Chương 56: Let the Blade Decide Your Fate

"Time! Everyone—hands off your stations!" Gareth Vane's booming voice rolled through the kitchen like the horn of a final judgment. Eleven contestants, whether their dishes were good or ruined, had to stop in that instant. The kitchen went silent at once, leaving only heavy breathing and a smothered, brittle tension. The contestants stood before their stations, looking at the Beef Wellingtons they'd poured two hours of effort into, every face crowded with tangled emotion.

Some looked relieved; some looked ashen; some were quietly praying.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen. Now it's time to inspect the results." There was no expression on Vane's face. With Nina and Hale, he began his round at the first station. The first to face judgment was Tom Harper, the one whose handmade pastry had failed. What sat on his plate was less a Beef Wellington than a disaster.

The mud-like pastry was wrapped haphazardly around the beef, and after baking some parts were charred black while others were still raw; the blood from the meat had mixed with the mushroom juices and turned the whole plate into a mess. Vane didn't even pick up a knife and fork. He just looked down at it once, then raised his head and fixed Tom with a gaze of utter disappointment.

"Tom, tell me—what is this?"

"Chef, I... my pastry..." Tom's voice shook itself to pieces.

"This isn't a Wellington. This isn't food. This is a crime." Vane's voice was quiet, but every word drove into Tom's heart like an ice pick. He said nothing more, only shook his head and moved to the next station. The blood drained completely from Tom's face. He knew his competition ended here. Next came several middling contestants, most of their dishes flawed one way or another: pastry too pale, duxelles too salty, beef a touch raw at the center.

Vane's critiques were short and sharp, calling out every error without mercy. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Soon the judges reached Jack. Jack swallowed nervously. From the outside, his Beef Wellington actually looked all right. The pastry had baked to a handsome gold, the scored pattern clean. If you didn't look closely, you might almost call it a success. Vane took up the knife and cut down, steady, through the center of the beef.

The blade fell, and the pastry gave a crisp shatter. The cross-section showed itself to the room. Inside, the filet was a quite beautiful pink, the color shading evenly from center to edge—the heat very precisely controlled. A spark of hope kindled in Jack's chest.

"The doneness of the beef—perfect." Vane gave him that much first.

"Medium-rare, no more, no less. This is your strong suit, and you did it well." Hearing that, Jack couldn't keep the corners of his mouth from lifting.

"But..." Vane's tone turned, and he tapped the tip of the knife lightly against the side of the pastry.

"Tell me—what is this?" Every eye focused in. There, where Vane pointed, the crack Jack had so clumsily patched had grown more obvious after baking—an ugly scar that broke the whole composition. The layers of the pastry had ruptured there, and you could even see a little juice that had seeped out.

"The pastry is the armor of a Beef Wellington. It's not just for looks—it protects the beef inside, locks in all the juices." Vane's voice hardened.

"Your armor has a crack in it. On the battlefield, in my kitchen, that's fatal." The smile froze on Jack's face.

"A bare pass." Vane set down the knife and fork, delivered his final verdict, and walked to the next person without looking back. Jack stood rooted in place, feeling every ounce of strength drain out of him. He'd kept his life, but he'd lost his dignity. Next came Sarah. Her Beef Wellington was like the woman herself—steady and solid. The pastry was a whole, even gold, the wrap uniform, without any tear. When Vane cut it open, the beef inside was that same flawless pink.

He forked up a small piece and tasted it carefully.

"The pastry's crisp, the duxelles is balanced, and the beef is cooked just right." Vane nodded, giving a fair assessment. Sarah let out a breath.

"This is a safe, reliable Beef Wellington that makes no mistakes," Vane went on, looking at her.

"But there's also nothing in it to surprise me. Sarah, you're steady—but sometimes too steady means dull. I need to see your thing, not a perfect reproduction out of a textbook." Sarah listened in silence. She understood what Vane meant. She'd always been comfortable working inside the safe zone, but if she wanted to win the title, sooner or later she'd have to take that step. The judging went on, and a few more contestants drew sharp criticism for one slip or another.

Jessica's "wet-bottomed" pastry, of course, didn't escape Vane's eye—he even lifted that soggy base with his fork so everyone could see the fatal flaw. Jessica's tears, in the end, were the ones she couldn't hold back. At last, the focus of the entire room gathered on the final person. Ethan. His Beef Wellington lay quietly in the center of the plate, like a work of art waiting to be crowned.