A/N: I would like to officially announce the release of Baked Love on 25th March 2022 12:30 PM GMT+8 /.\ HEHEHEHE.
The link to purchase it on Amazon will be in my bio on Wattpad and on Instagram, also in a dedicated post. I've also decided to do a giveaway just like I did for Vanilla! ^^ All you have to do is comment right over here, on this paragraph, when you first read any of my books. It should be in this format: [Name of Book] - [Date] and you can include any other details about your reading experience or if you don't feel like doing so, that's okay too.
This was an enjoyable chapter to write and also longer than I thought :')
I hope you enjoy it!!
==========================
[Vanilla]
While chefs were given the cue to start gathering ingredients from the pantry and necessary cooking equipment for their dish, us judges were made to remain in the main hall for a pre-assessment of the contestants. The easier word would be gossip, since projections were wholly based on speculation and first impressions.
"My money's on Tenner," said Chef Streisand figuratively, nodding at the bunch of coriander under my cloche. "The only chef brave enough to challenge the almighty Mr. White and, rightfully, rewarded with the perfect ingredient! You could do so many things with Coriander. Mexican, Thai, Chinese, Indian—endless options."
"Ay, Banilla! You cheeky," teased Chef Pao, wagging a finger in my direction. "Tricked us all. Tenner has the ingredient advantage, but you know, I have a favorite. Can we say that? Favorite? Actually, I don't care. I'm going to say it: I like Leroy. Chef Cox. I think he has big potential. Last time, he impressed us. This time, I'm super happy he picked my ingredient. Can't wait to taste his dish." He cued me next.
"Frankly, I... well, like Chef Streisand, Layla Tenner's dish is something I'd look forward to tasting. It being my ingredient and all. Oddly enough however, I'm curious about Chef Du Bellay's dish. Her performance was flawless during the preliminaries and she has both French and Italian Cuisine under her belt. Though since bamboo shoots aren't exactly the most common ingredient in any form of culinary techniques in the West, I'm interested to see what she'd come up with."
The director gave us the cue for a good take and at once, assistants came up to us with bottled water and straws. Meanwhile, several contestants were already streaming back into the main hall with their baskets, ready to start the clock.
Admittedly, it was hard not to catch a glimpse of Leroy's. Curiosity got the better of me. In his, I spotted chives, pork, garlic, condiment bottles, flour and what looked like a bottle of sake among other things. The next thing I knew, he'd caught me looking at him and promptly responded with a look of absolute criminality a-and and lawless-ness. If those were proper words.
Either way, I choked on my water.
"Banilla! Are you okay?" Chef Pao looked over in concern, waving an assistant over for some napkins. I forced myself to recover in seconds, stifling the coughs and taking deep breaths. Good god, that idiot.
"Full cast returned!" "Cameras three, five, eight. Rolling in ten." "Keep it going. Amelia, your call."
Chef Streisand received the cue with a nod, glancing up at the clock before very professionally, and perhaps with the least dramatic delay I'd ever witnessed on TV, called for the start of the clock.
Each station had a designated camera and soundman for detailed tracking while the off-camera crew followed a general rotation around the main hall. Meanwhile, judges were to do the same—hopping from station to station for the purpose of tasting key elements of every chef's dish. This was also to get a gist of their dish's recipe and important screentime for individuals looking to stand out.
"Chef Andre," I addressed as soon as we arrived at his station, taking in the ingredients he'd laid out. "How are you feeling?"
"Confident," he shrugged, glancing over before returning to his scale and adding sugar to a bowl of flour. "Licorice might be tough to work with but I've done it before. This one's a black licorice crème brûlée tart."
Chef Streisand hummed curiously at the sound of that. "Interesting. Well, I'm assuming there's a layer of chocolate licorice or some other sort of filling made of out licorice under the custard?"
"My idea is to infuse the licorice into the custard. Not to have it separate."
"Hm." My counterpart nodded quietly, pausing for a moment and perhaps experiencing the exact same confusion I was feeling at present. Infusing the licorice into the custard was far too easy a technique for trained chefs competing at this level.
