Chương 82: Intuition Says the System Did the Math Wrong

The timer ticked away. The ninety-minute countdown flickered on the big screen above the studio. Chris stood at his station, looking at the five large scallops on the board. They were big, the flesh plump, a sheen of water glistening on their surface. He didn't start right away. Starting now was an easy way to make mistakes. First he needed to run the whole process once in his head.

"Initiate Dish Simulation," Chris murmured inwardly. The system panel unfolded before his eyes. A virtual kitchen appeared in his sight. He fed in all the data—the scallops, the butter, the pan. The system began to calculate furiously. Oil temperature, the coagulation point of protein, the critical threshold of the Maillard reaction—all kinds of data scrolled across the panel. A few seconds later, the system gave its optimal solution. [Recommended plan: high-heat pan, add clarified butter. Sear 90 seconds per side. Estimated completion: 88%.] Eighty-eight percent. On an ordinary day that counted as a decent mark, but on the first day of Hell Week, facing Vane's signature dish, the score was far from safe. Ethan's completion would absolutely top 90. But there was no time now to find a better plan. Chris decided to start with the system's. He turned to grab a pan and lit the burner. The flame leapt up, licking the bottom of the pan. He cut off a piece of clarified butter and dropped it in.

The butter melted fast, foaming with tiny bubbles. Chris picked up the first scallop, blotted the surface dry with a paper towel, seasoned it with salt and black pepper, and set it in the pan. Sss— The instant the scallop met the pan, it made a sound. Chris frowned. Something was off. The sound was wrong. By the system's projection, high heat meeting dry protein should give off a very crisp, sharp crackle. But this sound was a little muffled, even carrying a note of steam evaporating.

He stared at the scallop in the pan. Around its edge in the pan, that fast-caramelizing gold wasn't appearing. What was going on? Chris's mind raced. He reached out at once and pressed the four remaining scallops on the board. The flesh was springy, but his fingertips picked up an unmistakable wetness. Too much water content. This batch of scallops the production team had provided was large, but the internal water content ran far above the average in the system's database.

The moment a scallop hit the pan, water seeped out in quantity, dragging the pan temperature straight down. What should have been a high-heat sear had become half sear, half braise. The 90 seconds the system gave were nowhere near enough to form a perfect Maillard crust. If he forced the wait to 90 seconds and flipped, the surface would absolutely come up pale. If he extended the sear to get color, the inside would overcook, turning into the rubber tire Vane hated most. The system's calculation was rigid.

It recognized only average data; it couldn't judge the tiny differences in each batch of ingredients. A knot tightened in Chris's chest. He forced himself to breathe deep and pulled his eyes off the system panel. He couldn't keep looking at those scrolling numbers. The data was wrong now. He focused everything onto the pan in front of him.

"Shut down the simulation," he called inwardly. The panel vanished. Now it was all on him. Chris picked up his tongs and flipped the first scallop. Sure enough, the bottom showed only a faint yellow, no crisp hard crust at all. This scallop was finished. No time to regret it. He had four scallops left. Vane only required one perfect plate at the end; he didn't need every scallop to succeed—he only needed to produce the best batch at the final moment. This story has been stolen from Royal Road.

If you read it on Amazon, please report it He poured the oil out of the pan, reheated it, and this time cranked the flame to maximum. He picked up the second scallop, hefted its weight in his hand, feeling the water inside. He closed his eyes and called back the feeling from the market challenge—cooking entirely on instinct. Chef's Intuition triggered. Chris felt his senses heighten. He could smell the butter in the air heating to its critical point, the scorched-sweet edge of it.

He heard the faint crackle at the bottom of the pan. He set the second scallop in. This time the sound was a little louder, but still not enough. He didn't look at the clock—he locked his eyes on the change of color at the scallop's edge. The white flesh turned, bit by bit, opaque, and the bottom edge began to take on a faint caramel ring. Chris touched the side of the scallop lightly with his tongs. The flesh was beginning to firm. Flip. Better color than the first—but still just shy on the heat. The third.

Chris changed his strategy. He first ran the flame extremely high until the pan was nearly smoking, then poured in a little high-smoke-point grapeseed oil, and set the scallop in. Sssss— This time the sound was right. Very crisp. The protein at the scallop's bottom dehydrated and set fast in the high heat. Chris caught a rich scent—sweet ocean brine mingled with caramel. He counted silently. Not seconds, but the rhythm of the water evaporating inside the scallop. About right. Flip. A perfect golden crust.

