A/N: Hewo Beans! I was gonna do the giveaway draw today and film myself doing it but instead I spent the entire day, morning to night, writing this chapter ;-; so I was unable to do so. To everyone who participated, I've read alllll the entries (and shed tears of joy hehe) and written your names down on slips of paper and collected them all in a jar. 

I'll probably find a time to do the draw and also to announce the official date of BOTH Vanilla 1 and Vanilla 2's release on Instagram. For now, I'm looking at end November. A huge thank you to everyone who participated in the draw and I was also able to read the comments of both long-time readers and readers I've never seen so it was very heartwarming. Hehe. If I find the time, I'll also reply to all the entries /.\ everyone is so sweet.

Enjoy the chapter!

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[Leroy]

Something about seeing Siegfried's face puts the kettle on the stove. I think it's his nose. Back then, I'd always stare at it instead of his eyes whenever he was teaching. Whether it was a theoretical class on Indian cuisine or demonstrative one on flambéing a steak; looking into his eyes was ending a day that had barely started and I learned, along the way, how to avoid them.

No surprises. I'd be at my lowest an hour or so before seeing that face—anticipating the shitty day that was to come but guess what? Not today.

I was up at twelve making myself some bacon and eggs after a good morning's sleep in his bed, pulling out my Bluetooth speaker and placing it on the counter for a mood-maker. Fire-starter. Part of the dream was doing this every day; making breakfast to a sick beat, coffee machine whirring in the back, no shirt, just pants, him standing by the doorway, leaning on the frame with a cup of tea hiding a smile. Chicken at his food bowl. Maybe another cat. If he likes cats. Gotta ask.

Anyway, imagine starting the day with a good fix of 'bad guy'. Sure, it's been some time since I last did, but if I was to be living with a self-proclaimed avalanche, the least I could do was work on my flames. 200 IQ was becoming the bad-er bad guy. Baddest of them all. Already I could hear him correcting my grammar.

And if being bad included breaking the rules, I was at the top of my game; having breakfast at lunchtime; browsing the web for anal training kit recs over the bacon and eggs; measuring the variations he bought as a set with a fucking ruler; all while considering if I should do the same with my dick at it's, uh, best.

Practically speaking, I was making full use of my time. Siegfried sent instructions over to be at Andre's by three for a briefing in the kitchen which meant that I had at most two hours to myself before biking over to hell.

I recalled the decision we made together this morning before I crashed in bed about the training kit. That we'd come up with or list several options on a notepad by the front door just in case our separate work schedules got in the way of our discussion and then a couple of days later, decide on the best buy. Apparently, the plug that came in the largest size among the set of four he bought didn't, uh, make the cut. As in. Wasn't big enough.

I did some research, played with Chicken for a bit, got dressed, and wrote the first option on the notepad by the door before heading off. And then backtracked—just to get the idea out of my head—to write another option under an added category of 'play'. The kind that included a bullet vibrator and nine modes. Remote-controlled.

Andre's was about a thirty-minute ride away and not the best for bike riders trying to find a place to park for free. There was a motorcycle bay two streets down that I remembered, and was far enough from the restaurant just in case anyone who could recognize my ride decided to drop by that evening for a bite.

Anyway, the first thing I saw turning into the restaurant's street was a bunch of people waiting around outside the front doors with cameras and shit; some of them dressed in office wear and looking pretty important. I weaved past and made for the back door instead, phoning the restaurant's number to let them know and by the time I'd slipped into the back alley, Angie was waiting for me in front of the door to the kitchen, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry. Your father found out. I don't know how," she sighed. Apologetic. "They even said something about you agreeing to come on some show after someone managed to guess the secret ingredient you used in that soup."

I shrugged, cracking a smile. "Doesn't matter. I'm only here for a day."

She snorted, rolling her eyes. "Wait till you see what you're in for. I heard this whole dinner service was to build some hype by leeching off the drama between Andre and the mystery chef while it's still hot."

Right past the back door was a vestibule and beyond that was the main kitchen's production line burning in the heat of fire and steel, white tiles on the walls turning grey and the smell of chicken on a vertical rotisserie—spiced and charred.

Then everything came to a standstill with Angie and I in the lion's den, facing a dozen or more people in chef whites and one of them, in black. The face with the nose and kettle on fire stood out with a smile even with the several others standing in front of him. He was tall, anyway.

"Leroy. You're here."

My first reaction was to look towards Andre for a good fill of personal entertainment, just to see his reaction to me being the mystery chef. It was okay. Kinda disappointing, actually. I'd seen him uglier.