Moreover, the ratio of licorice to cream was extremely important; heavy-handed, the licorice could become overpowering and combined with the sweetness of the caramelized layer on top, seemed almost like a licorice nightmare for Chef Streisand. On the other hand, too little of it would result in a lack of respect for the key ingredient.
Thank goodness for Chef Pao. "Not a bad idea, Chef Andre. It's okay to play safe, but remember, you're going up against some real demons in the kitchen." He winked before turning to make a move.
Chef Streisand and I attempted to follow suit, but either Andre did not like the way we'd kept to ourselves or he was simply dying for more screentime. And so, he provoked me.
"Should have known it was something like coriander. You're the pickiest eater alive."
I turned, mildly disappointed by what he'd come up with.
"I'm sure you'd stomach anything under the sun, Chef Andre. Unfortunately, my dislike for coriander is scientific. The issue is genetic. For certain people, the plant tastes incredibly alkali. These people have a variation in a group of olfactory-receptor genes that allow them to strongly perceive the aldehydes in cilantro leaves—which taste like soap. This genetic attribute is usually found in a small percent of the population and varies geographically. Places where coriander is especially popular such as Central America and India, have fewer people with these genes, which might explain how the herb became such a key ingredient in the respective cuisines."
He struggled to process this and prepare the dough for his tart shell at the same time, so I decided to spare him any further damage and move on to the next station.
Chef Du Bellay was in the middle of describing her dish to Chef Pao when Chef Streisand and I joined, surveying her tabletop for clues. The first thing that surprised me greatly was the presence of a traditional mortar and pestle with various herbs and chilies in it, ready to be pounded into a paste of sorts. I soon gathered she was attempting a Thai Red Curry with bamboo shoots.
Already, I could see the gleam in Chef Pao's eyes. Needless to say, this was not going to be a walk in the park for Leroy.
Speaking of which—the idiot. Ah, the idiot.
"Technically I've already passed the test," was what he'd opened with as soon as arrived at his table, daring a glance my way before returning to the circular, paper-thin wrappers he'd been rolling out on his countertop.
"L—Chef Cox," I reasoned calmly, "there is no test. This is not a test. It is a challenge, to prove your worth as a chef who can turn the tables on a guest with preferences. Which everyone has. Also, you didn't pick my ingredient, so no. You did not 'technically' pass the challenge." I clarified.
"Ay, don't need to be so hard on him, Banilla. You were the one who liked his cilantro rice last week," Chef Pao nudged me in the side and nodded in Leroy's direction. I merely wished to hide. The terrifying truth was that they probably had three cameras on me all at once. "But this time Leroy, I'm expecting more. I really cannot stand the taste of bamboo shoots okay. No matter how many times my lola boil, I still can taste the smell I'm just very sensitive. Just think I'm a baby, okay? Sensitive."
The idiot took all this in stride. "I have spring rolls for you. Bamboo shoots in the filling give it a nice texture."
"Hm. Spring rolls." Chef Pao did not seem very convinced. "Are you sure about that?"
Leroy had the gall to wink. "You'll like them. Promise." His gaze flickered aside to meet mine.
Intelligent, I cleared my throat. "What else is in the filling?"
"Garlic chives. Pork. Thinly-sliced. Glass noodles."
"Glass noodles?" Chef Streisand prompted curiously and I explained that they were indeed often used in traditional Asian recipes for spring rolls. Only... spring rolls were starters. Appetizers that simply didn't seem to hold a candle to hard-hitting mains like Chef Du Bellay's Thai Red Curry.
Either way, I was among the first to remove myself from the highly dangerous station of blistering heat, hastening towards the next before I started stumbling over my words.
The next couple of minutes, we spent interviewing the rest of the contestants about their dish and, if ready, tasted several elements like sauces and stews to get a vague impression of how their dish would end up tasting like. This was to prevent slip-ups in case the camera crew took longer than usual for a dish's close-up and the food was either served cold or in the case of chilled desserts, melted.
