Wax

Thirty Four

A/N: I really enjoyed writing this chapter and bad guy by Billie Eilish really puts me in the mood for some reaaally bad writing ;) don't read this on an empty stomach. Swipe the top video for a delicious image of some delightful braised chicken. The recipe in here is similar to the one in Leroy's cookbook but elevated (because the cookbook is for simple recipes ;v;). 

Enjoy!

Unfortunately the Valentine's chapter wasn't really well-received :( hopefully you'll like this one.

================

[Leroy]

Twenty minutes.

Not gonna lie, I knew this was cutting it close. When I first heard that was all the time we were given in front of the judges, I thought of ditching the plan. Sure, they were giving a full half hour to prep before entrance—people were even wrapping up final touches on their plate in that time frame—but giving up the opportunity to impress just wasn't really me.

It's not the same when you see the dish you're about to eat come together before your eyes. I could've made things a walk in the park by doing what everyone else did within those thirty minutes given, but. You gotta admit. Watching an underdog in his element was likely to blow them away.

Which is the point, really.

Not everyone at try-outs was going to root for some random dude with no credentials but his father's name. It's called try-outs, right? This preliminary thing. I'm not the walking dictionary.

Anyway, yeah. Not everyone thinks I have the skills to back it up; which was reasonable. I'd been out of it for some time. Disappeared, almost. But you know what, sometimes being underestimated is good. For all you know, it can spark a flame.

We had timekeepers at every station before getting our names called into the room to be assessed and mine had that look on his face. 'Seriously? You're not gonna make it.' Written all over his face.

He held a stopwatch—something I grew up with—and nodded at the station I was assigned to when I first came into the kitchen. There were two people before me and the station in the far corner of the room was empty. I'd assumed it was Andre's. We met in the waiting room. He was first to be called. When I say met, I mean him actively avoiding my gaze and snorting every now and then. Du Bellay even offered him a tissue packet. Fucking hilarious.

Anyway. The prep room was pretty much a cemetery for the most part. Dead silent. No one talked about their dish; people kept to themselves; checked the time every now and then; put all their energy into the stuff they were presenting to the judges; and then there was me. Mortar and pestle. Pounding spices at a leisure pace.

That, and carrot-peeling. Two carrots.

Probably had my timekeeper confused. No doubt, he'd think I was going home right off the bat.

Even wheeling my cart of raw ingredients onto the set was something to react to. You could tell the entire room had no words for whatever they were seeing. After all, I hadn't much to hide. No dinner plates. No cloches. Just raw ingredients, spices and my set of knives.

We had that conversation I expected. You're not a trained chef. In a way, I wasn't. Can you really finish this under twenty?

I waited behind the countertop, staring at the judges who were standing about twenty feet up front with surprise on their faces; except him. There wasn't a word for this—even if there was, I wouldn't know—but it was the feeling of knowing he's known. All along.