"Let's get started then," Siegfried clapped and rubbed his hands together, motioning for the rest of the crew to gather around the island in the middle of the kitchen. "This is Leroy Cox. He will be the head chef for tonight's dinner service event. We have fifteen invited guests. Including their plus-ones brings us up to thirty people in total.

"As advertised, the menu will follow the previous five-course presented alongside Chef Andre's except dessert, which will remain as the restaurant's signature chocolate lava cake. Line cooks have about three hours till dinner service to familiarize yourselves with Leroy's recipes.

"Tonight's invited guests are here to give coverage for both the restaurant and an upcoming TV program Chef Andre has signed for. There will be cameras placed around out in the front for pre-production purposes so remember to look and be at your best. The people we're serving tonight are all, in one way or another, engaged by a very important guest: Hugh Caelum. Chief executive of the production company who will also be showing tonight at six-thirty sharp.

"It's a small service, but of great importance. I trust everyone in this kitchen is competent enough, having trained under Chef Andre. Does anyone have questions?"

I nearly snorted at the obvious streak of boot-licking, but at the same time wasn't too surprised that this was the only way Siegfried could get Andre to do anything at all. Still, I had to be losing my edge to think the salty ass was going to let someone ten years his junior take over as head chef, even for just one evening.

"Straight-to-the-point as usual, Chef Cox. Just one small question," Andre drummed his fingers against the surface of the countertop. "If Leroy over here was somehow able to produce dishes of such quality even after so many years of leaving the professional kitchen, wouldn't it be a pity to waste the dessert course on a... disappointing chocolate lava cake?"

I wasn't surprised by his narrowing in on this, as expected from the master bullshit, Philip Andre. Anyway.

"True enough, Chef Andre," Siegfried was good at giving one of his straight-faced smiles in a snap. "But I remember the production team agreeing to my proposed script. That the mystery chef serve exactly as he did the previous time. In other words, without a dessert of his own."

"Oh I think we should give him a chance to prove himself," Andre was laughing but with something in his eye that looked like shit, turning to me with the same stupid gaze. "After all, he must be able to. Since he's supposedly the one who impressed my very own panel of critics."

Chef Cox humored him with a laugh. "Of course. But again, Chef Andre, this was not what we discussed. Just twenty minutes ago, we agreed on—"

"Sure."

I shut them down with a word, giving the rest of the kitchen crew a glance. "I'll do dessert. All of you, stand in a row. According to your stations."

Instead of wasting time like the motherfuckers who wanted in on some shitass TV program, I figured I'd stick with the usual: doing things my way. As I liked.

"You. What do you do?" "Eggs on caviar. Uh. Chef." "You're on the eggs en cocotte." "And me, chef? I do salad." "Parmesan tuile." "Yes chef." "You?" "I'm on the scallops, sir. I mean, chef." "Stay on that. Salad, you're on scallop's garnish." "Yes chef." "Rotisserie?" "That's me, chef." "Skirt stake with flambé." "What about the garnish, chef?" "I'll show you later."

"And the soup?" I'd seen him the last time. It was the sous chef. Assuming Andre and him were in on the chicken harira challenge, he would have known the recipe. I had him on it but also reminded him that a sous chef's job would've been to supervise other stations.

In most cases, line cooks and kitchen crew in general weren't exactly the most willing parties when it comes to a change in authority. Most people get attached to the person yelling at them (I know, stupid, right?) because in the end, it all comes down to acknowledging a head chef's expertise and culinary skills. I had the feeling that Andre wasn't exactly the kind of head chef that even brainless cooks could find in themselves the will to like but I couldn't be sure. There were tons of weird-ass people out there. Having the sous chef around would at the very least keep things in check.

Plus, I wasn't exactly the most angelic, likable shit around either.

"And dessert, chef?" There was a young girl who didn't look a day older than eighteen just standing at the end of the line, not exactly declaring her station. "The um, the guy on dessert called in sick today so... he's not here."

I asked her what she usually did on her shifts and she averted her gaze. "Um. Well I butter the ramekins and, um, taste the—"

"What are you talking about, girl?" Andre cut in, possibly bursting with the need to satisfy his inflated ego. "You wash the dishes. I take over when people are off skiving. That's what you guys like to do all the time."

I let him be. Which was great because kids liked to be entertained and responded to and I wasn't gonna give him that.

"You watch dessert all the time?"