Oddly enough, I'd stopped by Layla's station twice. Once, with my counterparts, and another time out of curiosity. Granted, I could smell the coriander a mile away and though this was slightly concerning, at the very least, I did not need to worry about her forgetting the true star of the dish.
Five minutes to tasting, stations were ladling, spooning, scooping—applying the finishing touches to their dish while the room had been reduced from the heated clang of pots and pans to the mere clinking of utensils.
The focused hush was soon interrupted by a countdown and then, a final word. "Service please."
Assistants dressed as wait staff, each assigned to a single station, picked up the dishes and placed them in order before the panel of judges. There was a brief moment of pause where the director had given a cue for cameras to close in on every dish individually and then after a moment, gave the second cue for our special guest's entrance.
Well, Chef Pao, Chef Streisand, and I were aware what he'd meant but this had, of course, left everyone else in the room confused until Chef Marseille appeared at the back of the room, emerging from the very double doors they'd come through.
"Please welcome, Chef Colette Marseille!" Chef Streisand announced as my ex-culinary instructor, favorite teacher, master of all things edible made her way down the aisle to applause and gasps of surprise.
Naturally, the entire room was ecstatic. Chef Marseille's restaurant in London was quite nearly a landmark; people from all over the world would reserve a table months in advance, planning for a trip that specifically involved the most memorable dinner experience.
Curious, I'd chanced a glance at the idiot. The expression on his face was a cross between a laugh and the kind of look in his eye whenever he wished to present his indecent finger. Layla was probably doing her best not to run up to Chef Marseille for hugs and kisses.
Our guest judge joined us up on the platform with a stunning conduct. After a brief exchange of hugs with us three, the entire room had gone ghost quiet, as though they were students waiting for the start of an examination. Quite frankly, I never was able to separate Chef Marseille from her role as the head of discipline back in culinary school.
"Thanks for having me. Some of you may know—I work on a scale of one to ten. Each dish will receive a number, alongside comments. Of course, we'll be having Pao, Amelia and Vanilla taste your dishes too. I'm merely a control. In case one of you makes something so bad that they consider it unpalatable, according to their preference. After all, we're dealing with ingredients of personal dislike."
Chef Pao nodded on cue, taking over. "Correct. Now, who's first?"
"I'll go." Andre said at once, strolling right up to the platform and standing behind his plate. The cameras did their work, closing in from all angles. "Ladies and gentlemen, I have for you a black licorice crème brûlée tart."
It being her ingredient, Chef Streisand was the first to taste his dessert. Chef Pao right after; myself; and then Chef Marseille.
"The licorice is in the custard?" "Yes." "I would have made a dark chocolate licorice glaze and set it below the custard to balance out all that spice and sweetness you have. The burnt caramel adds a slight bitterness to it, overall, so I'd give you credit for that but the dessert's missing something. Licorice is meant to lighten a dish, not weigh it down. Overall, the dessert feels heavy. Not necessarily something I'd order again," Chef Marseille pulled out all stops, taking a sip from her glass of water before dealing a final blow. "Four-point-two."
This was emergency. I could tell from the look on Chef Pao's face that he was trying very hard to think of something to balance out the criticism Andre was receiving from our guest judge, who seemed unaware of the 'list'. Chef Streisand was very careful with her words.
"Well um. I did warn you about infusing the licorice in the custard and what Colette said about a chocolate layer, I'd suggested that as well. Still, I quite enjoyed the dessert. It was a good attempt. I'd actually finish this if served at a restaurant. Not bad at all."
This was enough for Chef Pao to work with, and so he was given the final word while I kept to myself the entire time after tasting the tart and its components individually and then, as whole. Pity. It had been a decent idea. Perhaps with more practice, Andre would be able to execute proper ideas.
Next was Chef Du Bellay and by god, the moment she lifted the lid of her claypot, a burst of fragrant, spicy aromas hit us like a truck. The curry smelled of coconut, lemongrass, kaffir lime and a million spices simmering in a pot of goodness. Chef Pao's face was priceless.
"I don't think I heard about you being trained in this sort of cuisine. And yet, you present something like this."
