Chapter 13 #2
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 considering what we’ve created. By the time we make it back to our station, my hands are shaking slightly.
“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 the dedication 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.
“It was fucking revolutionary,” he says. The words come out more forceful than he intended. “The way the heat built, then the cool of the cream cut through it. It was like eating lightning and snow at the same time.”
The crowd laughs. I catch Grishnak’s eye from the front row. His expression shifts from careful neutrality to something harder. He knows exactly what’s happening. His interference failed.
And that’s when it hits me.
The feeling that’s been building since the moment I walked into his bar six months ago, desperate and debt-ridden and spectacularly unprepared for whatever this is. I’m in love with him. Because he sees me. Really sees me, in all my spectacular failure and occasional courage.
And chooses me anyway.
So I kiss him.
Right there on stage, with the lights too bright and the crowd’s enthusiasm washing over us in waves. My hand in his hair. His massive frame bending to meet me. The rightness of his mouth against mine.
The crowd goes wild.
I’m aware of Tovek’s hand at the small of my back. Of the careful way he adjusts his movements to account for my smaller frame. Of the warmth in his eyes when he looks at me like I’m something precious rather than a spectacular failure.
Later, much later, after the formal congratulations and the informal celebrations and the chaos of twenty chefs drinking too much in a bar that’s technically closed, Vex appears at the edge of our table.
He’s wearing his usual outfit. Tailored suit. Platinum watch. The confidence of someone who expects doors to open for them. But there’s something different in his expression. A reassessment, perhaps. A recalculation of what we’re worth.
“Congratulations,” he says. His voice is smooth with the polish of expensive education. “The Alliance is very impressed with your performance. As am I.”
The implication is clear.
“Thank you,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “We appreciate the support.”
He nods. “I’ve been authorized to extend your payment schedule,” he continues, reaching into his jacket. “Sixty days for the remaining balance, rather than the standard thirty. Consider it a professional courtesy.”
The new contract appears on the table between us. Carefully typed. Officially notarized. Exactly the kind of document that changes lives with nothing more than a signature.
I should be relieved. Sixty days is twice what we had. Twice the time to figure out how to clear the remaining debt.
Instead, I feel a chill running down my spine.
This isn’t generosity. It’s strategy. Grishnak, with his grudge and his institutional power, is still three moves ahead. He’s not scared. He’s adapting. Recalculating. Making sure we stay in his orbit just a little bit longer.
“We’ll have it,” Tovek says. His voice is steady despite the tension in his shoulders.
Vex nods. “I’m sure you will,” he says. He turns to go. “The Alliance is watching with great interest.”
The price of success.
“He’s not scared,” I say when Vex is gone. “He’s repositioning. The cook-off, the publicity, the fact that we’re building something that stands on its own merits. It changes the calculation. Makes us more valuable under his control than crushed beneath it.”
Tovek’s jaw tightens. “Then we stay ahead of him.”
He’s right. The competition. The first-place finish. The platform that comes with a golden whisk. They’ve bought us time. The breathing room that comes with being worth more alive than dead.
“It’s not over,” I say. I mean it.
He nods. “But we’ve got a shot,” he says. “Together.”
Together.
Six months of watching him across the kitchen. Of building something real in a space that’s finally, officially ours.
“So,” he says, changing the subject. “Where are we putting the whisk?”
I laugh despite myself. The tension in my chest eases slightly. “Mantel,” I say without hesitation. “Right next to the dragon figurine. So everyone can see it when they walk in.”
He nods. “Perfect,” he says. “Just like you.”