But a new problem came again. Because the early heat had run too high, this scallop's surface had colored perfectly—yet the heat conducted inward too fast. Chris pressed it with a finger; the flesh sprang back a touch too firmly. Overcooked. Only two scallops left. He had to find the absolutely perfect balance point on the fourth. Chris drew a deep breath. He turned his head and glanced at Ethan, diagonally across. Ethan's station was clean as an operating room.

He was searing scallops too—holding a digital temperature probe, piercing the center of each scallop every ten-some seconds. He was controlling temperature with the most precise instrument, with no need to lean on instinct at all. His movements were mechanical, cold—but absolutely error-free. Chris pulled his eyes back. He had no temperature probe. He had only his own hands and eyes. He picked up the fourth scallop. Pan up, oil heating. Medium-high flame. Scallop in.

Chris closed his eyes, his ears catching the burst and pop of the oil. The sizzle went from dense to slightly sparse. That was the signal—the surface water had evaporated, and caramelization was beginning. About a hundred seconds passed. Flip. A perfect golden color. Then Chris quickly dropped the flame to medium, tossed in a knob of butter, and spooned the melting butter over the scallop's surface without stopping. The cream of the butter and the sweetness of the scallop fused together. Sixty seconds.

He killed the heat and pulled the pan off the burner. The scallop stayed in the pan, finishing on the residual heat. Twenty seconds. Chris lifted the scallop out with his tongs and set it on a paper towel to blot the oil. He pressed the center of the scallop lightly with a finger. Soft, but with support. The feel of jelly. It worked. This was the perfect heat. Crisp outside, translucent within.

He'd finally found the perfect cooking rhythm for this batch of high-water scallops: medium-high flame to set the color for a hundred seconds, flip and drop to medium for sixty, off the heat and let the carryover finish it for twenty. He cooked the last scallop the same way. Equally perfect. Scallops handled, Chris turned at once to the pea purée and the mint oil. The pea purée meant cooking fresh peas, blitzing them in a blender, and passing them through a sieve.

The mint oil meant blanching mint leaves, blending them with vegetable oil, and straining out a clear green liquid. Less than twenty minutes left. Chris moved fast. He dropped the peas into boiling water with a big pinch of salt. Once cooked, he lifted them out and plunged them into ice water to hold their bright green. Just as he was about to tip the peas into the blender, he heard a low curse from beside him. It was Marcus. Chris turned to look. Marcus was drenched in sweat, his hand shaking on the tongs.

Smoke billowed from his pan. He'd hesitated two seconds on the flip just now, and in those two seconds the bottom of the scallop had seared black. Marcus flipped it over in a panic, and the other side, with the pan temperature dropped, wouldn't color at all. One side black, one side white. Despair filled Marcus's eyes. He knew he'd blown it. Chris looked at Marcus, an ache rising in his chest. But there was nothing he could do. This was an individual elimination; no one could help anyone.

"Last five minutes!" Vane's big voice rang through the studio. Chris pulled his focus back and bent to his pea purée. He tipped the blitzed peas into the sieve and pressed them through hard with a spoon. Because time was so tight, the force of his hand wasn't even, and some slightly coarse particles slipped into the purée. He tasted it. The flavor was good—the sweetness of the peas and the butter married well. But on texture, it was, truly, a touch less than silk-smooth. No time to sieve it again.

Chris began to plate. He smeared a spoonful of pea purée in the center of a white plate and, with the back of the spoon, dragged it lightly into a beautiful comma shape. Then he set the two most perfect scallops on the purée. Finally, with a dropper, he drew up the emerald mint oil and dripped a few drops around the plate. Russet caramel scallops, emerald pea purée, clear mint oil. The contrast of colors was striking.

"Ten, nine, eight..." Vane began the countdown. Chris stopped, and stepped back.

"Three, two, one! Hands off!" The competition was over. The whole place went quiet. The five stood at their stations, awaiting the verdict of fate. Chris glanced at Marcus beside him. Marcus had his head down, not daring even to look at his own plate. Vane stepped down from the judges' table, his face dark enough to terrify.