Chapter Text
The video began again with the numerous shots of the exterior of Hell’s kitchen, flaming pitchfork included, as music beat with each changing camera angle. The view then changes to a split screen, overhead view of the two kitchens, both bustlingly busy, red and blue coats going every which way along with the sounds of knives on wood and vegetable, the clang of metal and the urgent calls over the already frantic kitchen.
The narrator, a male voice that may as well have been a computer for all its lack of tonal change, spoke as the view switched between the two kitchens.
“In this challenge, teams will go head-to-head to get as many items as possible onto their menu, gaining points both from their own plates and from ‘stealing’ their opponents. Each team producing two appetisers, four mains and two deserts between seven team members.”
The shot cut to view only the blue kitchen, a tanned man is working on skinning a variety of vegetables in front of him. The narrator speaks again; “While the blue kitchen is already underway preparing dishes catering to Shane Hollander’s diet,” the screen blurs as the view changes to the red kitchen, where the women have crowded around the end bench of the kitchen, and are deep in discussion, “The red team is still planning out how they are going to split up the meals and gain the largest point advantage.”
A closer camera shot is used as the red teams voices filter into hearing range, music dimming, though you can’t quiet see whose speaking.
“So four and four?”
“Yeah I think that’s fair and the blue team…”
The confession booth appears, the red title card for the women sitting there reads: Liz, 27, would rather leave the competition then win on the men’s team.
“Listen,” she says, leaning forward, her undercut it dyed deep green while the rest of her is dark and needle straight, “I know for a fact the boys don’t got this. They will fuck it up so badly and I know we girls can use that.”
The camera shot back to the huddle of the red team, the now known Liz is leaning forward, pointing at a sheet of baking paper that is covered in scribbled ideas. “We get four point from Rozanov and then eight from Hollander, if we do this right.”
“I think that works best.”
The group splits up, and the narrator begins again; “With a plan now in place, the red team begins cooking two minutes into the challenge.”
Lena is flipping a tea towel between her hands as she watches her own station and begins prep on a circular chunk of steak. She glances up and sideways to Heather, whose deep in concentration over the ingredients stack.
“Hey Heather?”
“Yeah?”
Heather glances up and pauses slightly in her work before continuing to check over the ingredients.
“You worked as a dietitian right? You know what a macrobio- or whatever it was, is?”
“Yep.”
Lena nods and moves from her station to be beside Heather, and asks; “You want to supervise those of us who’re doing it then? Make sure we don’t fuck up too much?”
Heather blinks surprised, the camera zooms in on that, before cutting out to show the pair working together to organise the vegetables into their respective meal sets. “I mean,” she starts, “Yeah I would, but he’s not really on a macrobiotic? That more seems like a term he’s been told about.”
“What?”
The question came from across the kitchen, from a shaved head woman with only a middle strip of hair remaining, tied up in a tight bun. She’s holding tongs and a bowel of greens.
“Yeah,” Heather continues, “Still stick to what he said, but macrobiotic diet means no poultry or fish, and he seems fine with both to a point. I wouldn’t worry too much, just use what he said and cut out as much oil and sugar as you can.”
The shaved-head women nods at that, clattering the bowl onto the bench as she grabs a fry pan, “That’s good I was worried I was going to have to ask about what kind of lettuce to use.”
“Green stuff.”
Came the reply before the cameras cut back to the blue kitchen, where a burly man is working on slicing fine pieces of meat off a lump. “The blue kitchen, meanwhile, has other ideas about how to cater to their special guests.”
“Hey Ray?”
Comes a voice from far behind the camera, the shot slowly zooming in on the man’s admittedly very good cutting technique.
“Yeah?” Comes the voice of the now identified Ray.
“No salt dude, why do you have the prosciutto out?”
The confessional booth cut’s back into view, Ray is sitting on the chair in front of the camera, blue title card sliding onto screen. Ray, 33, run six kitchens over four years. It isn't a compliment.
“Look, I know prosciutto’s got a little salt in it, but these guys are athletes. They can handle a little salt after getting knocked around on a rink all year, fucking pussies if not.”
He huffs, camera cutting back to his chopping board and back to confessional; “Diets are for women anyway, if I was getting’ knocked around on ice all day I would be eating red meat for breakfast, lunch and dinner. That’s the way it should be done.”
