Chương 140: First Battle, a Poem of the Earth

The first round of group play kicked off, formally, the next morning. Group A, the American team's group, had been slotted into the morning session. When Chris, Ethan, and Kira walked into their kitchen zone in whites with the Stars and Stripes printed across the back, they could clearly hear the enormous cheering and shouts of encouragement from the gallery on the second floor. The atmosphere was far more fervent than the Selection had been, and far more blood-stirring.

On the central judging platform, five Michelin three-star chefs from different nations already sat bolt upright. They would judge every work on the floor with the most exacting palates there were. On the big screen, the theme of the first round was announced — "Earth" (TERRE). A very grand theme, and a very open one. It could be a concrete ingredient — root vegetables, grains, mushrooms — or an abstract concept: homesickness, roots, heritage.

By the schedule, the American team's first duel was against Brazil, out of South America. And on the other side, France faced Japan — a clash worthy of the phrase "Mars colliding with Earth," a final brought forward.

"Brazil…" Ethan said in a low voice, watching the three dark-skinned, powerfully built chefs in the kitchen across from them.

"Their style should be warm, unbridled — good with all kinds of spices and tropical fruit. Our edge is in technical precision and layered flavor." Four months of grinding it out together had made Ethan no longer the technique fanatic who cared only for himself. He'd begun to learn to analyze opponents from the angle of team strategy.

"Agreed," Chris nodded.

"So our menu has to have a clear narrative logic — one complete story to interpret our understanding of 'Earth.'" The three of them quickly huddled and locked the final menu. It was a plan they'd already rehearsed over and over, against this classic theme of "Earth," before ever coming to Paris. The appetizer was Kira's. She would use a shellfish tartare called "Echo of the Pacific" to represent the land of America's West Coast.

With the freshest geoduck, scallop, and sea urchin, dressed in a citrus-sake vinegar, she'd present the freshness and briny savor of the place where ocean meets land. The main was Ethan's. He'd use a dish called "Heartbeat of the Plains" to represent the vast heartland of central America. Nebraska grass-fed sirloin, brought through precise aging and heat control, paired with a rich sauce simmered from an array of root vegetables — the weight and power of the land. And the dessert was Chris's.

He'd use a "Whisper of the Earth: Reprise" to echo his work from the night of the secret menu. This time he shaped the potato into a warm caramel custard, paired with a crisp made from the sweet corn of the American Midwest and a stroke of whisky-flavored cream. This dessert was at once an expression of his personal cooking philosophy and a representation of his most plain, most tender memory of this American land. Stolen novel; please report.

Three dishes — from the West Coast's ocean, to the central plains, to the fields of a personal memory — formed a complete narrative arc running from the grand to the intimate.

"I'll take the final plating on the appetizer and dessert," Kira said.

"I'll take the core cooking and heat on the main," Ethan came in.

"I'll take the cooking on the dessert, the mixing of every sauce, and the coordination of the whole pass," Chris added last. The division of labor was clear, each to their own post.

"Begin!" At the president's command, all four teams in Group A launched at once into their frantic work. In the American kitchen, the three of them dropped into rhythm fast. Kira worked her shellfish in silence, her knife light and precise, as if caressing an object of art. Ethan began trimming that huge sirloin, every movement of his as if measured with a ruler, faultlessly standard. Chris began simmering the sauces the main and the dessert needed.

He stood at the range controlling three pans at once, his expression fixed. He was the team's heart, binding Kira's and Ethan's work tightly together through sauce and through flow. Their coordination held little talk but ran full of unspoken understanding. A single glance, a single gesture, and the other caught the intent at once. Across the way, Brazil showed formidable strength too.

Their kitchen filled with the strange fragrances of tropical fruit and spice; their chefs moved in broad, sweeping strokes, full of a wild vitality. With cassava flour, açaí, and grilled meats, they built a scroll of the Amazon rainforest — vivid in color, bold in flavor. Time passed, second by second. When the order to plate came down, Chris — the connector — began his most crucial work.

"Kira, the appetizer's ready to go!"

"Ethan, the sirloin can go in the oven!"

"Sauce temperature's just right — hold the purée warm!" His voice became the kitchen's only metronome, controlling the pickup rhythm of all three dishes, making sure each reached the judges at the perfect moment, in its perfect state. In the end, when the three dishes were carried to the judging platform by the servers, Chris let out a long breath. They had done the best they could do. The judges began to taste.

First they nodded at the freshness and creativity of Kira's appetizer; then they praised the perfect cook on Ethan's sirloin; and finally, tasting Chris's warm, plain potato caramel custard, an Italian judge's face took on a thoughtful look. After a long wait, the scores came at last. On the big screen, the final marks of both teams appeared. Brazil: 82. A fairly high score — proof their strength was not to be taken lightly. Every eye fixed on the American team's mark.

The number began to jump, and settled, at last, on a figure. USA: 86. They'd won! It was only a slim four-point margin — but this first victory was, without question, a shot of adrenaline for the American team. It proved that their four months of grinding together had paid off richly. Their model of team cooperation worked, on a world-class floor. Chris exchanged a smile with Ethan and Kira, and they slapped hands hard. But their joy didn't last long.

Because on the other side, the duel between France and Japan had reached its verdict too. France: 94. Japan: 92. Seeing those two terrifying numbers, the smiles on the three Americans' faces froze in an instant. They realized that in this group out of hell, 86 might be a barely passing mark. In the next round, their opponent would be the Japanese team — who had just scored a towering 92.