Chương 65: You Finally Left the Lab

The judging began. The iron triangle of Gareth Vane, Nina Marsh, and Curtis Hale started at the first station and worked down the line, tasting and critiquing one by one. The market's noise seemed to drop a few decibels on its own in the face of their sheer presence. Each contestant stood tense beside his work, like a prisoner awaiting sentence. The first to face the judges were a few of the middling performers. Some of their dishes were safe but dull; others had good ideas but weak execution.

Vane's critiques were as sharp as ever, pointing out their problems without mercy. Then the judges came to Jack's station. Jack had made a bold Southern-BBQ smoked pork rib, the sauce brushed to a glossy shine, throwing off a heavy sweetness and smoke. By the look of it, the dish was tempting. Hale cut off a piece first and tasted it, nodding.

"Jack, your way with meat is beyond question. The heat on this rib is dead-on—the meat's so tender it falls off the bone at a touch. And you got the smoke in there. Nicely done." The praise loosened Jack's clenched face a little. But then Vane took a bite, and his brow furrowed.

"The heat's good, sure. But your sauce? Jack, tell me—what's in this sauce besides sugar, ketchup, and liquid smoke?" Jack froze for a second, then answered, "There's... some spices, chili powder, garlic powder."

"It tastes like bottled barbecue sauce straight off a supermarket shelf. Sweet and cloying, not a single layer to it." Vane jabbed at the sticky sauce on the plate with his fork, blunt as ever.

"It buries the flavor of the pork itself. You're just a delivery boy for seasoning, not a creator. Your seasoning is too blunt, too heavy-handed. It needs a clean finish to balance all this out." Jack's face flushed crimson in an instant. Vane's critique had struck his biggest weakness with precision—seasoning. His knife work and heat control were both good, but the moment it came to sauces and flavor combinations, he was caught short. The judges moved on to Sarah's station.

Sarah had made an Italian-style chicken roulade, paired with her own handmade spinach pasta and a parmesan cream sauce. The whole dish looked warm and unpretentious—just like her. Nina took a bite, and a warm smile spread across her face.

"Sarah, this is the kind of thing you'd eat as a guest in some Italian grandmother's kitchen. The handmade pasta has a real bite to it, full of that fresh spinach flavor. The chicken roulade is tender and juicy, and the cheese sauce is rich. So comforting. So delicious." If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"I agree," Hale added.

"This is an honest, tasty dish. But Sarah, our theme today is 'prove who you are.' This dish proves you're a good cook who can make delicious home food—but at its core, it's similar to the chicken pot pie you made before. We want to see a bolder side of you. We want to see you step out of your comfort zone and surprise us." Sarah listened closely and nodded. She understood what they meant. Steadiness was her strength, but on a stage like this, it could sometimes become a flaw.

At last, the judges reached Ethan's station. Every gaze fixed on it. Ethan's dish, as always, looked like a work of art. He'd taken fresh trout fillets and rolled them, with an exquisite touch, into the shape of a rose, the skin seared golden and crisp like a gilt edge. Beneath the fish sat a deep-colored wild mushroom risotto, finished with a few drops of emerald herb oil and a scatter of edible petals. The whole thing was refined, elegant—not a fault to be found."'

Stream in the Woods,'" Ethan said in his flat, unrippled tone, announcing the name. Vane picked up a fork and carefully took a piece of fish with some of the risotto beneath it. He set it in his mouth and chewed for a long time, no expression on his face. The kitchen went terrifyingly quiet.

"Technically, flawless," Vane said at last, his voice calm.

"The fish is a perfect medium, the skin crisp as a potato chip. The risotto is rich with mushroom, the grains just right. Every element is well done." Ethan's face still showed no flicker of feeling, as though the praise were merely his due.

"But," Vane turned, "before I even tasted it, I could pretty much guess what this dish would taste like. Refined, clean, balanced... like a perfect mathematical formula. It's beautiful. But it's cold." Vane set down his fork and looked Ethan dead in the eye.

"Until I tasted this." With the tip of his fork he pointed at a few crystals on the fish, barely visible, just slightly larger than ordinary salt grains.

"What is this?" Ethan answered, "Coarse sea salt and a drop of lemon. My father used to take me fishing. The trout we caught, he'd grill right there over the fire, then scatter the roughest sea salt on it and squeeze on a little lemon. He said that was the greatest respect you could pay a good fish." A murmur ran through the whole crowd. No one would have guessed that Ethan—forever known for precision and logic—would fold a detail this full of personal feeling and memory into his dish.

And that detail sat a little off, even, against the refinement of the rest. For the first time, a real smile appeared on Vane's face. Not mockery, not a courtesy—a relief that came from somewhere genuine.

"Ethan," he said, "you finally left your lab. You're starting to put things in your food that aren't so 'perfect,' but are very 'real.' Keep doing that." It was an extremely high mark. It meant Vane had recognized Ethan's progress on the level of soul. The corner of Ethan's mouth lifted, almost imperceptibly. To him, this assessment mattered more than any praise of his technique. Now, only Chris was left. The judges turned and walked toward his station.

Every gaze shifted from Ethan's refined work of art to this plate of Chris's that looked, frankly, a little chaotic —street food. The sheer contrast in style made everyone hold their breath. Vane looked at the loose streak of sauce on the plate, at the irregular smear of cilantro oil, and his brow knit slightly.

"Chris," he said, and his voice sounded serious, "you'd better give me a good explanation for what exactly this thing is—it looks like someone knocked over a paint palette."