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i. week 1
It’s the fourth contestant of the day and Phil just wants to go home.
Even a long day of filming and trying their best to meet the top thirty home cooks selected by the panel can make Sam’s infamous patience run out. Callahan isn’t faring that well too, but at least he’s enjoying it. He stays silent, eats the contestants’ audition dishes, gives his opinions and everybody from the production crew is terrified of him.
There’s these all kinds of new procedures that everybody (including the judges themselves) has to endure for the new season, and to top it all off, he’s been wrapped in a stuffy suit jacket with make-up caked on his face for almost five hours. No breaks, no in-betweens.
No mercy even for them.
Lunch is probably thirty minutes away, but the fact that he has to wait just makes Phil feel miserable. Miserable enough that his poker face is more of a disappointed frown in the face of many hopeful and promising chefs. He’s supposed to be neutral and supportive, and while he does want the best for everyone, all he really wants to do is just walk the entire way home.
Home to hot chocolate and a new recipe of a chocolate fudge pudding cake that he really wants to try out. But that feels too far away, too distant to even think about, so he settles on the short distance goal: lunch.
Before lunch is just one last contestant to judge, and by this point, Phil isn’t very hopeful for whatever comes next. Because when the automated doors dramatically open, an extremely enthusiastic contestant pushes the cart in like he wants to run someone over.
“Well,” Phil politely starts once the production crew has given their final say on which camera angle looks best for all three judges. He gives the oncoming home cook a wave that he’s sure the production team will cut out later. “Hello there, mate.”
The contestant in question looks up from the kitchen cart he’s pushing. There’s this specific emotion of this is all a terrible mistake written all over his face. So maybe not enthusiastic, but Phil can still sympathize. “Good afternoon, gents,” he acknowledges gruffly.
From beside him, Callahan vaguely smiles. Why exactly, Phil had wondered.
“It’s TommyInnit to you lot,” he continues, almost like he just wants to get it over with, not looking any of them in the eye. “But you might as well just call me Tommy.”
A seat away, Sam looks amused. He wants to say that his expression is pleasantly surprised, but Phil’s sure that his own expression is a cross between a what the hell and is the camera crew really picking up on this?
He subtly turns, and stares at the people behind the set.
The cameras are still rolling. One of the vultures look beyond exhilarated. The crew has their cameras practically pointed straight at the teen while Tommy’s just set on glaring at the countertop of his temporary workbench.
Huh.
Sam, bless his heart, nods and takes over the rest of the scripted bit. He leans forward in his seat, enough to make him the center of attention, while Phil and Callahan both lean back in their uncomfortable plastic seats. “Alright. What are you making us for today, Tommy?”
Tommy uncovers the tray, setting the cloche down like it was the bane of his existence. Judging from his current expression, Phil thinks that he probably feels like it.
“Just a play on breakfast finger food,” he says, taking apart most of the contents hidden inside the metal cover, and stares some more at the chopping board. “Chocolate fudge donut holes with a blueberry glaze and expresso syrup, topped with hazelnuts.”
Someone from the corner coughs, and Phil is graciously reminded by the large and obnoxious digital clock resting beside the production crew that it is definitely hours past breakfast.
“All you’re going to get for today,” Tommy says, aimed at the production crew. You didn’t let me fucking eat breakfast gets left unsaid, and tacked at the end is a heavily implied you shitheads. Then, he hastily adds, remembering who he’s standing in front, like all three of the judges don’t heavily agree with his unsaid assessments. “Chefs.”
“Alright,” Phil says a little too loudly when the oncoming silence sounds a little too much like the calm before the storm. Someone near the front looks like they’re about to burst a vein and Tommy eyes them back like he’s about to brain them with the metal pan.
Sam starts looking at his wrist, and then at the other obnoxiously huge clock hanging in front of them. Specifically, in front of Phil. Not that it annoys him or anything. “Five minutes,” Phil says for everyone’s sake, trying to avoid the oncoming headache that is the production crew lecturing people.
He looks him in the eye, and thinks that maybe. Maybe they already had a winner. If not a winner, then a chef with sense, at least. Phil shifts through his mental reserves. Very few people from the top hundred home cooks’ files they’ve looked over had the kind of grounded sense of self-awareness that would bode well for a heated cooking competition, but they did have enough to fill out twenty.
Tommy just has a very unique way of showing it.
When the standards-and-practices officials gives him the go, Callahan makes a big show of gesturing at Tommy. Palm to him and all five fingers extended. Sam carries the next part, but it’s Phil he looks at when he picks up the knife. “Think you got enough time to get it together?”
“Yeah,” he vaguely says, but his hands are already moving across the stove. He shrugs, looks down. “‘Course I do.”
Cooking donut holes within five minutes without any pre-baked donuts would sound ambitious, but Tommy tackles on the challenge: mixes Greek yogurt into the chocolate fudge batter, adds blood oranges to the blueberry glaze. There’s a lot of things going on at once, moments where Tommy mostly looks like he’s stress-baking out of spite and moments where most questions shot by Sam are either given short, clipped answers or given completely unrelated answers.