"Y-yes. I really like baking too. I bake in my free time." She said hopefully and I laughed, telling her this and that weren't exactly the same thing before assigning her to dessert, assisting me. She lit up. "Thank you! I'll do my best!"

I took one look around, watching everyone get to their stations, starting on the mise en place. Guess it really has been some time since I was in the heat. With others. Leading a professional kitchen outside school though, was actually a first. But at the very least, for tonight, I was going to have to impress.

Somewhere over my shoulder, I head a dissatisfactory snicker. "You put a dish washer on dessert? Very clever. Would never have thought of that."

And maybe because I started the day with a sick track; or maybe because I was just in the mood for play or being an extra bit bad tonight, I turned on Andre with the smell of smoke in the air.

"I forgot. You're on dishwashing."

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

[Vanilla]

The moment Annie and I registered the imminent storm was the moment we turned to look at each other—her, over her shoulder up at me, I, down at her seated in her wheelchair. Needless to say, this had come as a surprise to myself as much as it was for her, and the look in our eyes said it all.

Of course, I had been informed by the production team and clients on my end that the dinner event was a mere PR thing for critics, writers and photographers interested in the mystery chef's upcoming appearance, a guise for it being really part of the social media campaign organized by the TV program's advertising department. No one had said a thing about chefs being present at the event.

"You know Annie, perhaps the mystery chef isn't so intriguing and I don't think I'd enjoy a repeated five-course very much so perhaps we should dine elsewhere, if you'd like? I'm so sorry our evening started off unpleasantly."

She dismissed my apology with a wave, rolling her eyes as she did. "Oh Vanilla. As though I'd let him ruin my perfect evening with you, a well-dressed, charming little fawn! We're going in. It's been long since I had anything with triple dollar signs or fancy courses. And we have nothing to fear, so why should we be the ones backing out from a nice little evening? Wheel me in," she ordered, and I did as told—warmed by her flame.

"Annie?"

The surprise written all over Siegfried's face perhaps mirrored my own mere moments ago, and I caught his gaze alternating between Leroy's mother and myself. Whether or not the pair had actually gone through the official procedure for a divorce over the years, I hadn't heard. Now that both parties were engaged to their partners, the question seemed much vaguer than ever.

"Hello Free. Never thought I'd see you outside the kitchen. What are you doing at Andre's?"

Siegfried looked down at the guest list in hand, dressed smartly in chef whites. "I'm the host for tonight. A decision made by the organizer of the event. I'm surprised to see you acquainted with Mr. White." He reached behind him to produce two feedback cards from the host's podium. "This is to be filled up at the end of your meal," he paused, then turned to me with a well-practiced smile. "So, Mr. White? Mind telling me the story of how you two got to know each other?"

"Well, um—"

"Surely you remember Alfred Dempsey from back home?" Annie interjected, saving me from a lie. "I mean, you of all people wouldn't be in the right mind to forget an internationally-renowned critic, so. Vanilla is his nephew. He and his wife Julie used to come by back when the kids were in school together but that, I don't think you'd remember. Anyway, I've kept up with him over the years. Alfred, I mean. He said Vanilla was in London, and suggested we dine together. Nothing wrong with that, right?"

Lying on the fly (meaning, without planning my words and sentence structure to the best version of itself) had never been within my comfort zone of conversation techniques. Annie on the other hand, was an expert. Siegfried appeared to find no fault with her explanation, showing us in and handing us over to our table's personal waiter once we were inside.

"Of course. You two enjoy the meal, and have a great evening." He smiled with a nod of his head. I returned it with a slight bow of mine.

"I um. Thank you, for thinking on your feet. I would've stumbled over my words back there and I don't think Leroy would've liked for Siegfried to know about... u-um. Me and him," I said quietly after we were seated and alone, glad that we were one of the first to arrive. "That said, I'm sorry you had to lie. I'm glad you did, but I mean. You didn't have to."

Annie laughed, shaking her head. "Oh you don't have to thank me, Vanilla. And don't apologize for something like that. I know this probably doesn't sound very good to you, but sometimes, lying is the better solution. Free is... I mean of course, he has that front he puts up for the rest of the world—I myself had fallen for it at first—but the stuff that goes on in his head is just... if he knew how important you were, sorry, are, to Leroy, he'd use you against him. Just like he did with me, and with Leroy. All of that just to get things done his way. To have my boy become this... this person he didn't even want to be." She sighed, looking away. "Sorry that came out far too emotional. I don't want to ruin your evening."

