Chương 85: The Slice-and-Sear Gamble

Fifteen minutes left. The octopus on the board gave off the aroma of red wine, but its texture was that of a half-finished thing. Chris's mind raced. He couldn't grill it whole—the heat would never reach the center; the outside would char while the inside stayed tough. Slice it. The thought flashed through his head. As long as he cut the octopus thin enough, he could break down its tough muscle-fiber structure.

And slicing would massively increase the surface area exposed to heat, letting him finish a high-heat sear in the shortest possible time. Chris grabbed his chef's knife and ran the blade twice, fast, along the honing steel. He held down a thick tentacle, angled the edge, and began to slice the flesh. Each slice was only two or three millimeters thick. Cut open, you could see the octopus flesh was deep purple on the outer ring where the wine had stained it, snow-white in the middle. He cut fast.

His knife-work proficiency came into play now. In under three minutes, one octopus had become a large plate of thin slices. Next, he heated a frying pan until it was screaming hot and added a thin film of oil. He laid the octopus slices flat in the pan. Sssss— A violent crackle burst out, along with the aroma of evaporating wine. The slices curled fast in the high heat, their edges instantly taking on a crisp, charred texture. Because they were cut thin, the heat punched straight through the flesh in an instant.

The fibers, still a bit firm before, softened and caramelized fast under the assault of heat and fat. It only took thirty seconds. Chris quickly plated the slices off. He picked one up and put it in his mouth. The outer edge was crisp with a rich char; chewing into it, the sweet-tart base note of the red wine seeped out, and the flesh had turned springy, with no toughness wedging between the teeth at all. The gamble had paid off. Chef's Intuition gave a clear note of confirmation.

This on-the-fly switch had worked better than the original whole-octopus sear. He started plating at once. He laid the golden, crisp-fried little potatoes on the bottom of the plate, heaped the red-wine-charred octopus slices on top, and finished with a few spoonfuls of vivid green lime-cilantro sauce beside them. Rich color, a wave of aroma. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Just as he set the last element, a tremendous crash of a pan came from beside him. Chris turned to look. Jack had slammed his tongs down hard on the station. On his cutting board sat a heap of octopus pieces too grim to look at. Jack's charcoal grill had failed completely. The skin outside was burned all the way to charcoal, and once he scraped the char off, the flesh inside was still raw.

He'd tried to cut the half-cooked meat into small pieces, drown it in olive oil and lemon juice, and pass it off as a Mediterranean octopus salad. But that raw-funk smell mixed with the scorched-burnt reek—Chris could smell it from two meters away. Jack braced both hands on the counter, breathing hard, his eyes locked on that plate of salad, despair and fury in them.

"Time! Hands back!" Vane shouted. The four of them raised their hands at once. Chris let out a long breath. He looked at Ethan. On Ethan's plate, the sous-vide tentacles showed a perfect curl, paired with a refined citrus-sesame sauce and a few microgreens. It looked like a piece of art from a Michelin restaurant. He was still that machine that didn't make mistakes. On Sarah's plate were segments of blanched octopus with a bowl of fiery red chili dipping sauce.

It looked homely, but the doneness was well controlled. Vane came down off the dais and began the day's judging. He went to Ethan first.

"Sous-vide." Vane glanced at the plate.

"A smart choice, Ethan. It guarantees you'll never toughen the octopus." He cut off a piece and put it in his mouth.

"The texture's soft as butter." Vane nodded.

"The citrus sauce cuts the richness nicely. The technique is flawless." Ethan tipped his chin up slightly.

"Thank you, Chef."

"But." Vane paused.

"It's too safe. I could guess what sous-vide octopus tastes like with my eyes closed. Ethan, you're solving a math problem, not cooking a dish. You didn't give me a single surprise." Ethan's smile stiffened, but he didn't argue. Next was Sarah. Vane took a bite of her blanched octopus with chili sauce.

"The heat's just right, not toughened. The sauce is bold, and it covers some of the octopus's funk." Vane gave his verdict.

"Smart, and a little crafty too. But for a national top four, this dish is a bit on the simple side." Sarah nodded, accepting it. Vane came to Chris. He looked at the curled thin slices on the plate, and one eyebrow went up.

"What kind of prep is this? You didn't bring it out whole?"

"Chef, I braised it first in a pressure cooker with red wine for thirty minutes," Chris explained.

"But I found out the time wasn't enough—the center of the octopus was still tough. So I cut it into thin slices and seared it fast over extremely high heat for thirty seconds." Vane gave him a slightly surprised look. He picked up his fork, speared a slice, and put it in his mouth. Chewed. Vane's eyes opened a fraction wider.

"I've never seen this kind of prep," Vane said after he swallowed.

"Bold, but careful. The red-wine base is full, and the slice-and-sear didn't just solve the toughness—it added a layer of fantastic char. The lime-cilantro sauce balances it well, too." A surge of wild joy ran through Chris's chest.

"But." Vane turned it again.

"The red wine is just a touch too heavy—it slightly covers the natural seafood sweetness of the octopus. Still, this is a genuinely creative dish. Well done."

"Thank you, Chef." Chris finally set down the stone in his chest. Last, Vane went to Jack. Jack stood there, his face white. Vane looked at that so-called octopus salad, his brows knotting into a dead tangle. He lifted a piece of octopus with his fork, didn't even put it in his mouth—just held it under his nose and smelled it. Then he dropped the piece back onto the plate.

"Jack, do you think I'm an idiot?" Vane's voice was cold as ice.

"You scrape the burnt skin off the outside, chop up the meat that's nowhere near cooked inside, pour a pile of lemon juice over it, and you want to fool me?" Jack ground his teeth and said nothing.

"This isn't a salad at all—this is a disrespect to the ingredient, and a disrespect to this kitchen!" Vane's voice rose suddenly.

"You can't even control the most basic heat, and you want to play at charcoal grilling?" Vane picked up the plate and tipped it straight into the trash can beside him.

"Jack, you're eliminated. Now—right now—take off your apron."