Chương 74: Sprint from the Whistle

The ballroom of a top Hollywood hotel: crystal chandeliers blazing, the air alive with perfume and silk, glasses clinking everywhere. Two hundred guests were already seated—famous actors and directors among them, and exacting food critics and influencers too. Tonight they weren't only philanthropists; they were judges. Each table had a scoring device, and they would rate every course in real time on taste, appearance, and speed of service. In the back kitchen, the tension had reached its peak.

Gareth Vane, in a crisp chef's coat, paced between the two kitchens like a lion patrolling his territory.

"Listen up!" His voice carried clear over the back-kitchen clamor.

"Tonight you are not cooking for me, not for the judges—you are cooking for two hundred guests who paid real money to be here! If even one of them is unhappy with your food, you've lost! Remember—the team with the lowest negative-review rate wins, and the losing team eliminates two! Now—service!" At the command, the war was formally on.

"Chris's team, appetizer—smoked salmon tartlets, all hands, fire!" Chris gave the first order, calm. Marcus was long ready. He wheeled out tray after tray of pre-plated tartlet shells from the chiller, and together with Jack, piped on the lemon-dill cream cheese fast, laid on a slice of smoked salmon rolled into a rose, and finished with a few capers. The whole process flowed like water, almost without pause.

Because it was a cold dish, and ninety percent of the work was done in advance, Chris's team burst out of the gate with astonishing speed.

"Table one, away!"

"Table two, away!"

"Table three, go!" Chris stood at the pass like a traffic cop, directing the flow of every plate with precision. He handled the final check, making sure each plate was clean and uniform. In under ten minutes, the appetizers for their hundred guests had all gone out. Vane patrolled into Chris's zone, watching the service flow—efficient as an army. His face showed nothing, but a flicker of approval crossed his eyes. He picked up a salmon tartlet and put it in his mouth.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

"Mm." He made only a small sound through his nose, then turned and walked to the other side. In Ethan's kitchen, meanwhile, it was a scene of tense scrambling. Their appetizer, the foie gras mousse, tasted stunning—but the plating was painfully fussy. Amelia had to carefully shape the mousse into a beautiful quenelle, pair it with the cooked fig jam, and set it beside a freshly toasted slice of brioche.

"Faster, Amelia! Table one's guests have been waiting five minutes!" There was an edge of agitation in Ethan's voice.

"I'm doing my best!" Sweat had already beaded on Amelia's forehead. Under the pressure her hands began to waver, and the mousse quenelles started coming out flawed. David helped at her side, but the two clearly lacked the rapport Chris's team had. By the time Chris's team had begun prepping the second course, the soup, Ethan's team had sent out less than half their appetizers. In the ballroom, guests in their zone were already checking watches, impatient.

"The negative reviews are starting," Nina Marsh said softly, watching the data tablet in her hand.

"Ethan's team has already taken two negatives for excessive appetizer wait time." Appetizer round: Chris's team, total victory.

"All right, appetizers done! All hands to the soup station!" Chris ordered at once.

"Jack, ladle! Marcus, basil oil and croutons ready! Speed!" In the huge stockpot, the orange-red Lobster Bisque gave off a rich aroma. Chris worked the ladle himself, making sure every bowl matched in thickness and temperature. Jack ladled the soup into each bowl with precision, not a drop more or less. Marcus followed behind, quickly dripping on a few drops of emerald basil oil and scattering a small handful of golden, crisp croutons. Three men, three steps, one perfect assembly line.

"Soup, first batch of ten, go!"

"Second batch of ten, go!" Steaming Lobster Bisque flowed toward the ballroom with unstoppable momentum. Ethan's team had finally, frantically, finished all their appetizers—but they got no breather, pitching straight into prepping the black truffle cream of mushroom. Ethan handled the final seasoning and emulsification himself, while Sarah portioned and garnished.

"Sarah, truffle oil! Not too much—three drops! Only three drops!" Ethan's voice was severe and exact. Sarah worked tensely, feeling the enormous pressure Ethan put on her. It was nothing like the pressure Chris gave. Chris's pressure came from a relentless pursuit of the goal; Ethan's came from zero tolerance for error. Soup round: with the big-pot advantage, Chris's team took the lead in speed again. Two courses in, and the guests in Chris's zone wore satisfied smiles. In Ethan's zone, the mood was a little flat.

"Chris's menu strategy is brilliant," Curtis Hale remarked from the judges' table.

"He's given up showmanship entirely and bet everything on 'steady' and 'efficient.' At a two-hundred-guest dinner, that matters more than any dazzling technique."

"But the real test is still ahead," Nina said.

"The fish and the main are the headliners. If Ethan's sous-vide turbot and Beef Wellington come out perfect, they could overpower Chris's simple dishes on flavor and claw back a round." Everyone knew it was far too early to relax. In the back kitchen, Chris's face was grave too.

"Heads up! Get ready for the fish course!" His voice rose an octave.

"Jack, this is your battlefield! Eight pans, preheating now! I want to hear that sizzle—like singing!" Jack drew a deep breath, his eyes fixed in focus on the row of pans before him. He knew that from now on, a single second's slip could bury the whole team's effort. The challenge had only just begun.