It was my turn to refuse her apology with a headshake, quietly relieved that she trusted me with such private information and yet, uncomfortably aware of the second heads-up about Siegfried's habit of using people as tools.

"Please don't apologize. I know you mean well. And I will take your advice and, perhaps, tread lightly from now on. And um. If it makes you feel any better, I actually like hearing stories about Leroy. I-I mean you don't have to, but um. He was incredibly adorable as a child."

At this, Annie let out a hearty laugh. "Adorable? Oh my god you have no idea what an absolute monster he was, that little lion. Did he ever tell you how he started using knives? Or the time he nearly lost his feet from a cast iron pan? Oh of course not he was barely three, he wouldn't remember anything from that time. That little shit was no sweet angel like you, Vanilla."

"Oh I was quite the monster myself," I admitted, adjusting the frames atop my nose. "In fact, my uncle said no one would play with me because I'd tell them how dangerous it was to run on uneven ground and what falling down and scraping one's knee could do the nervous system. Oh, that and the possibility of an infection from open wounds. Good lord, no one could stand me."

"You see, your uncle and aunt were blessed with a sweet little genius while I had to deal with an idiot who learned to curse at four. The world is very unfair. Even telling him middle fingers were natural lightning conductors didn't help very much. Although... that might've been partly my fault since I was very good at middle fingers."

We laughed, moving on to more tidbits of information, stories, and delightful pieces of trivia while the restaurant continued to receive guests and tables were filled for the evening. It wasn't long before glasses we were picking out a bottle of red and enjoying the surprisingly subdued atmosphere despite the cameras and whatnot, awaiting our first course while I raved about my previous experience.

And as expected, even with the raised expectations and the fact that I'd had the exact same dish of truffle-infused eggs en cocotte a mere week or two ago, I was blown away yet again. And so was Annie.

"Oh my god this crispy cheese thing?" She said between mouthfuls, holding up a snap of parmesan tuile between her fingers. "It goes perfectly with the eggs. And the truffle is just... it hits you with this load of... flavor shit." Even the way she described food resembled a certain idiot and for a brief moment, I could not help but wish he were here.

"It's good, isn't it?"

"Yeah," she nodded, unable to put her spoon down. "So good. And weirdly familiar. Like I've had this before or something. And that makes it so much better because, y'know, food is all about the memories. The 'bringing-back' of the past. Oh but I'm not sure if you'd agree because, I mean, you're a critic and a huge part of what you do is to assess based on, like, taste and concept. Which should be objective, right? I mean. Free used to say things like 'just because you like your grandma's mac and cheese doesn't make it Michelin-worthy.'"

"Well," I glanced down at my eggs en cocotte, appreciating the fragrance and the plating and overall conception of the dish before digging in. "I can't say I disagree. There is some truth in that. But... there are other aspects of a dish that makes it good. What do you think? You're a chef too."

She laughed. "Not anymore. But... I think cooking's all about winning the heart," she said with a smile. "That's what good food does to people. Wins their hearts."

I felt the moment soften into a dream; and somewhere at the back of my mind, as though I'd heard such a phrase in another one of these moments that felt very much like a déjà vu.

"Free and I have very different opinions on things. I taught Leroy all the recipes for comfort food. Fried chicken. Lasagna. Mashed potatoes. Bread budding. Grilled cheese. A good chicken soup. Stuff like that, you know. Siegfried's... different," she nodded with a laugh. "Expensive. You know what I mean."

I reached for my glass of red, clinking it against hers and sipped.

"And I think," she went on, dabbing her lips with a napkin. "Leroy takes after the both of us. As hard as it is to admit.

"One day, he's off winning hearts and the next, he's saying things like novelty doesn't matter and that only the best chefs know how make someone like something they can find everywhere else. Which was what Free used to tell him."

She looked down at the ramekin she'd practically cleaned, smiling fondly as though recalling a distant memory that the dish had called upon. Then downing her glass of wine in a go and calling the waiter for more. After which, we moved onto the next course.

The spice-crusted scallops topped with a delightful manga salsa was as impressive as I remembered it to be; pan-seared, again, to perfection, and a textural pleasure from the combination of tempura crunch, spice-crust, mango and shallots. Needless to say, neither of us had anything bad to say about it.

And then came the show-stopper. The one, humble dish that felt, more so than scallops and steaks and any other costly ingredient, an all-time favorite. The smell was what hit us first.

"Wow, this... it smells like..." Annie had all her attention fixed on the steaming bowl of chicken harira soup in front of her. "Why does it smell so..."