Chef Du Bellay smiled politely. "Well. I can't always stick to what I'm familiar with. There is no guarantee I'd hit the nail on the head... I've never had authentic Thai curry."
"Well, this does smell amazing though," Chef Marseille pointed out and that itself might have, already, been a winning comment.
It was upon tasting, however, that the disappointment began to sink in.
Although fragrant, the curry lacked seasoning. It did not provide the much-anticipated kick that many of us were expecting from Thai curry and Chef Du Bellay might have played it a little too safe with the spices and fish sauce. The ratios were off. Nevertheless, the curry had absolutely removed the odd, brine-y taste of bamboo shoots that Chef Pao disliked. The texture, too, was something he could get around.
Still... it was not the winning dish we were looking for.
Comments were given and because by now, contestants were already coming up to the evaluation stage in alphabetical order, I knew exactly who to expect next.
There was a spark in his eye as he came up to lift his cloche and reveal his dish—glancing at Chef Marseille as he did. "Hey Chef."
"Cox. I see you've changed. Used to think you were a little brat who insisted on A's every single assessment."
"You gave 'em," he shrugged, a smirk crossing his lips. "I never got a B."
"You never know, this may be your first," she raised a brow. "Spring rolls aren't very..." she came to a pause when Leroy pulled out a porcelain sauce boat and drizzled, on top of the spring rolls, an herb-infused cream sauce before cutting into one of the spring rolls for a cross-section. The cameramen were pleased.
"Show-off," Chef Marseille snorted just as I rolled my eyes all the same at this silly idiot. He had not said a thing about a sauce or dip while we were interviewing him at his station. A purposeful surprise, then.
Chef Pao appeared wary—as though the previous disappointment had lowered his expectations of those who'd chosen his ingredient but one bite and the look in his eyes said everything.
He wagged a finger at Leroy as he chewed, then, after swallowing, turned to us with a not-whisper. "Told you guys he's my favorite."
Chef Streisand cracked up while I was reduced to the mere shaking of my head. Outrageous.
"The hand-rolled wrappers did you well. Thin, crisp—properly rolled and fried with perfect timing. The pork, you sliced very thinly and I think was marinated in... a peri-peri sauce with lime. There's also the contrast of the texture of the bamboo shoots and glass noodles, which quite cleverly replaced carrots. Garlic chives were the perfect choice of vegetables to mask the odor and aftertaste Chef Pao did not like while retaining the earthy undertones of the key ingredient. And of course, your sauce." I sighed, dabbing it with my fork and tasting it again. "Some type of ranch. Not exactly traditional, because for some reason, you decided to include—"
"Coriander." He had the gall to confirm w-with a disarming... an awful... a... a... asdlfikjsdg.
"Which was not part of the assignment—"
"I understood the assignment."
"Well, nowhere did it state that..." I felt a hand on my shoulder and came to my senses at once with the cameras all around and my counterparts laughing their heads off while I'd indulged myself with a sinful conversation with a criminal. Turning back to Leroy, I realized that he, too, was trying to hide a smile threatening to surface.
"Chef Cox, I think we all agree that you've surpassed our expectations with such a simple dish," Chef Streisand said amidst laughter. "Even Pao has no words. And, well, frankly, I wasn't all that keen on spring rolls either but I daresay you've proved us wrong. I don't think Pao was expecting bamboo shoots to taste so good, and with such a simple dish."
Chef Marseille agreed, but put forth her thoughts about it being surprisingly technical and complex to achieve mastery in timing the fry and adapting to flavor combinations along the way. "Alright, run along now."
"Where's my A?"
Our ex-instructor laughed, shaking her head with a finger on her temple. "Up your ass, young man. Go."
He glanced my way before taking his leave. The rest of the room clapped as he returned to his station.
There were interesting dishes up next. Because more than half the chefs had ended up with licorice as their key ingredient, desserts were the bulk of tastings. Licorice rice pudding, a raspberry licorice cake, licorice macarons and one attempt at a savory dish: licorice roast pork.
