Vincent stepped forward with a small smile on his face, his black-plated dish catching the spotlight. The crowd leaned in, whispers rising at the sight of the dark tortilla gleaming against the ruby of the iced tea.
His plate was striking: black squid-ink tortillas cut on a diagonal, smoky beef and bright vegetables spilling out, a golden crema glistening, the dip a fiery red-gold swirl. Beside it, the iced tea gleamed dark crimson, reddish-black, with lime and hibiscus flowers perched elegantly on the rim.
"My dish," Vincent began, steady and calm, "is Smoky Goth Beef Tortilla with Spicy Peanut-Coconut Dip and Hibiscus Noir Iced Tea. I marinated the beef with coffee, cinnamon, and soy to build depth, then infused smoke directly into the meat with heated charcoal. The tortillas are squid-ink infused for color and texture, toasted to a crisp. The sauce combines roasted tomato, peppers, coconut milk, peanut butter, lime, and fresh herbs for a creamy heat. The iced tea cuts the richness—hibiscus brewed with citrus and finished with lime and orange slices for balance. The theme of this dish is goth."
Marissa leaned forward, brows raised. "A black tortilla? Bold."
The judges lifted their forks, anticipation taut in the air. The first bite broke the tortilla shell with a soft crunch, smoke spilling out with the aroma of seared beef and roasted spices. Their eyes widened almost in unison, but they didn't pause—they kept eating even as they analyzed, lost in the layers of flavor.
"The beef… perfectly smoky, tender, slightly bitter from the coffee but balanced by the coconut," Henry murmured between bites, a soft mhm slipping out as he chewed. "The smoke… it lingers, but doesn't choke. Balanced perfectly."
Emilia closed her eyes, still biting into another piece. "The tortilla… mhm… chewy yet tender, the ink flavor is subtle but grounding," she said, tilting her head slightly, mhm again punctuating her words, eyes fluttering with delight.
Lionel dipped into the sauce, savoring, mhm… mhm, a gasp escaping him. "That peanut-coconut base—nutty, spicy, and lifted by lime. It's luxurious yet sharp." Even as he spoke, another piece disappeared into his mouth; the dish had captured him before his critique had.
Marissa set down her fork briefly, still holding the next piece midair. "I tried to find a fault. I wanted to. But there isn't one. Every note is balanced. Every texture deliberate. And the choice to use all ten ingredients and marry them seamlessly?—that's boldness rewarded." She picked up the tortilla as naturally as breathing, biting again, unable to stop.
Henry nodded, still chewing, mhm, mhm of satisfaction punctuating his words. "And it works. No overpowering element, no weak link."
By the time their review reached its conclusion, the plates were completely clean, a few tortilla shards clutched between fingers as they finished the last bite without even noticing. The judges had tasted, critiqued, and somehow devoured the dish entirely in a trance of blissful chaos—Vincent's masterpiece had demanded both awe and surrender.
The crowd erupted, some leaping to their feet.
Then they sipped the hibiscus tea. Their eyes lit up.
"Refreshing, tart, slightly floral. It refreshes the palate perfectly. A genius pairing." Lionel said.
"It's definitely a brilliant counterbalance to the heaviness of the dish. This isn't just cooking, Vincent—it's theater." Emilia praised.
"Gothic and theatrical." Marissa quipped in.
Vincent bowed his head slightly, hiding the flicker of a smile. "Thank you."
Applause broke out from the audience, and even the other chefs couldn't help but glance at his plate with envy and awe.
The host stepped forward, voice ringing clear over the murmur of the crowd.
"Chefs, you've given us smoke, spice, color, and creativity. Each of you has fought the clock, bent your skills around these ten wild ingredients, and plated something uniquely your own. But now comes the hardest part—judgment. The tasting is done. From here on, the decision rests with our esteemed panel."
He paused, letting the tension settle like a blade above their heads.
"You may now leave the floor. Please wait in the green room while the judges deliberate, debate, and ultimately decide which of you will move forward to the next round. Remember, only three chefs will advance to the final round."
A wave of applause and murmurs followed as the chefs bowed respectfully. They turned, exiting the stage one by one.
- - -
The air backstage was charged with nervous energy. Five chairs, a long table with bottles of water, and five chefs who had poured heart and soul into dishes now out of their hands.
Elena exhaled sharply, fanning herself with a napkin. "Well… that was brutal."
Marco chuckled dryly. "Brutal? Try humiliating. That lime in my drink—they made it sound like I'd squeezed poison into the cup."
Liona leaned back, folding her arms. "At least they liked your beef. I got told mine was 'too rich,' like decadence is a crime." Her eyes flicked toward Vincent, not unkindly, but edged with envy. "Meanwhile, someone walked away without a single critique... again."
All heads turned toward him. Vincent shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. "I… just got lucky. That's all."
