Chương 68: Goodbye, My Friend

The moment the duels began, the kitchen held nothing but the clatter of cookware and the burn of flame. Five life-or-death battles, all at once, thickened the air to something dense and taut. Chris's opponent was Ryan Lee, and what they had to make was French onion soup. Chris didn't move right away. First he fired up the Dish Simulation in his mind, breaking the entire process of French onion soup into dozens of steps and optimizing it for today's ingredients and equipment.

[Simulation optimized: caramelize the onions in batches; add a small amount of brandy for an extra layer of flavor. Build the stock from a blend of beef and chicken bones to boost umami and gelatin. Mix Gruyère with a little Parmesan for added savor and a crisper gratin top.] [Estimated completion: 91% (A-).] Plan set, Chris began. His movements weren't fast, but every step was precise and efficient.

When he sliced the onions, the blade met the board in an even, rhythmic thock, thock, each ribbon of onion almost exactly the same thickness. That would ensure they took heat evenly when cooked, caramelizing to the same degree. His opponent Ryan Lee, by contrast, was hasty. He sliced his onions fast but unevenly—planting the seeds of his later failure. Caramelizing onions was the most time-consuming and most critical step of this dish.

Chris melted butter, added the onion ribbons, and kept the flame at medium-low the whole way, patiently turning them with a wooden spoon. He knew this couldn't be rushed—at least forty minutes for the sugars in the onions to caramelize fully and release their deepest sweetness and nutty fragrance. Ryan, on the other side, clearly lacked that patience. Chasing speed, he ran his flame a little high.

Soon the edges of the onions in his pan were charring black while most of them had only just gone soft, nowhere near caramelized. Chris glanced over, then paid it no more mind. He sank completely into his own world. When his onions had taken on a beautiful deep brown and the kitchen filled with an enticing sweetness, he knew the heat was right. He poured in a small glass of brandy; the flame leapt up with a whoosh, the alcohol burning off and leaving behind a mellow, rounded aroma.

He added scalding stock and let it simmer low. Finally, he laid slices of baguette over the bowl, scattered on the mixed cheese, and slid it into the oven. When Chris drew his onion soup from the oven, the sheer perfection of it made everyone look. The cheese over the bowl had baked golden and crisp, puffed slightly, like a handsome little hat. Tap it lightly with a spoon and it gave a crisp sound, and beneath sat bread soaked through with broth and a deep, dark onion soup. Ryan's work paled beside it.

His cheese was overcooked, gone black. The soup's color ran pale—clear evidence the onions hadn't been cooked nearly enough. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. In the judging, Vane didn't even hesitate much. He tasted Ryan's soup first, one spoonful, then set the spoon down and shook his head.

"The onions are onions and the soup is soup—they never came together at all. Your broth is as thin as dishwater, because your onions were nowhere near cooked. This dish—you finished maybe thirty percent of it." Then he turned to Chris's work. He spooned up a mouthful. Rich onion sweetness, mellow stock umami, the wheat of the bread, the salt of the cheese—all fused perfectly into a warm, layered flavor.

"This," Vane said, raising his spoon for everyone to see, "is what French onion soup is supposed to taste like. Chris—congratulations. You advance." A look crossed Ryan Lee's face, relief mixed with a thread of reluctance. He quietly took off his apron, set it on the station, gave Chris a nod, then turned and left the kitchen. The first eliminated contestant. Chris watched him go, feeling little of the joy of victory—only the cruelty of the competition. Next came the duel between Sarah and Owen.

What they had to make was pan-seared duck breast with cherry sauce. The challenge lay in getting the skin crisp while keeping the meat a rosy medium. Sarah performed as steadily as ever. She first scored a handsome diamond pattern into the duck skin, then started it in a cold pan, rendering the fat out slowly over low heat—the whole process methodical. Her cherry sauce, too, was balanced between tart and sweet, its color enticing. The surprise was Owen.

This big kid, who'd seemed a little reckless in the team battles, showed astonishing focus today. Under Chris's coaching, his fundamentals had come a long way. His handling of the duck breast wasn't as fine as Sarah's, but his heat control was unexpectedly good. He seemed to have bet every ounce of his energy on this one duck breast. When the two dishes were set before the judges at the same time, the gap was minuscule. Sarah's duck breast, sliced open, showed a perfect pink, the skin crisp.

The cherry sauce was her strength, and it added real points to the dish. Owen's duck breast, cut open, was nearly perfect too—only a sliver near the edge slightly overdone. And his sauce came up a touch short on seasoning, the sweetness edging just past the tartness. It was an agonizing decision. The judges tasted again and again, conferring in low voices for a long time. In the end, Nina announced the result.

"Owen, your progress surprised all of us—your duck breast was beautifully seared. But on the balance of the sauce, Sarah did better. A perfect dish is the sum of all its details. So the winner is... Sarah." A flicker of disappointment crossed Owen's face, but it was quickly replaced by a wide grin. He hugged Sarah hard and told her, "You did amazing. I'm proud of you." Then he took off his apron and headed for the back. Passing Chris's station, he stopped.

"Hey, Chris."

"You did great," Chris said sincerely.

"I know." Owen smiled, flashing white teeth.

"Thanks for everything you taught me before. Really. I still lost—but I think I'm leaving a better cook than I came." He held out a fist, and Chris bumped it.

"Go for it, man. Make it to the end—for all us Blue Team guys." And with that he turned, easy and unhurried, and walked out without looking back. Chris watched Owen go, and felt a sudden weight in his chest. For the first time he understood, truly, that elimination didn't just mean one person's failure and departure. It also meant you would send off, with your own hands, a comrade who'd fought beside you—someone who'd called you a friend. And you could do nothing about it.

The further the competition went, the more moments like this there would be. The allies around him would dwindle one by one, until at the end, only he was left, standing alone on an empty battlefield. He drew a deep breath and pressed that sudden sorrow back down. Now wasn't the time to be sentimental.