“On it,” he responds, jogging toward the pantry. He returns a few moments later,

and we swap places.

“Make sure to turn the duck and sear it evenly,” I call out as I begin to mix the

ingredients together to make the dough. “Use the red wine for moisture. Yeah,

just like that, perfect…”

When the buzzer blares, signaling the end of the round, I step back and take a

look at my dish.

It’s beautiful—each element perfectly executed, just like I rehearsed a million

times in my head. The plate practically glows under the stage lights, and I can’t

Enter title…

but feel a surge of pride course through my

around, forks

I watch as they reach Daniel’s station. He stands tall, his

My heart pounds

echoing my mounting anxiety.

come to

I say, pushing my plate forward. “I hope

of duck pâté en croûte. I incorporated a hint of

I believe adds a savory kick in

first judge takes a bite and nods approvingly, her eyes meeting

communication of respect. The second judge, too, gives a

Logan—the Logan—chef extraordinaire

restaurants in the world. His gaze

as he takes a

stretch out like hours as he chews slowly,

small grimace. My blood

off,” he says, setting down his fork. “And you

black pepper isn’t hiding

gut. The judges move

throat collapsing in on itself. This is only the first round,

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