"Wow. You nailed it," Chef Pao was generous with the compliments. The three of us then proceeded to prep a spoonful of the dessert each: cake, dulce de leche, tuille, and caviar.

Then it was the tasting. I had to consciously remind myself that my every expression was being recorded, which possibly resulted in the coldest, straightest face throughout the few seconds of tasting.

To sum it up in a single word: okay.

Not average, not alright—just, okay. Caviar and chocolate wasn't something entirely new to the culinary scene or my personal gastronomical ventures. In fact, Uncle Al had written about it years ago when it was first discovered as a surprisingly pleasant flavor combination.

Otherwise, I'd tasted the exact same chocolate lava cake in his restaurant twice. The tuille was new but who, at this stage of their career, would stumble over tuille and this man, a professional chef, would go up against other professionals in the industry with... this?

Chef Streisand, too, did not appear the most pleased with the overall dish. She and I remained silent while Chef Pao gave his view.

"This is amazing. It works perfectly... this combination, I've never tried before." "Thank you." "Two flavors that you think wouldn't go together? But they actually work! I think this is very good." "Thank you Chef."

And then this wasn't quite planned or stated in the script but Chef Pao then proceeded to direct a question at Streisand and myself. I was not expecting it.

"Do you know why it works? Chocolate and caviar."

Chef Streisand turned to me and I gestured for her to speak first. "It's not unheard of, Pao. I've seen them on menus but with white chocolate instead of dark. Judging by the taste of the cake, I'm assuming you used chocolate that has... maybe a little above seventy-percent cocoa content." She directed this at Andre and with that, I was already impressed by her palate for being able to point out exact numbers. "It's an interesting taste."

The answer was seventy-two, only because Michel Cluizel's chocolate blend came in three percentages: forty-five, seventy-two, and eighty-five. The only reason I knew was because they were constantly selling out and had recently reached out to Violet to sponsor her recent cookbook of chocolate recipes.

And then it was my turn to speak. I made no comment about the dish, since, well, Chef Pao and Chef Streisand had said pretty much everything the post-production team needed.

"There is some science in this. Both chocolate and caviar contain high levels of amines. Common flavor compounds like trimethylaminethus, to be specific. Thus contributing to the desirable flavors that we find in cooked meats and cheeses, among other things. And this was discovered by a celebrity chef named Heston Blumenthal." Blumenthal was not a name unheard of in culinary entertainment.

Needless to say, Andre's face soured at the sound of someone else who'd successfully stolen the spotlight.

"Chef Blumenthal!" Chef Pao snapped his fingers. "So that's why it tastes good together. Science."

I smiled. "Yes indeed."

"Okay Chef Andre. You make a good scientist," Chef Pao's tone was hilarious and I had to stop myself from private laughter. "Thank you for your dish... will you give us a minute to discuss?"

"Sure." There was a moment's pause when Andre turned to the production team to the side while cameras shifted. We were given the cue to return to the bar stools with our backs to Andre for a quick 'discussion'. The results, either way, would not change.

"You are a dangerous species, Mr. White," said Chef Streisand with a gleam in her eyes, as though seeing me for the first time. "That was very scientific. And very impressive." "Oh. Well, um. Thank you. Your palate as well—pinpointing the exact percentage of cocoa content..." "Banilla, you could have said more!" "Pao, it was not in the script." "Okay Amelia, true, but chocolate and caviar is a bit outdated already and someone needs to tell Andre." "Ah. So you knew about it?" "Yes of course, Heston is my good friend. He loves me I love him. Of course I know!" "You were very convincing, Chef Pao." "Aw thank you Banilla. I read your blog. So I know you know about the chocolate and caviar. So I asked."

The cue for the judges to turn around came from the side and conversation stopped there. I was left feeling incredibly flattered by the compliments that had gone round.

Once given the signal, Chef Pao announced Andre's addition to the cast: that he was 'in'.

His response was unsurprising. The man did not look the least bit pleased by the results as though they were well within his expectations (well of course they would be) and then proceeded to shake our hands professionally. He had an incredible grip and I nearly winced on camera.

He'd also muttered something under his breath in front of me that I could not catch. His mic however, would have picked it up; and it was therefore completely up to the post-production team to include it for some additional spice in the episode.

The crew had two to three minutes for places and cleaning the station (there wasn't much) while the three judges again, had their hair and make-up touched up before inviting the second contestant into the room.

Chef Du Bellay's entrance and introduction was warm and pleasant; she kept the details short, focusing on the aspect of her role as a sous chef and nothing more. Even the name of the restaurant was left out of the picture; although I was quite sure they'd have her say it during the private interview later on. I'd be surprised if they decided to leave it out.

"And your signature dish, please."

"Beef Stroganoff." She uncovered the upper part of the cart she'd wheeled in and got to work. "Ten minutes, and it will be ready."

Her mise was prepped perfectly like it would be in a professional kitchen. All that was left was the pasta and combining the beef stroganoff in a saucepan, left to simmer.

The fragrance was incredible. We watched her roll out freshly made pasta—fettuccine—in less than a minute, dropping them into a pot of boiling water she had going on to the side and while doing so, combine the remaining ingredients of her beef stroganoff in another saucepan.

Her movements and familiarity with everything around her despite it being an entirely new kitchen space, made her out to be extremely formidable. Granted, I'd seen many chefs behind the scenes and they were mostly masters of multi-tasking but... it was the organization, discipline and odd sense of grounded-ness that left an impression unlike any other.

That aside, the beef stroganoff was starting to smell incredibly familiar.

And her personal knife set. It looked like the one Leroy carried around back then.

She was close to finishing the dish; plating up the pasta with a carving fork and then, the creamy, buttery goodness of mushrooms and sliced beef. According to the script, a question from the judges was to be expected. It was Chef Pao's line.

