Chương 19: His Rival Cracks

The passage of time, on a floor wound this tight, grew unusually vivid. On the wall, the digital clock's red numbers ticked down without mercy. Ten minutes left. Fine beads of sweat already stood on Marco's forehead. He could feel his rhythm completely shattered. His original plan had been to pair low-and-slow poached potato with cream and black truffle, whip it into an ultra-smooth mousse-like purée, and crown it with top-grade Osetra caviar — a luxurious, delicate appetizer. A Michelin-restaurant-level concept.

But now, looking at the somewhat "deflated" purée in his bowl, over-worked into slackness, he felt a surge of agitation. Worse still, he realized he'd forgotten to prepare the crisp element to go with it. A purely soft dish, with no contrast of texture, would lose points with the judges. He glanced at the unruffled Chris beside him, then at the clock, set his jaw, and decided to gamble.

He snatched a few raw potato slices off the counter, threw them into a small skillet, poured in oil, and cranked the flame high, trying to fry up some chips fast.

"Not high heat! The oil's too hot!" the female judge couldn't help crying out, but the contestants couldn't hear them. Sure enough, the oil in Marco's pan spiked instantly; the moment the slices went in, black smoke billowed up.

"Damn it!" Marco swore under his breath and scrambled to fish out the already-burnt chips — and in his haste, the pan handle knocked over the little box of caviar beside him. That box of Osetra, worth hundreds of dollars, spilled half its contents onto the filthy counter. Marco's eyes went red on the spot. Data Eye. Chris said it inwardly, but the target he scanned wasn't his own dish — it was Marco, not far off. This was one of his two remaining uses for the day, and he was spending it where it mattered most.

[Scan target: Marco.] [Emotional state: anger (78%), anxiety (85%), panic (62%).] [Physiological markers: heart rate 145 bpm, adrenaline extremely high.] [System analysis: target has entered a state of stress-collapse. Execution precision down 70%, logical judgment down 85%. Highly likely to commit a chain of errors in subsequent operations.] The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Just as he'd predicted. Marco's stress tolerance was his greatest weakness.

The stronger a man's ego, the easier he lost control facing failure in public. Chris didn't gloat, and he didn't pity. His eyes were cold as ice. This was the floor. Either you die, or I live. He drew his gaze back and stopped paying any mind to outside distractions. His whole attention returned to his oven. Five minutes left. The gratin's surface had taken on a perfect gold, and at the edges, the mixture of cheese and cream had caramelized into an irresistible deep brown.

By his hundreds of experiments over the week, and his earlier deviation analysis of the oven, the slices inside should now be fully cooked and saturated with sauce, and the cubes at the bottom should have hit that ideal of charred outside and soft within. But it wasn't enough. What he wanted was extreme crispness. He went to the oven, didn't open the door, and pressed Broil.

The element at the top of the oven turned scarlet in an instant, a dragon of fire breathing the most searing heat down onto the surface of the dish.

"He's insane! He's insane!" The director backstage nearly leapt out of his chair.

"Broil at the last second — that's playing with fire! One slip and the whole tray goes black!"

"It's too risky…" The food critic at the table clenched his fist in tension.

"Broil concentrates the heat too tightly. A few seconds' error is the difference between heaven and hell." Vane said nothing. He only stared, fixed, at the tray of potatoes, the scarlet light of the oven reflected in his blue eyes. He knew Chris was gambling. Gambling on his own judgment, on his command of this oven's temperament, on the second-precise sense of heat he'd bought with hundreds of failures. Time passed, second by second. The color on the surface deepened at a speed the eye could track.

Gold, deep gold, dark brown… Everyone's heart climbed into their throat. One second before the first scorch-black spot would have appeared on the surface— Chris's hand pressed stop, and pulled the oven door open. A white wave of heat — cream, char of cheese, potato all mingled — surged out and swept the whole soundstage in an instant. The smell was domineering, intense, threaded with sweetness, as if it could bore into your bones.

Mike, nearest, was plating; catching that smell, his hand jerked, and a carefully cut garnish of radish dropped to the floor. He stared blankly at the thing Chris lifted from the oven, his mouth open wide enough to hold an egg. Marco stopped moving too. He looked at the gratin that seemed almost to glow, then at the wreckage in front of him, and his eyes went dim in an instant. He knew he'd already lost. Lost without a shred of dignity left. Chris set the scalding tray on a trivet without a moment's pause.

He took the herb-lemon oil he'd made and spooned it over. Then he picked up the last secret weapon from the stove — the golden, crisp potato nest, fried from the finest julienne. He set the nest gently in the center of the gratin. Finally, he took a single fresh thyme leaf and placed it at the top of the nest. The whole plate: spare, forceful, full of structure.

"Final ten seconds!"

"Nine!"

"Eight!" … With his knife, Chris cut a neat square of the gratin and, with an offset spatula, moved it carefully onto a pure-white plate.

"Three!"

"Two!"

"One!"

"Time! All contestants, stop!" The instant the countdown ended, Chris reached out and pushed his plate steadily forward. Done. He raised his head, his gaze passing over everyone, flying straight to Gareth Vane at the judges' table. The look said: I'm back.