Chương 32: The Red Team's Efficient Dominance

Just as the Blue Team finished its "system restructure" and braced for the first wave, the Red Team kitchen next door was already running like a war machine at full throttle, displaying a staggering dominance. At six o'clock, the instant the first ticket printed, Ethan Cole didn't even look at its contents — he calmly issued his first order to the team behind him.

"Maria, first batch of lava cakes, six, into the oven. Now." Maria immediately slid six chocolate-batter molds into the preheated oven.

"Captain, we haven't even read the first ticket — why dessert first?" Leo, on the fryer, asked, a little puzzled. Ethan explained without turning.

"This restaurant's clientele averages a forty-minute main course. The lava cake takes fifteen minutes to bake and plate. We're baking ahead not for the first table, but for the second wave of orders, even the third. I want to guarantee that whenever a dessert ticket comes in, we can plate it within five minutes. It smooths our output curve and keeps dessert tickets from dragging down our rhythm later." Leo listened, dazed, then a look of comprehension and admiration crossed his face. This was the gap.

While the Blue Team was still figuring out how to finish ticket one, Ethan had already calculated the rhythm of the entire dinner service. Only then did Ethan tear the first ticket off the printer.

"Table one, one strip, medium-rare; one salmon. David, Leo, yours." David, on the grill, pulled a bag of steak from the sous-vide bath — already at perfect medium-rare core temperature — tore the vacuum seal, and blotted the surface with paper towel.

"Copy, core temp 130, on the grill ninety seconds, just enough for the Maillard," David reported coolly. On the other side, Leo took out the chilled salmon, skin-side down, and laid it into the sizzling skillet. Their movements were precise, efficient, not a wasted step. Because in the prep stage Ethan had drilled them through every process countless times.

"Second ticket! Table three, two Buffalo wings, one burger!"

"Copy!"

"Third ticket! Table five, one strip, medium-well; one burger!"

"Copy!" The tickets began to fly in like snowflakes. The Red Team kitchen was full of clanging pans and chefs calling out too, but it wasn't the noise of chaos — it was a symphony full of rhythm. Ethan stood at the pass like a conductor. He didn't need to roar; a few short words kept the whole kitchen running smoothly.

"David, medium-rare steak, thirty seconds!" Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"Leo, salmon's good, send it with the steak!"

"Fryer, double-fry the wings, pull in ten seconds!"

"Assembly, burger ready!" In under eight minutes, the first table's two mains sat perfectly under the warming lamps at the pass. Refined plating, steam rising. Backstage, the director keenly caught this astonishing scene.

"Quick! Split-screen! Red on the left, Blue on the right!" On the TV, the sharp contrast appeared again. On the left, the Red Team kitchen — the first dishes out smoothly, Ethan doing a final check, the runner ready. On the right, the Blue Team kitchen — Chris had only just handed out the first ticket's tasks. Jack's steak had just hit the grill, Jessica's skillet still preheating butter. A full beat slower than the Red Team.

"Chef Vane! What do you make of the two teams' starts?" The host pushed the mic toward Vane, who was touring the back kitchen. Vane's face was grim, especially seeing the Blue Team's progress. He strode into the Blue Team kitchen, and the temperature of the whole room seemed to drop a few degrees. He didn't scold anyone — he walked straight up to Chris.

"Chris, you're the expediter now, correct?"

"Yes, Chef." Chris's eyes never left Jack and Jessica at their cooking; he was timing them with the stopwatch.

"Good." Vane pointed at the display above the pass.

"Ten minutes into service, the Red Team has sent three tables, six dishes. You've sent none. Can you give me an explanation?" Chris didn't turn, his voice still calm.

"Chef, we're breaking in the workflow. The first batch will be slower, but once it's running, our ticket times will stabilize."

"Stabilize?" Vane gave a cold laugh.

"By the time you stabilize, the customers will be long gone! You're running a restaurant, not debugging your program in a lab! I want results — now!" Vane's roar sent every Blue Team heart into their throat. Jack's hand jerked; he nearly flipped the steak onto the floor. Chris drew a deep breath. He knew Vane's pressure was correctly placed. But he couldn't lose his footing. The moment he did, the whole team was finished.

"Jack! Flip the steak! Thirty seconds, then off and rest!"

"Jessica! Salmon in the pan! Six minutes on the clock!" He ignored Vane and kept issuing orders. His voice drowned out Vane's roar, and the fear in everyone's heart. Vane looked at the young man's back, his eyes turning extremely complicated. He saw Chris's stubbornness, and his near-obsessive calm. He stopped pressing and chose to step aside — a lion, observing the prey that dared stay composed in front of him.

Finally, twelve minutes into service, the Blue Team's first batch — one steak, one salmon — reached Chris. He checked it swiftly, spooned sauce, plated.

"Go!" The runner, as if pardoned, snatched the plates and rushed out. Almost at the same moment, the red number on the display for the Blue Team's bad reviews jumped from "0" to "1." And then the restaurant manager's anxious voice came through the radio at the pass.

"Blue Team! Blue Team! Table one is complaining — they've waited almost fifteen minutes and the food still isn't out!" The first bad review wasn't about quality. It was about speed. It landed like a ringing slap across every Blue Team face. Jack flushed red in an instant and glared at Chris.

"Chris! Is this your 'stabilize'? We're already behind!"

"Shut up, Jack!" For the first time, Chris's voice carried a sharp rebuke.

"Now isn't the time to assign blame! Back to your station! Second batch of steaks, ready to go!" Cowed by Chris's force, Jack instinctively shut his mouth. Chris knew the hardest moment had come. An early deficit would snowball, piling on more and more pressure. And across the way, under Ethan, the Red Team had fully hit its stride. Their pass barely went empty. On the display, their output climbed fast, and the bad-review count stayed at "0." Efficient, precise, zero errors.

The Red Team was dominating the Blue Team across the board, in a near-suffocating way. In the control room, the director rubbed his hands in excitement.

"Brilliant! This is exactly what I wanted! Textbook-perfect service on one side, a last-ditch fight on the brink of collapse on the other! Ratings! Push the ratings up!" In the Blue Team kitchen, the mood had grown oppressive to the extreme. Watching the endless stream of tickets print, Chris felt a film of fine sweat on his forehead too. He knew that if he didn't find a way to break the deadlock, all that waited for them was being crushed completely under the Red Team's iron flood.