The next section of his confessional is played over him finishing slicing the prosciutto, lifting a ragged section to his lips and biting down on it. “Hopefully my meal is going to show them that.”
The voice from off screen calls again, the camera zooming out to catch him walking up to Ray, a bowl in hand, Dustin leans on the bench alongside the older fair-haired man, frown on his face.
“He’s like a fucking vegetarian man, you gotta use fish or like, chicken.”
“He won’t be after he tastes my meal.” Ray looks as smug, and as stupid, as the words feel and are.
“Dude that’s not how that works. You want us to lose?”
A confessional cut finds the time to slip into place, Dustin’s card reading; Dustin, 23, still doesn’t know what Hockey is.
“This entire challenge is to see what we can do when working with a highly restricted diet… Like that’s the point of this whole challenge, and here comes Ray just fucking everything up again like he did last dinner service.”
The camera’s cut back just in time to see Ray snapping, turning his back to Dustin and scooping up the sliced meat onto a plate, heading away down the kitchen.
“We’re not fucking going too, unless you don’t start on your own shit!”
The camera swivels away with from the pair and zooms into another corner of the blue kitchen where two other chefs are crowded, narrator playing along with the movement.
“They’re not the only ones with problems, another pair in the blue kitchen is also having a similar debate.”
A large sandy brown-haired man is staring blankly across the kitchen towards Gary, who, for some unknown reason, is cooking lamb chops. The camera cuts between the two in rapid succession as the brunet man stares at Gary lathering the chops in some oil-like substance.
“Hey Gary?”
The brunet is explicitly Scottish, in a way that pizza isn’t.
“Yeah Ronnie?”
Gary does not turn around; the camera zooms slowly in on him prepping the meat.
“Why’re you cooking lamb? It’s not one of the allowed foods.”
“This one’s for Rozanov.”
Ronnie nods doubtfully, slowly, tray of roasted asparagus shaking as he sets it down heavily on the bench, turning to continue his own preparation.
“’sides, not like it really counts as a meat anyway, no fats, no salts, so sugars.”
This is the final straw for Ronnie, who slows his tongs down on the trap and whips his tea towel against the bench in anger, turning to Gary.
“It’s not a fucking vegetable though is it Gary?”
“While the blue kitchen is having a friendly discussion on whether or not lamb is a meat, Gordon and the two guests of honour have found a place to talk in Gordons office.”
“Right,” says Gordon, walking into his office, with the two guests entering behind him, leaving a near four-meter gap between them the entire time, the rivalry is practically palpable. “Have a seat.”
Ilya Rozanov sags down into one of the armchairs that surrounds a low coffee table on which sits a small array of crackers, cheese’s and other general snack-but-healthy foods. Shane Hollander, meanwhile, hovers for a moment, before slipping down on to the couch, diagonal from Rozanov. Gordon takes a seat across at the end of the table from the pair.
“Uhh,” Gordon checks his watch, arms on his thighs, “We’ve got just about an hour, so might as well go over the evening’s plan.” He turns to them, both men looks massive compared to the low set table, though Gordon is around their height, they more than make up for it in muscle, legs thicker than the arms of the chair and couch they’re sitting on.
“Right, so, tonight; we’ll be having Boston on one side of the dining hall, facing the red, and Montréal will be on the other, facing the blue. Sound good?”
Both men nod, there are slight murmurs from both of them.
“Now you two, will be sitting in the middle, along with your head coaches, a few other higher general staff and your alternative captains.”
Both Rozanov and Hollander glance at each other, nod slightly and turn back to Gordon, Hollander speaking as he went; “I don’t think my alternate will be able to make it, so if I could have other team member in place that would be great.”
“Of course. I’m guessing you don’t want to be overshadowed by Boston?” Gordon is grinning, hands braces on his knees. The camera angle shifts from slightly above them in the far-right corner to a more eye level sight from the opposite side of the room, zoomed so all three men are placed in frame. A smirk is coiling on Rozanov’s face, a snake waiting to bite.
“Hollander is used to that.”
“Fuck off Rozanov.”
Gordon laughs; “Might have to keep you two of separate tables, save my fine china!”