I waited for her to continue but already, she was picking up her soup spoon and digging into it. There was something about the soup that wet one's appetite and watered mouths. Objectively, I'd attributed it to the addition of Harissa, a Tunisian hot chili pepper paste, and the combination of garlic, coriander seeds and galangal, a root closely related to ginger that smelled faintly of Sprite. And then of course. The sweetness of dates.

All that from just the fragrance of the soup would've willed anyone to pick up a spoon. Which I did. Needless to say, the dish did not disappoint.

It was after a moment or two that I glanced over at Annie to observe her reaction but she had her head lowered in a way that would have heightened anyone's concern for her wellbeing.

"Annie, are you feeling—"

"Oh my god Vanilla," she raised her head, eyes reflective and dazed. "I don't know why I'm crying." She sniffed.

Naturally, I was no expert at comforting human beings in general, let alone ones in tears. I stood, leaning over to dab at her cheeks with an unused napkin. "Is something the matter? Was I terrible at conversation? I'm not surprised, really. But if you're feeling unwell, perhaps from your time here o-or if it's the company, we could leave any time."

"Oh no it's not that silly," she laughed in the midst of tears. "It's the soup. I mean, it's not exactly the same recipe and there were some additions like the lentils and the spice but oh my god, it tastes like what my mother used to make."

I sat back down, relieved that she wasn't uncomfortable or upset but merely moved by the dish. Which I suppose was what she meant by winning the heart of another.

And so we finished our soups in silence, appreciating the humble dish in no time and then clinking our glasses for yet another sip of wine. Before we knew it, the skirt steak was a done deal and then, it was time for dessert. By this point, Annie was rather tipsy and I hadn't a clue she was the kind of person to be after a glass or two.

Conversation took a wild turn.

"So. Have you two had sex?"

I nearly choked on nothing, scrambling for my napkin to hide half my face behind a matter of such, s-such, criminal value. "I um. That... that would not be a... I'd have to... we've discussed matters and and and the conclusion is that um. Progression has been. I mean um. We have progressed. There has been. Progress." I finished with heat on my ears and Annie could not hide the smile behind her glass.

"Oh my god that idiot. Well at least there has been some kind of move forward. Take your time but let me know when he's doing stupid things because he's such a beginner and he literally doesn't know a thing about romance."

"Me neither," I admitted, rather frank. "So perhaps in that aspect, we're even. Romance is not one of my expertise and Leroy is perfectly un-romantic. I mean he is romantic. At times. But I'm pretty sure he suits being an awful criminal idiot."

I said this as dessert was served and our attention then fell onto the most unlikely version of Andre's chocolate lava cake. It wasn't even brown.

"Your dessert for the evening. A white chocolate, rum raisin lava cake. Enjoy."

I stared at it. Then turned to Annie. "This looks nothing like the disappointing joke I had the other time."

She nearly cackled. "Andre's that bad? Are you sure this mystery chef learned his tricks from Andre then? I thought you said something about him being his disciple of sorts."

"Well that was what we were told," I picked up a dessert fork, unsurprised by her disbelief. "Rum and raisin. Of course that would elevate the dish and add a depth of flavor to the one dimensional chocolate mess from before."

I cut into the cake and out oozed an incredible white chocolate ganache specked with vanilla and the scent of rum; the cake itself adorned with chopped raisins and a beautiful, silken sheen of soft, moist cake.

It was good. Not perfect or as impressive as the chicken soup but still, good. Needless to say, the conception of the dish by itself was incredibly attractive but perhaps in execution, whoever did this by hand perhaps wasn't the most familiar with baking or desserts in general. The sponge of the cake, despite looking perfectly done, was slightly disappointing further inside. The rum raisin sauce was good but it lacked a fruitiness that would have otherwise balanced out the sweetness of white chocolate. Granted, swapping the dark chocolate for white would have been a risky gamble, considering the bitterness of dark chocolate was a central aspect to balancing the dessert which the rum would have supposedly made up for.

"Eh. It's okay," Annie squared her shoulders. "Not bad. But I've had better."

I nodded in agreement, finishing the rest of the cake nonetheless. But the more I ate, the more I could not seem to get the thought of my head.

That whoever made this dessert either did not understand the key idea of balance in a dish (unlikely, judging from the rest of his dishes) or simply did not taste the dessert himself.

And once that idea, like a seed, was planted in my head, the urge to give a certain idiot a call or return home at once to check if he was there grew tenfold.