The noodle dish comes together quickly. Fresh pasta tossed with dragon pepper oil and a cream-based sauce that’s equal parts richness and heat. Simple but effective. The kind of dish that makes you close your eyes without meaning to.
“One more,” Tovek says, checking the clock. “Forty-five minutes to plate and present.”
The ganache is where things start to go wrong.
I’ve made hundreds of them. Cream heated with flavorings, poured over chocolate, whisked until smooth. But dragon peppers are notoriously unpredictable. Their heat changes based on everything from the soil they grew in to the phase of the moon when they were picked.
The first batch is too hot. The pepper overwhelms the chocolate, turning what should be rich and complex into something that burns all the way down.
The second is too mild. The pepper’s flavor is lost entirely beneath the chocolate’s richness.
The third is just right in terms of heat, but the texture is wrong. Grainy where it should be smooth. Separating where it should be holding together.
“Fuck,” I mutter, checking the clock again. Thirty minutes to figure this out, plate three perfect dishes, and present them to judges who’ve been waiting all day for someone to disappoint them. “We need a new approach.”
Tovek is moving, reaching for the cream. “What if we infuse it cold? Let the pepper steep overnight, then warm it gently with the chocolate?”
It’s a good idea. The kind of creative problem-solving that makes him such a good partner. But we don’t have overnight. We have twenty-eight minutes and a ganache that’s currently more suited to shoe polish than fine dining.
“I’ve got an idea,” I say. The solution is taking shape as I speak. “Anglaise instead of ganache. Dragon pepper in the custard, served over a simple chocolate base. The heat in the sauce, the cool of the cream, the richness of the chocolate. It could work.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t question or suggest alternatives or any of the things a less secure chef might do. He just nods and reaches for the eggs. “Tell me what you need.”
The next twenty minutes exist in fragments. Tovek separating eggs with practiced precision. Me infusing cream with dragon pepper and vanilla. Both of us moving with the focus that comes with a hard deadline.
The anglaise comes together beautifully. Thick and rich with just the right amount of heat. The pepper’s complexity balances the vanilla’s sweetness. I pour it over the chocolate base. Simple but elegant. A disc of dark chocolate ganache that’s been setting since we started. I garnish with a curl of candied dragon pepper that Tovek prepared while I wasn’t looking.
“Time,” the satyr calls. His voice booms through the speakers. “Chefs, step away from your stations. Judges, prepare for presentation.”
We’re ready.
Three perfect plates arranged on the presentation tray. Each one is a study in contrast and balance. The scallops with their dragon pepper crust and cream foam. The noodles with their rich, spicy sauce. The chocolate with its heat-and-cool anglaise.
It’s beautiful. Exactly what we set out to create.
“Good luck,” Tovek says. His hand is warm at the small of my back. “Not that you need it.”
The presentation goes exactly according to plan. Each judge nods appreciatively as we describe the dishes. Their expressions show they’re actually paying attention.
All except one.
A thin man with a carefully trimmed beard and the confidence of someone who’s used to being the smartest person in the room. He watches us with careful attention. His pen moves across the score sheet with precision.
I know exactly who he is.
Marcus Saul. Food critic for the New Vegas Review and Grishnak’s pet. He’s the one who wrote the takedown of my cookbook. Who suggested that my “inauthentic” approach to traditional dishes was “culinary colonialism at its worst.” He’s also the judge who’s been assigned to evaluate our technical execution. The category that can make or break a competition entry.
“Interesting approach,” he says when we’ve finished describing the dishes. “The scallops are nicely cooked, though I’m not sure the pepper crust adds much beyond heat. Perhaps a more traditional approach would have served you better.”
The criticism is subtle but pointed. Exactly the kind of note that can push a close competitor into second place.
It’s also complete bullshit. The pepper crust is the highlight of the dish.
“Thank you for the feedback,” I say, keeping my voice neutral despite the anger building in my chest. “We’ll take it under consideration for next time.”
He nods and moves on to the next dish. I catch Tovek’s eye across the table. His expression shifts from careful neutrality to something harder. He knows exactly what’s happening. Grishnak’s interference, playing out in real time.
The rest of the judging is a blur. Polite nods. Thoughtful questions. The focus that means they’re actually consideringwhat we’ve created. By the time we make it back to our station, my hands are shaking slightly.