Something shatters in the distance, followed by muffled raised voices. Gordon stands hurriedly, the camera swivelling to follow him as he goes while muttering, “though it might be too late for that.”, the glass and wood of the door making a slight clatter as it shut behind him, camera cutting to a shot of Gordon hurrying down the stairs from his office, speeding towards the blue kitchen alone.
The camera cuts to the blue kitchen, and it is a stare off between Ronnie and Ray, several pans are on the floor, but most look clean, swept off for being in the way rather than thrown down with purpose.
“Right.” Gordon’s face is hard as he strides into the kitchen, observing the silent gathering of chefs. Sous chef Marisa is already heading towards the mess from another corner, eyes fixed on both the men, searching for any signs that either man is going to move to make another scene.
“What on earth is going on here?”
Gordon is on the edge of raising his voice, fury clinging to the corners of his words.
“I’m sorry chef – “ Ronnie begins, before being cut off by Ray, “You did this you fucking –“
“Hey! The both of you! Shut up for one moment!”
Gordons voice crosses the edge into shouting and all but bellows at the pair, both cringing away from the furious chef. As he continues, with each word, his voice becomes harder, camera zooming close into his face to catch the vein on Gordon’s neck twitching slightly.
“I’ve got two very important guests waiting for me, in my office, right now. Two guests who you are supposed to be making meals for right now. So can someone please tell me why you’re not currently doing that!”
Marisa steps forward towards Gordon, speaking clearly, eyes not moving off the two men who still stand opposite each other in the cramped kitchen aisle. “Chef; Ronnie and Ray were speaking for a moment, before Ronnie tried to take a pan away from Ray, it ended up as you see here.”
“Right,” Gordon turns to Ronnie, fury and a hint of disappointment etched on his face, “Ronnie, is this true?” The camera cuts to Ronnie’s downcast face, shoulders stiff.
“Yes chef, but only because Ray was trying to trick the guests.”
Music twangs dramatically as the cameras cut rapidly between Ronnie’s dead serious face, Ray’s stubborn lightly scared one and Gordon’s thunderstruck one.
“What..?”
Gordon’s voice trains out, confused now as he turns to Ray.
“Ray? Anything to say for yourself?”
“I have no idea what he’s talking about chef.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I was not-“
“Hey! What is going on!” One arm is folded across his chest with the elbow of the other rest on top of it, free hand waving towards the slightly taller brunet.
“Ronnie, what happened?”
“I came over here, cause I could smell bacon which we weren’t supposed to be using. And Ray here,” he jerks a shoulder towards the scowling man, who’s been shaking his head is disagreement throughout Ronnie’s statement, “said he was cooking his protein with bacon to enhance it. I told him, he can’t do that, Hollander can’t eat it. And he told me, what Hollander doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
The music thunders as the camera swings to Gordon’s disgusted face, shock just edged out of frame by the thought of someone doing that to one of his guests.
“And that’s when I grabbed the pan Chef.” Ronnie finished.
Gordon rubs a hand over his face, eyes squeezed shut as he clamps the bridge of his nose. “Oh my god.”
“I’m sorry chef – “ Ronnie begins again, cut off by a resounding “No.” from Gordon.
“You,” Gordon points at Ray, “What the fuck were you thinking, you fucking idiot?”
“I’m sorry chef,” Ray now speaks, “It’s just there wasn’t a lot to work with, and I wanted to present the best meal I could for the judges.”
“By tricking them into eating something they can’t?”
“Well,” Ray shrugs one shoulder, “It wasn’t actual bacon being served, it was just cooked with it, and I figured that would be fine as long as I didn’t mention the bacon.”
“Ray, do you know why we cook proteins next to bacon to enhance it?”
“Yes Chef.”
“It’s because all that fat, that salt, and that intense flavour will penetrate into the protein.” Gordon emphasises his point by motioning with both hands, palms flat but fingers pointed as he gestures to Ray and the air in tandem. “Things that both guests said they didn’t want in their dishes! What were you thinking!”
“I’m sorry chef-“ “Save it,” Gordon holds up one hand while the bridge of his nose is being heavily rubbed by the other, “I- I don’t want to hear it.”
He gestures sweepingly to Ray, “Ray, start over.” Turning slightly, he points at Ronnie, “Next time, get Marisa, or better yet, come get me. Don’t grab a hot pan out of someone’s hand.”