"Lucky?" Alvaro let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Come on, man. You used all ten ingredients. You pulled smoke out of nowhere, plated something that looked like it belonged in an art gallery, and your drink…" He whistled low. "That Hibiscus Noir? Genius."
Even Elena nodded, reluctant but honest. "I'll admit, it was stunning. That color against the lime, the flower on the rim… it screamed elegance. Honestly, it could be bottled and sold tomorrow."
"And Liona," Marco added quickly, shifting the spotlight, "your shake… that was no joke either. Smooth, fragrant, not a single negative word from them."
Liona's lips curved in a small smile, the first since leaving the stage. "Thanks. At least I know I did something right."
But Elena muttered under her breath, "Still not enough to outshine Mr. Goth Tortilla over here."
Vincent chuckled awkwardly, trying to ease the sting. "Hey, let's not bury ourselves yet. They still have to deliberate. Anything could happen."
"Yeah," Alvaro said, though his tone carried more resignation than hope. "Anything."
The room fell into a quiet hum of nerves, each chef caught between pride, envy, and the restless wait for judgment.
- - -
The contestants had barely cleared the floor when one of the judges leaned forward, folding his hands together. The buzz of the crowd muffled behind closed doors, leaving the table heavy with silence and the lingering aromas of five plates.
"Well," Henry began, his voice thoughtful, "that was an impressive round. Challenging ingredients, limited time, and yet… five completely distinct dishes."
Lionel tapped his pen against his notes. "Distinct, yes. But also uneven. Let's be frank."
Henry gestured toward Elena's empty plate. "Her citrus-glazed skewers had brightness. The glaze sang—lime, honey, soy, very clever. But the char crossed the line into burnt, and once bitterness takes root…" He shook his head. "It's hard to forgive."
"Her drink was refreshing, though," Marissa countered. "Mint and coconut, light on the tongue. Though the mint overpowered the coconut."
Lionel adjusted his glasses. "A fair point. Still, skewers in this kind of competition? It felt safe. Too simple when compared to the risks others took."
A murmur of agreement passed around the table.
"Now Marco," Emilia said. "His coffee-braised beef rolls impressed me. That depth of flavor, that slow earthiness—there's a chef who understands patience."
"Yes, though the soy glaze was too aggressive," Henry said. "It strangled the subtler notes."
"True," said Lionel. "But his concept of pairing coffee with lime in the drink? Bold, if slightly unbalanced. I liked his courage."
Marissa smiled faintly. "Courage counts. Sometimes more than perfection."
Next, they discussed Liona's dish.
Her curry's aroma still seemed to haunt the room, spicy and bold.
"The roasted tomato base—divine," Lionel said with relish. "She pulled deep, smoky sweetness out of humble ingredients. That is skill."
Emilia, however, was less convinced. "Yes, but it was heavy. Rich to the point of overwhelming. By the third spoonful, I was ready to stop."
"Perhaps," Marissa allowed. "But let's not overlook her drink. That cinnamon-coconut shake? Unique, fragrant, utterly balanced. It was perfect. That's rare."
They all nodded, remembering the velvety smoothness that had washed down the spice like silk.
Next was Alvaro's dish.
His bread bowl presentation had made the audience gasp. The idea was clever—stew served in squid ink bread, a spritzer to refresh the palate.
"Visually," Henry admitted, "he had one of the most striking plates. A feast for the eyes."
"The peanut drowned everything," Lionel said flatly. "The smoke was lost. And the texture? Muddy. It collapsed into heaviness with each bite."
"And that spritzer…" the Emilia sighed. "The carbonation was smart, but soy in liquid form is harsh. Instead of refreshing, it punched the palate."
"A concept with promise," Marissa murmured, "but execution faltered badly."
Finally, their gazes fell on Vincent's black plate. Even empty, it carried presence.
"Well," Emilia murmured. "What can we say? He gave us smoke, color, texture, and he used every single ingredient. That tortilla wrap was a visual masterpiece, and the flavor… balanced, layered, precise."
Marissa smiled, shaking his head slightly. "I couldn't find a single fault. Not one."
"Neither could I," said Lionel. "Bold to go all-in like that, but it paid off. And that drink—what did he call it? Hibiscus Noir? It was more than refreshing. It was an extension of his theme. Dark, elegant, almost poetic."
A pause fell over them, the weight of agreement unspoken but understood.
Henry cleared his throat, breaking the moment. "Still, we must remember—this isn't about perfection alone. It's about creativity, courage, and the ability to rise under pressure. And only three must move forward."
Pens scratched across paper. Notes compared. Pros and cons debated in low voices.
Then at last they sat back, the verdict still unspoken, there was no doubt that some dishes had left deeper imprints than others.
Emilia finally exhaled. "Very well. Let's call them back in."