Hash Slingers

Chapter 1 - The taste of past

What could go wrong in your Master Chef's audition? You reach late or the judge was just not in the mood today?

Well for Laila, it all started with a search for the cafe owner whom she wasn't able to find. And she will be utterly sad as she won't be having her good luck wish.

She entered The cafe and was welcomed by a nice buttery smell. The café hummed with life, the hiss of steaming milk, and the occasional burst of laughter from a distant corner table. The rich, velvety aroma of freshly brewed filtered coffee wrapped itself around the room, mingling with the buttery warmth of uptapam. Sunlight streamed through large, dust-speckled windows, casting soft golden patterns over wooden countertops worn smooth by years of elbows resting on them, of whispered secrets and lingering conversations over endless cups of chai.

Laila stood at the counter, fingers drumming absently against the polished wood, her mind elsewhere, thoughts racing ahead to the day she had spent months preparing for.

"Where's Dadi?" she asked, her frown deepening as she glanced at Mira, who was expertly balancing a tray of cappuccinos on her way to the back.

Dadi-Mrs. Patel to everyone else-was more than just the café's owner. She was its heart, of the unshakable presence that had turned this place into something more than just a business. To Laila, she had been a mentor in ways no culinary school ever could. Mrs. Patel didn't teach cooking; she taught instinct, the unspoken language of spices, the weight of history in every dish. She had been the one to remind Laila, time and time again, that food wasn't about perfection-it was about the soul. Laila had come here today for that final reassurance, a last push before she stepped into the biggest challenge of her life.

Mira shot her a glance, nodding toward the back as she slid a cup onto a waiting saucer. "Took the morning off. Said something about visiting her sister."

Something inside Laila sank, a quiet, unexpected disappointment settling in her chest. That wasn't the plan. She had counted on this-in Patel's presence, her steady, grounding words. The day already felt off-balance, and now, she was heading into the unknown without the one thing she had thought would steady her. Her fingers reached instinctively into her pocket, seeking the cool, familiar weight of her phone. But the moment her fingertips brushed against the empty fabric, realization struck.

"Fuck, I forgot my phone at home."

Mira, mid-motion, paused as though. She turned slowly, her expression exaggerated with mock disbelief. "You? Laila Basik forgot her phone? Are we in an alternate reality?"

Laila groaned, rubbing her temple. "I swear, my brain isn't working today. I just-" she exhaled, shaking her head, "I just wanted to talk to Mrs. Patel before heading to the auditions."

Mira smirked, setting her tray down and crossing her arms. "You do realize what this means, right?"

Laila raised a brow. "Enlighten me."

"This," Mira gestured dramatically, "is history in the making. Laila Basik, functioning without a phone. No emails, no messages, no emergency recipe notes." She gasped, placing a hand over her chest in mock horror. "Should I call someone? Alert the press? Maybe light a candle in your honour?"

Laila shot her a glare, but the corners of her lips twitched despite herself. "I'll manage. Somehow."

Still, the unease lingered. She reached into her bag, double-checking the carefully wrapped case that held her chef's knife. It was more out of habit than necessity. She already knew it was there, safe and secure, but checking gave her something to do, something to focus on beyond the growing knot of nerves twisting in her stomach.

Mira watched her with a knowing glint in her eyes. "You really think they're gonna let you use your own knives?"

Laila shrugged, zipping up her bag. "Probably not. But I'd rather have them just in case."

Mira laughed, shaking her head. "Control freak."

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The cab ride to the Master Chef audition venue stretched longer than it should have, or maybe it only felt that way because her mind wouldn't stop racing. The city blurred past her, a rush of movement and colour, but she barely saw it. Her thoughts had already leapt ahead, beyond the streets and traffic, beyond the present moment, into the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

Her parents had no idea she was here. If they had known, they would have stopped her.

Cooking has always been a respectable skill in their eyes-something to be admired in a home, something a woman should know. But as a career? No. Her father expected her to take her place in the family business. Her mother wanted something stable, something safe. And her brother-he had never understood why she would willingly choose chaos when comfort was so readily available.

So she hadn't told them.

She had packed her bags in silence, booked her own ticket, and left without looking back. She wasn't running away. She was running toward something.

The cab pulled up in front of the grand hall where the auditions were being held. Towering and sleek, it loomed over the street, its glass facade reflecting the early afternoon light. A banner near the entrance swayed gently in the breeze, bold letters announcing the competition.

Clusters of contestants lingered near the entrance. It was a strange, electric symphony, a place caught in the space between excitement and fear.

She adjusted her grip on her bag, inhaled sharply, and stepped forward.

She was barely inside when she turned-and saw him.

What could possibly go wrong in your MasterChef's audition ; forgetting to add the main ingredient or burning the whole dish?

For Laila, it was Aron. Her stomach twisted, though her expression remained impassive. Of all the people.

Across the room, he leaned against a counter, arms crossed, posture relaxed, a slow smirk curling at the edges of his lips the moment he spotted her.

"Huh," he mused, voice carrying just enough amusement to make her want to roll her eyes. "Didn't expect to see you here, Basik."

Laila exhaled through her nose, keeping her expression unreadable. "Funny. I was thinking the same thing."

His head tilted, the smirk deepening. "Still playing with knives? Thought you'd have quit by now."

Her fingers twitched around the strap of her bag, but her voice remained even. "And I thought you'd be too busy sabotaging someone else's career to show up here."

Aron clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Still holding a grudge over that?"

"Not a grudge," she said lightly. "Just facts. But it's cute how you pretend it wasn't intentional."

His smirk didn't falter, but something in his gaze darkened, just a fraction-just enough for her to know she had struck a nerve.

"You planning to win this thing?" he asked, voice deceptively casual.

"I don't plan," Laila shot back. "I do."

His grin sharpened. "We'll see about that."

She turned before he could say anything else, her grip tightening around her contestant tag. As she unzipped her bag, a small slip of paper fluttered out. Her brows furrowed as she bent down to pick it up. The edges were slightly worn, the handwriting unmistakable-Mrs. Patel.

Laila hesitated, then unfolded it.

"Cook with your heart, and the world will taste your soul."

A lump formed in her throat. Mrs Patel must have slipped it into her knife case before she left. It wasn't the goodbye she had hoped for, but it was enough.

She felt eyes on her. Looking up, she found Aron watching, head tilted slightly, expression unreadable.

Laila squared her shoulders, slipping the note into her pocket. "Try to keep up, Aron."

His smirk returned, slow and deliberate. "I intend to do more than that, Basik."

Total word count- 1320