“Yes chef.” The chorus was forlorn.
“Now both of you, get you act together. You’re on thin fucking ice, the pair of you.”
“Yes chef.”
“Right.” Gordon sounds strained, near flabbergasted at the entire situation, “bloody hell.”
The camera cuts to a close up of a knife cutting into some green root vegetable, slicing it into thin strips.
“Meanwhile, back in the red kitchen, Liz is tackling the task of preparing two appetisers at once.”
The camera cuts to a confessional with Liz, there’s something green staining her white-and-red fabric coat and her hair is tied up in a messy bun now, proudly displaying the neon green undercut with every head turn. Her title card reads: Liz, 27, somehow ended up doing both appetisers even though she hates apps.
As she speaks the camera cuts between her rushing around the kitchen, preparing her meals, and her sitting in the confessional booth.
“I was really worried about making two appetisers, because they are not my favourite to make and I have to make two different ones.”
A stressed looking Liz is standing over a counter fingers tapping and biting her lip.
“And then I realised; wait no, I don’t have to make two completely different ones, I can just make the same meal with differences catering to the diets.”
A more determined Liz is using her body weight to force a knife down into some unseen assumedly food item. Sous Chef Charlie slips in beside her to do the typical check in that occurs throughout challenges.
“What are you doing?”
“Uhm,” Liz says eloquently before quickly continuing, knife and eyes not leaving the board below, “Rice paper rolls, one set with flavoured chicken and green veggie mix, and one with beef loin, satay carrot and red capsicum.”
“Bland?” Charlie doesn’t mean it in a rude way, the question being one of curiosity rather than abolishment.
“No, I’m also making a sauce for both, chicken one being a home done flavoury paste including herbs and a little spice, the beef being a choice between a spiced peanut sauce or handmade sweet chilli sauce.”
“Good.” Charlie moves off as Liz continues chopping.
The camera cuts back to the confessional, Liz is grinning widely; “It’s perfect really, I’m Vietnamese and they’re pretty common to make. Gỏi cuốn – fresh spring rolls.”
The camera cut to a near finished dish of rice paper rolls, a hand, assumedly Liz’s is carefully arranging them into a more appetising view.
“You’ve got two minutes remaining!” Gordon called, walking through the kitchen, observing over shoulders and benches.
The camera follows him as he goes, before cutting to multiple frantic chefs. All grating, cutting, basting and arranging earnestly, desperately trying to produce the most flawless dish. The clock in the corner of the screen reads 1:47 and is counting down rapidly.
Dustin is wiping the side of his plate down, cleaning it of any residue and spinning it, Ray is unhappily plating some meat that may pass as fish, Ronnie is heading to the pass with a full saucepan of white sauce while Trent is busy chopping some spring onions for garnish.
The camera continues to cut as the clock steadily runs out, a call of “one minute remaining” goes up as the camera cuts to Terri, whose cursing under her breath, dish unseen as the camera focuses on her. “Fuck, fuckfuck.”
The camera cuts to see the shaved headed man-bun women dash into the store cupboard and start riffling through packets looking for something, Liz is pouring a red-clear sauce carefully into a small ceramic container, Heather is gently laying a slab of red-brown meat into her plate, and Lena is hurrying with an elongated white plate towards the pass.
“Thirty seconds left, you should be almost finished plating now!”
Gary is still in the kitchen, looking up to glance at the pass and back down to his meal, A brown haired woman is dusting her dish with fine brown powder, likely chocolate before grabbing the unseen dish and hurrying to the pass. As each team member reaches the pass, they lift a silver dome and place their meal under it, cutting off the view from the audience and keeping the food as fresh as possible.
“Ten seconds!”
Gary is running to the pass, hand nearly throwing the dome off, before getting his dish underneath, silver slamming down as Gordon calls;
“And time!”
Several mutters are heard and unhappy faces shown as the Chefs stand behind their dishes hidden under silver domes on the counter before them.
Gordon claps his hands, standing where he’d been at the beginning of the episode, wide grin on his face.
“Now, let’s see what you can do.”
The view cuts to the outside of the kitchen, scanning over the roof, entrance and front drive, before cutting to the extinguished pitchfork which burst into flames as the camera landed on it.