With the announcement over, the clock began ticking down—ninety minutes. Five chefs, one challenge, ten ingredients, and a demand for a drink pairing.
Knives clattered, pans sizzled, and the audience's cheers rumbled like a restless sea. But Vincent's world shrank to the workstation in front of him. His hands moved fast, precise, yet controlled.
He went straight for the beef. Every other chef had the same instinct, but while some rushed to sear theirs immediately, Vincent pulled out a knife slicing it into thin, neat pieces. Into a bowl it went, followed by soy sauce, a spoon of instant coffee, a dusting of cinnamon, black pepper, and a sprinkle of thyme and rosemary. From his system inventory, he slipped in a single syrenthroot leaf.
Then he worked the marinade through with his hands. The marinade clung to the beef in deep, earthy tones. The smell of coffee and cinnamon mixed oddly with the savory soy—intense, slightly bitter, aromatic.
"Chef Vincent, you're marinating before cooking?" the host's voice cut in as he approached with a mic. "Bold choice when time is short. What's your plan?"
Vincent didn't look up. His hands were still massaging the beef.
"I'm giving the flavors a head start," he said. "This beef isn't just going to be tender. It'll carry smoke, spice, and depth."
The crowd murmured in approval. The host grinned. "Sounds dangerous—in a good way. We'll check back later."
He stirred it gently, then set it aside to absorb the flavors. As the beef soaked in its bath, Vincent moved to the dough.
He poured flour into a wide bowl, added the blended bread crumbs, added melted butter, salt, and warm water. Finally, he spooned in squid ink. Instantly, the mixture turned black—glossy, gothic, like midnight kneaded into dough.
Gasps rippled from the audience. Black dough? Whispers began to spread. Gasps from nearby chefs drew attention as Vincent worked the inky dough— kneading, pressing and folding, until it turned smooth and glossy— with strong, practiced hands. After a few minutes, he covered it to rest.
The host wandered over to his station again.
"Chef Vincent," he said, leaning forward with a curious smile. "That dough looks… ominous. What exactly are you planning?"
Vincent glanced up, unbothered, hands dusted with black flour. "A tortilla wrap," he said coolly. "But not just any wrap. A smoky goth beef tortilla, paired with a spicy peanut-coconut dip. It'll look dark, but taste alive."
The crowd murmured again. Dark food was dicey, but Vincent's tone was so sure it silenced doubt.
Vegetables next. His knife flashed—carrots into thin matchsticks, cabbage sliced fine, lettuce torn into ribbons. The board piled high with fresh color.
While the dough rested, Vincent turned to the tomatoes. He sliced them in half, laid them on an oven tray with bell peppers, green peppers, a few scotch bonnet peppers, onions, and garlic. He drizzled oil over the top, then under the oven broiler they went. Soon, the sharp, sweet scent of charred vegetables filled the air, smoky and tantalizing.
Vincent pulled the tray out, skins blistered, edges charred just enough. He blended the roasted mix until smooth, then poured the crimson blend into a saucepan over low heat. Slowly, he poured in coconut milk and a generous spoon of peanut butter. The sauce thickened into a creamy, nutty base with a rich orange glow. He added salt, a bullion sachet, chopped cilantro, a squeeze of lime juice, and—secretly—another syrenthroot leaf. The flavor spiked instantly, bright and sharp. The judges shifted in their seats, leaning closer, noses twitching catching the scent.
The aroma drifted through the air, making even rival chefs pause to glance his way.
Meanwhile, Vincent heated oil in a skillet. He added chopped onions, sautéing until they turned golden brown, then garlic for a sharp burst. The marinated beef went in next. It hissed violently, the smell of coffee and cinnamon colliding with searing meat, earthy and sweet, blending with the savory soy.
"Smells insane," someone in the crowd whispered.
The host, now near another chef, chuckled into his mic. "And what are you making, Chef Elena?"
"I'm working on a Citrus-Glazed Beef Skewers with Coconut-Lime Cream, ," she answered, sweat beading on her brow. "And for my drink, a minted Coconut Cooler."
The audience clapped. The host cracked a joke about "liquid desserts" that earned a few laughs, but even as he joked, his eyes drifted back to Vincent's station.
When the beef browned, he stirred in tomato paste, beef stock, and coconut milk. The mixture simmered down into a thick, glossy sauce clinging to the beef. Then came his signature move—he slid a small metal container into the skillet, dropped in hot charcoal, and drizzled oil. Instantly, smoke curled upward, fragrant and intense. He covered the pan, trapping the smoke inside, infusing every strand of beef with the smoky depth.
Judges exchanged looks. One muttered, "He's smoking the beef directly? That's risky. But if it works…"
While the beef smoked, Vincent returned to the dough. He divided it into pieces, rolled them into balls, then flattened each with a rolling pin. Black discs of dough spread across the counter. He toasted them one by one until they puffed and blistered, each like a soft, smoky-black moon.
For the wrap sauce, he whisked mayonnaise, peanut butter, lime juice, salt, pepper, garlic powder, and sesame oil. The result was smooth, nutty, and tangy.
But Vincent wasn't done. He pulled out a pot and poured in dried hibiscus petals. Water boiled, releasing a deep ruby-red hue that spread like ink. He added cinnamon sticks, lime juice, and sugar, letting the mixture steep until the aroma filled the air—floral, citrusy, faintly spiced. He strained it over ice, the liquid glowing scarlet, bright as a jewel.
The host inhaled dramatically. "Ohhh, I smell summer! Is that… hibiscus?"
Vincent gave the smallest nod, eyes fixed on his station. "Hibiscus iced tea. To refresh the palate."
A wave of chatter swept the audience. Bold, yet simple.
Time bled away, seconds vanishing faster than they should. Vincent's station was a battlefield of aromas: smoky beef, nutty sauce, roasted peppers, and cooling hibiscus.
With five minutes left on the clock, he finally pulled the lid off the beef. Smoke poured out, curling toward the lights. The meat glistened, dark and rich, perfumed with coffee and charcoal.
The host's voice thundered across the hall: "Five minutes remaining!"
Vincent's eyes sharpened. He still had to plate the tortillas, stack the vegetables, drizzle the sauces, and pour the iced tea. His hands blurred into motion.
The crowd roared, the judges leaned forward—eyes locked on him.