"Chef Du Bellay... it says here on your profile that you were known as Anthony Du Bellay."

This had her looking up from her plate with a smile that was unfazed. She seemed to have been expecting something along those lines. "Yes. I am now Antoinette."

And then her gaze lowered back to her plate and the dish was presented to us on the counter top in seconds flat. "Please enjoy."

The misdirection away from the topic the production team had hoped to address deserved much recognition. Chef Du Bellay was an expert at handling the difficult questions, but I had the slightest preconception that they'd cut away from the footage of her preparing her dish for some archive footage from her past as a boy or young male chef. Typical reality TV. One could only hope they wouldn't put her on the spot during the private interview.

"Why beef stroganoff?" Chef Streisand asked the question I'd foreseen and predicted the answer to. It didn't take a genius to piece together certain information: knowing that Leroy had made this dish several times and the two shared a person in common.

"It's a signature dish taught by the head chef of the restaurant I work at. And the one I personally like the most."

Aside, I wasn't too sure, but Siegfried seemed to be smiling. My attention returned to Chef Du Bellay's dish in the next instant.

Naturally, the beef stroganoff was of superb quality. The filet mignon had been sliced perfectly thin and cooked to tender perfection; the creamy goodness of the mushroom sauce was savory heaven, packed with the right combination of garlic and butter. The Dijon mustard, too, had added a pleasant aftertaste—a kick in the sauce. All of that over a bed of al dente pasta. And within less than fifteen minutes of entering the room.

Needless to say, she left a smile on all three of our faces. The decision was unanimous, despite her name having been on the list at the back of the brief. It mattered not—her dish was flawless and elevated; her familiarity and finesse in the kitchen, immaculate.

Next up was a chef by the name of Cane, who owned a Mexican restaurant in the middle of Covent Garden. Though he was the owner of the restaurant, his involvement had been mostly financial and in designing the menu. Cane was not a trained chef; and when asked what he did for a living, proudly declared himself a culinary instructor at a recreational cooking school. He also exceeded the twenty-minute-limit to finish his dish in the main hall. It was a creamy poblano chicken enchilada.

It was after an unappetizing bite that I was made to announce our uncontested opinion: he was not suitable for the show. Mr. Cane unfortunately did not take this very well and had graciously left with curses under his breath. At the very least, he would have provided the audience with some entertainment value.

"Who's next, you think?" Chef Pao turned to the two of us with his hands together, ready for more.

Vanilla Julian White on the other hand—was not. Alphabetical order; clearly, we were in the C's by this point. Simple deduction would reasonably conclude his soon-to-be arrival. Perhaps in one or two—

"Leroy Cox. On set."

Mm. Maybe not.

Just hearing his name had me closing my eyes and fixing my tie. Bracing for impact.

And then, through the very same double doors he entered—dressed simply in a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Dark pants. Black shoes. His tie, he'd removed and wrapped around his bicep and knotted there; out of the way. Also, incredibly stupid. The only occasion he chooses to dress formally and clearly a terrible decision because obviously, today involved some hands-on activity and he very well knew and of course, that tie would have had to be removed at some point a-and and, by god. He was stupid.

Very.

"Mr. Cox," Chef Pao was the first to greet as usual. "Welcome!"

"Hey." He stopped right by the station to unload his cart. "Hope you're hungry."

My counterparts laughed. "Are we allowed to say that it depends on what you're serving?" "Ay no, Amelia. That's biased." "Oh come on Pao. We're all human, we all have preferences, no?"

"It's braised chicken today," he looked up and his gaze; it rested on mine. This startled me quite a bit. I ended up staring for a moment too long. "How's that sound."

Chef Streisand, to my surprise, had it in her to burst out laughing. Heads turned. "Sounds... incredibly simple. I was expecting something... you know." She turned to Chef Pao and myself. "Siegfried."

Leroy's response was a cross between a snort and a laugh. It was warm. And familiar. "You're not wrong."

She recovered from the moment of surprise, pausing with a blink. "You mean, it is? Siegfried."

He had his hands braced against the sides of the table, gaze lowered at the spread of ingredients. None of them sliced, diced, or any sign of having gone through preparation. "It's the first recipe I learned."

This, I never knew.

"Ah," Chef Pao seemed to understand. "You mean the first recipe your father taught you?"

Leroy shook his head. There was something in his eyes. "No. The first recipe I learned."

The moment and his words felt very abstract; something none of my counterparts expected and judging from the looks on the faces of the production team off to the side, no one else did. In fact, the moment felt so private—as though in an entire room of people, I was the only one who knew what he meant.

"Well we're all looking forward to tasting it. But um... is the dish...? Hidden somewhere?"

The carrots, chicken, garlic, peppers, onions, everything was whole. All that seemed the least bit prepared was a tiny bowl of paste-like substance.

"Twenty minutes," was all he said. Everything implied in those two words and of course, had the entire room turning to each other. As far as we knew, Leroy's name was not on the list.

This, of course, had Chef Streisand slightly bothered. After all, we were not obliged to say nice things about someone who'd only just recently stepped back into the kitchen.

"Are you a trained chef, Mr. Cox? Because that's not what it says on your profile."

He did not turn away. "True."

"And you insist on starting and finishing your dish in twenty minutes?" She confirmed, and he nodded.

Chef Streisand turned to myself and Chef Pao with an incredulous expression but I was already looking at the idiot, somewhat unable to suppress the smile that threatened to surface. He'd always loved a challenge.

"It appears, Mr. Cox," I said, through frozen lakes and snowstorm words, "that you are fond of taking risks."

He laughed under his breath. Candles. "Only calculated ones."