Chương 93: Two Chefs, a Late-Night Talk

The night before the final. The whole contestants' apartment block was wrapped in a strange quiet. Tomorrow, everything would settle. Chris lay in bed, turning over and over, unable to fall asleep no matter what. Like a film on a loop, his mind ran through every step, every detail of A Potato Trilogy. The thickness of the potato slices, the temperature of the cream, the time in the oven, the dose of liquid nitrogen… any single link going wrong would be beyond saving.

He gave up and sat up, pulled on his clothes, meaning to walk the hallway, breathe some fresh air, and let his brain cool down. He opened the door. The dim hallway was empty. He walked slowly, his footsteps unusually clear in the quiet night. When he reached the window at the far end of the hall, a figure made him stop. Ethan. He, too, was in plain clothes, leaning against the window, an unlit cigarette held between his fingers, quietly looking out at the night. He didn't seem to have slept either.

Hearing the footsteps, Ethan turned his head. In the dim light, the lines of his face looked softer than usual, without the aggressive edge he carried in the kitchen. Their eyes met. Neither spoke; the air was a little awkward. In the end it was Ethan who spoke first, his voice a touch hoarse in the silent hall.

"What are you making tomorrow?" It was a very direct question—direct to a degree that didn't fit the wariness that should exist between finalists. Chris hesitated, then answered openly.

"Potatoes." Ethan's eyebrow went up; he half thought he'd misheard. He turned to face Chris squarely, an expression on his face that mixed absurdity with incomprehension.

"Pota… toes? Are you insane? Potatoes as the main course in the grand final?"

"Not just the main." Chris looked at him calmly.

"All three dishes." This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. Ethan went completely blank. He looked at Chris as if looking at a monster. It was several seconds before he forced a line out through his teeth.

"You're committing suicide."

"Maybe." Chris shrugged, unbothered.

"You remember my first day—how I got thrown out because of a potato?" Ethan's expression froze. Of course he remembered. That day he'd stood at the very front of all the contestants and watched with his own eyes as Chris carried out that burnt potato pavé, got chewed to pieces by Vane, and took off his apron and left in disgrace.

"I remember." Ethan's voice dropped low.

"I thought, back then, that you had it coming."

"You were right." Chris's answer caught Ethan off guard.

"Back then, I really did have it coming. My fundamentals were a mess, and I was full of myself anyway." The hall fell silent again. Outside, the wind moaned past the window, like someone's sigh.

"And you?" Chris asked back.

"What are you making?" Ethan looked into Chris's honest eyes and, as if some spirit moved him, told him his plan too.

"French rack of lamb. With a root-vegetable purée and a herb sauce I blend myself." Chris nodded. It was Ethan's specialty, and his safest ground. Top-tier handling of meat, precise heat control, a classic French sauce. This dish was Ethan Cole himself—precise, powerful, airtight. And so, on the eve of the final, they laid their cards on the table for each other without holding anything back. No concealment, no probing.

Because at this level, between true rivals, there was no longer any need for those little tricks. They both understood clearly: what decided the outcome wasn't the menu itself, but the person standing behind the station.

"With potatoes… you really aren't afraid of losing?" Ethan couldn't help asking again. He couldn't understand Chris's choice; it went completely against everything he'd learned about culinary logic.

"I'm afraid," Chris admitted.

"Scared to death. But if I cook a menu I don't even believe in just to win, then even if I take the championship, I'll look down on myself." Ethan stared at Chris, a complicated emotion flickering through his eyes. He thought of his own perfect menu—it really was the work he had the most confidence in, but… it was also the safest. Was he, too, missing a little of this madness Chris had, this nerve to bet everything? The thought only flashed by before he forced it back down.

He, Ethan Cole, didn't need to gamble to win.

"Whoever wins tomorrow," Ethan said suddenly, the cold gone from his voice, replaced by a kind of gravity, "this is the best thing I've ever done." He meant entering this competition, and meeting an opponent like Chris. Chris understood his meaning and answered seriously too.

"Same for me." No handshake, no hug, not even a "good luck." Two chefs about to face a life-or-death duel had simply held a brief, honest conversation in a late-night hallway. Then they nodded, each turned, and walked back to his own room. The door closed, and Chris leaned against it, letting out a long breath. He felt his heart beating fast. That conversation had been like an invisible ritual, and the last flicker of doubt in him had disappeared. He was ready.

Whatever the result tomorrow, he would have no regrets at all. He would meet this final battle with those three potato dishes.