“They liked it,” Tovek says. His voice is steady. “All of them, even Saul. You could see it in their faces when they tasted the chocolate.”
He’s right. There was that moment. That flash of surprise followed by careful reassessment. It doesn’t guarantee a win. Doesn’t even guarantee we’ll place. But it’s something. A recognition, however small, that what we’ve created is worth paying attention to.
“Now we wait,” I say, reaching for a water bottle. My throat is dry. My hands are still slightly unsteady. “Twenty minutes until they announce the winners.”
He nods and pulls me toward the small seating area behind our station. “Sit,” he says. His voice is gentle. “Before you fall over. You’ve been on your feet for three hours.”
I should argue. Should point out that he’s been standing just as long. That I’m perfectly capable of making it through the next twenty minutes without collapsing. But there’s something about the careful concern in his voice.
So I sit. I let my head fall back against the wall and close my eyes just for a moment.
The next thing I know, Tovek’s hand is on my shoulder. His voice is low in my ear. “Mei. They’re about to announce.”
I sit up straight. I’ve dozed off. The combination of adrenaline crash and three hours on my feet finally caught up to me. The competition floor is buzzing. Competitors gathered in nervous clusters. The judges huddled at the front of the room with their score sheets and careful calculations.
The satyr takes the stage again. “What a competition!” he calls. His voice booms through the speakers. “Our judges were impressed by the creativity, the technical skill, and thededication shown by all our competitors today. But as always, there can only be three winners.”
He goes through the formalities. Thanking sponsors. Acknowledging the judges. Building the tension. By the time he reaches the actual announcements, my hands are shaking slightly.
“Third place,” he calls, “with a technically perfect brisket that had our judges fighting for the last bite. Team Smokehouse from the Sunrise Casino!”
The troll chef takes the stage. His massive frame is somehow both imposing and graceful as he accepts the bronze medallion. The crowd cheers.
“Second place,” the satyr continues, “with a seafood tower that redefined elegance. The Deep from the eastern district!”
More cheers. More polite applause. I catch Tovek’s eye across our station. His expression shifts from careful neutrality to something harder. He’s doing calculations in his head.
“And finally,” the satyr says. His voice takes on that note that means he’s saving the best for last. “First place. Or should I say, first places, because for the first time in Cook-Off history, we have a tie!”
The crowd goes silent.
A tie. It’s almost unheard of. The judges are notoriously decisive. The scoring system is designed specifically to prevent exactly this situation.
“Our winners,” the satyr continues, “with dishes that balanced heat and cool, risk and reward, in perfect harmony. Team Barbecue from the southern district, and The Drunken Dragon!”
First place.
A tie, but first place.
The crowd erupts. Competitors cheering. Judges nodding in approval.
Tovek is moving before I’ve fully processed what’s happening. He gathers me against his chest with the care of someone handling something precious. “You did it,” he says. His voice is rough. “You fucking did it, Hot Pot.”
We make our way to the stage together. His hand is warm at the small of my back. The crowd’s enthusiasm washes over us in waves. The troll chef is there, accepting his golden whisk.
“And from The Drunken Dragon,” the satyr calls, “Chef Mei Tan and owner Tovek Greenfist!”
We take the stage together. The lights are suddenly too bright. The satyr hands me the whisk. Solid gold and surprisingly heavy. Engraved with the date and “First Place” in careful script.
It’s beautiful.
“Chef Tan,” the satyr says, moving to the interview portion. “That ganache, or rather, that anglaise, was extraordinary. The judges couldn’t stop talking about it. Where did the idea come from?”
I should have a prepared answer. Something about inspiration and tradition and the alchemy that happens when opposites attract.
Instead, I find myself saying, “It was Tovek’s idea. He suggested infusing the cream cold, letting the pepper steep overnight. We didn’t have overnight, but the basic concept was his.”
It’s not entirely true. But there’s something about the way his eyes light up when I say it.