Pierson had presented Chef Pao with a stir fry of pork and bamboo shoots that, while decent-tasting, failed to gain an overwhelmingly positive response overall. In contrast to Leroy's simple dish that could very well have been presented at a restaurant, Pierson's, albeit personable and close to comfort food, did not feel as elevated as one would expect it to be.
"Chef Tenner. Finally. Woman of the hour," Chef Pao rubbed his hands together and at once, Layla came up with her signature open arms and Chef Marseille, exasperated but with a hint of nostalgia in her eyes, received her with a hug.
"Now... coriander. Tell us what you made."
"This is basically barbecued turmeric cod with coriander chutney and a fennel pickle and herb-infused rice. Of course," she looked over her shoulder, presumably at Leroy. "With coriander in it."
The next thing cameras knew, they were staring down a proper middle finger and of course, heads were in hands, groveling at the idiot's sheer audacity and knowing how they'd simply need to cut that out or censor an entire hand.
"The cod, I coated in a mix of flour, turmeric, lemon zest and chili flakes. Then grilled over a coal fire."
One bite.
And I knew she'd wear the toque blanche.
I was far too invested in the dish to observe the reactions of my counterparts, busy helping ourselves to more of the smoky, spiced cod that flaked in the most heavenly manner and toasted fingers with the sheer boldness of flavors.
Ingenious. The coriander chutney tasted of green chilies and lime, adding an acidity and kick that perfectly balanced out the alkaline bitterness of the ingredient I disliked and a sprig of mint brought out a unique freshness that I'd always heard coriander was loved for but could never actually taste it without experiencing an overpowering soapy-ness.
Best of all, a surprise: a touch of maple syrup in the fennel pickle. Absolutely phenomenal.
Blown away would have been an understatement.
Needless to say, I'd always known Layla had deserved all that recognition, respect and adoration she'd received from students and instructors alike back in culinary school. It was simply a series of unfortunate events that followed one after another that had to be dealt with and sacrificed just to get her back on the path she'd been walking. Back on track.
For all intents and purposes, I'd used to think, back then—and perhaps even now—that her existence had in some way or another influenced the events of the... latter part of my relationship with Leroy, our time together in culinary school.
Still, placing any blame on he would've made me incredibly short-sighted.
It was clear that Leroy and I had our personal issues to sort out. In the end, things might have been slightly different, but not drastically so. Layla was merely a catalyst to our falling apart. There was no use wishing for what things could have been.
Food and memories, I thought, then. Layla's dish had, precisely, proved the definition of good food. Things buried deep, surfacing every now and then.
There was no comment. Or so I believed everyone who tasted her dish felt exactly as I did. Speechlessness was, at times, the best compliment. And after minutes of false, private deliberation among the judges, the decision was unanimous: Chef Pao announced Layla as the first chef to wear the toque blanche.
Chef Marseille was the one who did the honors of pinning it to Layla's jacket. Under her breath, I thought I heard her say how proud she was. Of how far she had come.
=====================
Italy was approximately two hours away from London and little Leo had just gotten himself checked and passed for flight in his cozy carrier. The process had taken me at least an hour at the airport with officials and Raul, accompanying me on the flight as my assistant and personal translator, had nearly given up on getting my kitten on board. Of course, I'd insisted. He used to term 'begged'. I beg to differ. 'Pleaded', perhaps. How else was Leo going to cope? I couldn't possibly leave him with Florence. Or anyone else. He'd, w-well. He'd be afraid and alone.
Either way, the flight was nearly booked out in entirety by the production team and while directors and producers had the luxury of first-class seats, participants and judges, at the very least, were allowed to fly business. Which was, already, a pleasant surprise. I hadn't been expecting very much.
Raul and I returned to the area that the production team and specified to gather at, with the camera crew running through special procedures with the director for checking-in their equipment. There was a line for that. And another for the sound team.
Meanwhile, contestants filtered in, joining the group left right center and mingling while waiting for further instructions while I... um... surveyed my surroundings for a certain—
"Down. No—Chicken, stop."
I turned just in time to see the border collie I so missed running up to me with his leash dragging across the floor, stopping obediently at my foot with a happy tail and a raised gaze. Waiting for a head pat.