Chapter 13
mei
The Nevada sun is trying to murder us through the convention center windows. I’m not being dramatic. It’s literally turning the competition floor into an oven, and we haven’t even started cooking yet.
Now? Now I’m just trying not to throw up.
“You good?” Tovek asks.
I look up at him. He’s wearing his competition uniform, the black chef’s coat with “The Drunken Dragon” embroidered across the back.
The sleeves are rolled up to show the tribal scars on his forearms, and his massive hands are unpacking our knives with the kind of precision that makes my stomach do complicated things.
“Fine,” I say.
It’s both true and a complete lie. The bar is turning a profit. My social media is back in the green. For the first time in months, I’m cooking for something other than survival. I’m also a complete mess of nerves and hope and fear, because wanting things you might not get to keep is terrifying.
“Bullshit,” he says. There’s no edge to it. “Talk to me, Hot Pot.”
The nickname does things to my chest that I’m not ready to examine. “It’s the stakes,” I admit, arranging our ingredients with way more care than they need. “If we win, hell, if we place, it changes everything. The debt. Grishnak. What happens to the bar.”
“We’ll handle it,” he says. His voice is steady in a way that makes me want to believe him. “Win or lose. Together.”
Together.
The word sits between us like something physical.
“Focus,” he says. His hand is warm at the small of my back. “One dish at a time. One judge at a time. We’ve got this.”
I nod and turn to survey the competition floor.
It’s packed. Twenty teams arranged in a massive circle, each with their own prep station and cooking area.
I spot the vampire collective from the east side with their theatrical presentation.
The halfling twins who run the bakery in Old Town.
The troll chef from Sunrise Casino’s new steakhouse who’s been trash-talking The Drunken Dragon since we entered this thing.
Then I see him.
Grishnak is sitting in the front row of the judges’ section, radiating calculated menace. He’s watching us with the kind of attention that makes my skin crawl.
“Ignore him,” Tovek says, following my gaze. “He’s not a judge. He’s just hoping to see us fail.”
“Not today,” I say. I mean it. “Not with a hundred and fifty grand on the line.”
The prize money is exactly what we need.
Enough to clear the current payment we owe Crimson Financing, and nearly wipe out the bar’s remaining debt.
Plus the platform that comes with a first-place finish.
The Culinary Quarterly feature. The festival appearances.
The boost to the bar’s reputation that would make us untouchable by Grishnak’s standards.
It’s worth the risk.
The host takes the stage. He’s a satyr with a carefully styled beard and the confidence of someone who’s done this a hundred times.
“Welcome, chefs and food enthusiasts, to the eighteenth annual New Vegas Cook-Off!” His voice booms through the speakers.
“This is where legends are made, where careers are launched, and where the culinary stars of tomorrow prove they have what it takes to stand the heat!”
I roll my eyes. “Could he be any more dramatic?”
“Probably,” Tovek says. There’s amusement underneath his neutral tone. “Just wait for the mystery ingredients.”
The satyr is building to it now. The big reveal. “This year, our judges have selected two ingredients that represent the very essence of Las Vegas itself. Fire and ice, risk and reward, the alchemy that happens when opposites attract!” He gestures to the massive screen behind him.
Two words appear:
DRAGON PEPPERS
CREAM
The crowd oohs. My stomach drops.
Dragon peppers. The legendary chilis that grow only in the volcanic soil of the southern mountains. They’re notorious for their heat and their habit of turning even experienced chefs into sobbing wrecks. And cream. The perfect counterpoint. The richness that cools the burn.
Fire and ice.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, doing calculations in my head. “We need a plan. Three dishes, two ingredients, one cohesive story.”
“Scallops,” Tovek says without hesitation. “Seared with dragon pepper, finished with a cream foam. Light, elegant, perfect for the first course.”
I nod, already seeing it. The combination of heat and cool. The contrast of textures. The way the cream would cut through the pepper’s burn. “Second course, noodles. Tossed with dragon pepper oil and a cream-based sauce. Simple but effective.”
“We need a third,” he says. His eyes move to the clock. Two hours to create, plate, and present three perfect dishes to a panel of notoriously tough judges. “Something that ties it all together.”
“Something with chocolate,” I say. The idea is taking shape as I speak. “A ganache, maybe. Dragon pepper for the heat, cream for the richness.” I meet his eyes. “It’s risky. Sweet, spicy, savory. It could be amazing or it could be a disaster.”
“I like our odds,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
We move fast. Tovek heads to the protein station for the scallops.
I go to the pantry for the chocolate and aromatics.
The competition floor is chaos. Twenty teams in various states of preparation.
The air is thick with competing scents from a dozen different cuisines.
I spot the troll chef watching us from across the room, deciding if we’re worth worrying about.
We are.
I grab what we need. High-quality chocolate. Fresh ginger. A vanilla bean that costs more than my first car. When I make it back to our station, Tovek is there. The scallops are arranged in a perfect line. His knife is moving through a dragon pepper with practiced precision.
“Careful with that,” I warn, setting my haul on the counter. “One seed could take out the entire competition.”
He nods. “I’m being gentle. They’re beautiful, though. Look at the color.”
He’s right. The dragon peppers are spectacular.
Deep crimson with veins of vivid orange.
Their skin is slightly translucent so you can see the seeds inside.
They’re about the size of my thumb, with that curl at the bottom that gives them their name.
I pick one up. I can feel the heat of it even through the skin.
“They’re from the southern range,” Tovek says, moving to the next task. “The volcanic soil gives them that complexity. Heat first, then this almost fruity note at the end.”
I stare at him. “How do you know that?”
He shrugs. There’s a pleased set to his shoulders. “I pay attention. You mentioned them once. Said they were your favorite, but you couldn’t get them fresh in the city.”
He remembered. He filed away the casual comment and remembered it months later when it mattered.
My throat gets tight.
“We need to move,” I say, reaching for the chocolate. “Two hours isn’t much for three courses.”
We work side by side. Our movements fall into the familiar rhythm we’ve developed over months in the kitchen.
Tovek handles the scallops, searing them to perfect caramelization.
The dragon pepper creates a crust that’s equal parts heat and sweetness.
I work on the cream foam, whipping it to the consistency that will hold its shape but dissolve on the tongue.
I add just a hint of vanilla to cut through the pepper’s burn.
“Try this,” he says, holding out a small piece of scallop on the tip of his knife. “Tell me if the heat’s right.”
I take it from him, careful not to touch his fingers despite the warmth that builds in my chest whenever we’re this close.
The scallop is perfect. Tender with just the right amount of chew.
The dragon pepper provides a heat that builds rather than overwhelms. By the time I swallow, my lips are tingling and my eyes are slightly watery, but it’s the good kind of burn.
The kind that makes you reach for another bite despite the pain.
“It’s perfect,” I say, reaching for the next ingredient. “The foam will cut the heat just enough. They’re going to love it.”
He nods and turns back to his station. “Two down, one to go.”
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.”