Chương 20: The Weapon to Wash Away the Shame

"Time! Chefs, put down your tools and step back!" The host's voice came down like a hammer, shattering the air frozen over the floor. The contestants stepped back, every face different. Mike looked deflated. His dish was potato fries with three sauces — a flat concept — and in the last minutes the aroma of Chris's gratin had so rattled him that he'd over-salted one of the sauces. Sarah's face held a trace of regret. She'd made gnocchi, but nerves had left the dumplings a little too firm.

Li Yan's work looked solid — an Asian-style cold julienne salad, seasoning and knife work flawless — but in a kitchen themed on heat and fire, it came off a little "cold." And Marco stood at his station, head bowed, his face unreadable. On the plate in front of him, a few stray caviar pearls were scattered over a gray-white slump of purée, with a couple of burnt potato chips beside it. The whole dish looked like the scene of a disaster. Every gaze finally gathered at station one.

The Triple-Flavor Potato Gratin lay quiet on its pure-white plate. It didn't try to pile up value with expensive ingredients like Marco's, and it wasn't unremarkable like the others'. It simply sat there, building a startling beauty from the plainest of ingredients. At the bottom, the neat, clean-layered gratin body. After the final touch of Broil, the Parmesan on top showed a mottled, tiger-stripe brown, the slices beneath glimpsing through the cream.

The seared-then-roasted cubes were placed cleverly around the gratin, their charred shells in sharp contrast with the gratin's smoothness. And most striking of all was the golden, glittering nest at the top, fried from julienned potato. It looked light and crisp, as if a touch would shatter it. At the nest's center, a single emerald thyme leaf breathed a thread of life into the whole dish. The herb-lemon oil drizzled last formed a shallow halo at the base of the plate, glinting under the lights.

This wasn't a dish anymore. It was a work of art built from potato. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

"So beautiful…" someone in the audience sighed, from the heart. Backstage the director was roaring into his radio.

"Close-up! Give me a 360-degree rotating close-up of the plate! I want every viewer to see every detail! God, it's like it was born for the camera!" The judges stood and began to tour the contestants' work. They went first to Marco's station. Gareth Vane gave the thing one glance and his brow knit. He didn't even pick up a fork — just touched a fingertip to the edge of the purée and put it in his mouth. He spat it straight into the trash can beside him.

"Marco," Vane's voice was cold as ice, "tell me — what is this? A lump of cold, over-worked glue reeking of raw garlic? And this caviar — are you insulting it, or insulting me? It doesn't go with a single flavor on this plate. You think piling expensive things together makes haute cuisine?" Marco's face went white in an instant. He wanted to explain, to say he'd slipped — but facing those blue eyes that could see through anything, he couldn't get a word out.

"Your mind came apart, Marco. From the tenth minute of this round, you stopped cooking. You were jealous. You were chasing. The moment a chef loses his own rhythm, he's nothing." With that, Vane didn't spare him another look and turned to the next station. Marco's body swayed; he nearly couldn't keep his feet. He knew his run on Burning Kitchen ended here. The judges critiqued the other contestants' work in turn — some encouragement, some criticism. It went fast, everyone distracted.

Because they knew the real lead of the day was still to come. At last the three judges stood before Chris's station. The whole soundstage went quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Chris stood calmly, meeting the three judges' eyes.

"Introduce your dish," Vane said, his tone giving away neither pleasure nor displeasure. Chris took up the microphone, his voice clear and steady.

"Chef, my dish is called Triple-Flavor Potato Gratin.

"The first flavor comes from the body. I used two textures of potato. Thin slices, pre-poached low and slow in milk and herbs, layered and baked in the classic French gratin method, give a soft, fine, cream-rich base.

"The second flavor comes from the supporting role. I cut another, starchier potato into cubes, seared a charred crust in butter first, then roasted them with the body — for a solid chew and a richer caramelized flavor.

"The third flavor comes from the garnish. I fried the finest julienne into a crisp nest, for a third, entirely different texture. And finally, a sauce of lemon, thyme, and extra-virgin olive oil to balance the richness of the whole dish and lift the layers of flavor." He paused, looking straight at Vane.

"This dish takes a single ingredient and presents it in three forms, three textures, three layers of flavor. It answers the question I failed to answer in the first round — about heat, about detail, about a chef's understanding of his ingredient." He finished. No playing for pity, no complaint. Only a calm statement. But every word was a bullet, striking each person on the floor with precision. Gareth Vane looked at the young man in front of him, then at the near-perfect work on the plate.

He picked up a fork slowly, his expression grave.

"Chris," his voice rang unusually clear in the silent soundstage.

"Same ingredient, same theme. You know very well this gives you no excuse.

"Now. Let me see what you've actually learned." With that, he forked up a small piece of the gratin and put it in his mouth.