Chương 13: Potatoes Again

The soundstage was eerily quiet. Of twelve stations, only five were lit now. Chris, Marco, Sarah, Mike, and an Asian contestant named Li Yan. The five of them would fight for the single spot back into the main competition. Gareth Vane and the other two judges already sat at the table, expressions grave. The host walked onstage, a professional smile on his face.

"Welcome back, chefs! And welcome, viewers at home, back to Burning Kitchen!"

"Today we arrive at the most thrilling moment of the season — the Revival Challenge! Five contestants who once left us will fight to the death right here, and the winner will put on the white apron and return to the main stage!" The audience burst into roaring applause and whistles. The host paused, drawing it out on purpose, and turned his gaze to Chris.

"Before we begin, I think we should revisit how certain contestants got here." The words had barely landed when the big screen behind Chris lit up. It was the clip of his round-one elimination. The bright crack of Vane slapping the fork down rang through the whole stage on the sound system.

"You can't manage the most basic heat control, and you think you've earned the right to stand here?"

"Get out of my kitchen!" The humiliation was magnified, framed in close-up, played over and over. A wave of undisguised jeering laughter came from the audience. Camera three pushed in at once, a tight close-up on Chris's face, hunting for any flicker of embarrassment, anger, or shame. Marco stood not far off, arms crossed, an open sneer at his mouth. Mike outright laughed. Sarah watched Chris with worry, her face full of sympathy. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval.

Report sightings. But what the camera caught was a face frighteningly calm. Chris simply stood there, quietly watching the wretched version of himself on the screen, not a ripple in his eyes. As if the man on that screen weren't him at all. Seeing Chris's reaction, surprise flickered, almost imperceptibly, through the host's eyes — but he pressed on with the script.

"Chris, seeing this clip again, any thoughts? Feeling the pressure?" The question was loaded with malice, designed to make him squirm. Chris took up the microphone, every eye in the house on him. He didn't answer the host. He looked instead toward Vane at the judges' table.

"Chef," he said, his voice carrying clearly to every ear through the mic, "my only thought is — you were right." The whole house erupted in murmurs. No one expected that answer. No defense, no excuse, not even a trace of resentment. He simply, openly, admitted his own failure. Gareth Vane had been leaning back in his chair, his face indifferent. At those words, he sat up slightly, a flicker of interest in his blue eyes. The young man's reaction had run past his expectations.

The host was caught off guard too, and hurried to drag the show back on track.

"All right! It seems our contestant is ready to face anything! And now — the moment to reveal today's revival-round theme!"

"In round one, we tested your understanding of one of the most basic ingredients, the one that most reveals true skill. Today, in the name of fairness — and to give certain contestants a chance to prove themselves…" The host stretched out his words on purpose and pointed at the big screen. The image cut, and countless potatoes came tumbling down from the top of the screen, freezing at last into one enormous word — POTATOES.

"That's right! Our mystery ingredient today is, once again — the potato!" The instant the result was announced, the room caught fire. Everyone instinctively looked at Chris. It was too dramatic. The production team had practically written the script across their faces. Get up from where you fell. Or, far more likely, fall again in the exact same place — harder, more watchable.

"Hahaha, did I hear that right? Potatoes again?" Mike bellowed theatrically.

"How much do they hate you, Chris?" Marco laughed harder, spreading his hands in a show of helplessness, the gloating in his eyes plain to anyone. He figured Chris's death warrant had been signed. Win back your dignity with the same ingredient, in front of the same man? A flat-out impossible task. Every lens swung onto Chris again, waiting for his reaction. They expected to see despair, a breakdown, a poor wretch about to be played by fate one more time.

Chris stood quietly, taking in the gazes from every direction — sympathy, mockery, curiosity all mixed. Slowly he lowered his head, as if to hide his expression. A few seconds later, he lifted it again and faced the camera. On his face was the faintest, faintest trace of a smile. There was no nervousness in it, no fear. Only the kind of excitement a hunter feels when he sights his prey.