Callahan looks delighted with him.
Phil still tries to get an answer, no matter how fruitless it may seem. “Why did you decide to make donut holes?”
Tommy shrugs from where he’s guarding all his pans on the stove. “Just wanted to make breakfast food, man,” he grudgingly says, straining the deep-fried balls to drain the oil with a hand on his hip, looking like an exasperated adult who’s given up on the kids. “Do I need any other excuse?”
Over time, the production crew learns one lesson: Tommy will give them the cold shoulder, whether warranted or not.
The light from the vulture’s eyes from earlier continue to die out. Phil can’t decide if he wants to laugh out of spite, or stay silent for his own reputation’s sake.
“Where are you from, young man?” Sam asks, amused, reading the teleprompter. At this point, it’s useless. Everybody knows it. Desperate times call for desperate measures, apparently?
Tommy blinks. “From L’Manberg,” he says, like there could’ve been no other answer. To be fair, there really wasn’t any other answer—and through the way his mouth presses into a flat line like he’s had it, he looks like he wants to punt one of the donut holes through someone’s eye.
”Say something,” one of the vultures, never giving up, urges. “Anything.”
“Where else would’ve I come from?” Tommy demands and turns around, saying the phrase with the same inflection usually reserved for stupid bitch. “It’s called Masterchef L’Manberg for a reason, you prick.”
Lo and behold, after five minutes of usable footage and a ton of other cut stuff about unsubtle comments, Tommy presents them a plate.
Phil suspects that they’ll take more time filming this shorter segment in favor of forgetting what happened a mere minute ago, but hey. It’s their problem now, considering that the first panel of judges let Tommy pass both the open call, the psychological examination and the private investigation.
The dessert itself isn’t that earth-shattering or as memorable as the chef who made it himself, but Phil is reminded of the chocolate fudge recipe he really wanted to try out and reminded of the lunch that he’s been withheld from, so he tries to sit still. It’s also a little crowded, and the arrangement is very hasty, but as always, taste makes up everything else.
Tommy stands there by the hallway with a threatening fuck off glare and an expression that suggest he’s very uncomfortable as he waits for the judges’.... well. Judgement.
After Sam, Phil’s turn makes him want to grab more from the batch, not to just eat one tiny fucking slice from an already tiny donut hole. But he manages to remember that he’s a respected and well-known chef with a couple of Michelin stars under his belt, and actually thinks about the dessert. It’s earthy and rich in flavor, the chocolate reinforced with the beautiful bitter expresso syrup poured over it. The blueberry glaze with hazelnut was a good addition too.
Callahan slices in, and goes blank when he lifts a tiny piece into his mouth. It’s the good old routine, spooking contestants and leveling them with an even, even stare that only threw maybe a few contestants off. It’s not really convincing, sometimes. Phil thinks that his poker face is a little more gleeful than neutral, but it’s a long day and they’re tired and not even the best of them can keep up with appearances.
The expresso syrup, prepared in advance, could’ve been too bitter, but it isn’t, and Phil can see Callahan appreciating a good amount of caffeine in a desert. He takes it into consideration—all of them do. Any kind of caffeine in good and healthy dosages are well-appreciated in their jobs.
So when they take their seats for the final judging, it’s not a surprise when he takes his fist, holds it at shoulder height and moves it back and forth.
Everybody knows what it means. But for Tommy’s sake, he holds out his hand in a thumbs-up, and approvingly nods.
Yes.
Tommy blinks, not as threatening as before. He looks befuddled, like he’s waiting for the punchline of a joke.
Nothing comes, and Phil has to hide a small smile when he leans over and, really, wishes for another piece. Sam takes his turn, and gives his own reasons: one is that he’s practically in love with well-matching earthy flavors, and the other is that he thinks Tommy had a lot of potential to grow in this kitchen.
The vultures in the back pointedly cough. Well, it’s their problem now, isn’t it?
After an affirmative yeah from Sam, Tommy’s openly confused stare slides over to Phil, and all eyes swivel back to him. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Tell you what, you make fantastic chocolate fudge,” he tells the shell-shocked Tommy. “It’s a yes from me. Would you punt me if I had some more?”
Then, Tommy squints at him. “Yes. To hell, old man,” he firmly starts, and crowds his plate like he’s protecting a child of his own. “I am incredibly talented and I am well-aware, but.”
“...but?” Phil presses.
Tommy stares at him, except now he looks like he thinks Phil is stupid. “It’s breakfast food,” he carefully enunciates. “Which I actually did not have on time, given that it’s practically lunch.”
Phil serenely leans forward. We also did not, he almost says, except that he doesn’t say it, because a lot of people seem to forget that despite him being a world-class chef, that did not mean he had time to always cook a perfectly plated three-course meal in the middle of filming. He could’ve, but the people cooking for everybody else is good enough at their job, and it saves all the judges the effort and the time. That, and because he doesn’t want to particularly be mean to a child.
Tommy gets it anyways, and waves it off. At least, there’s a gleeful smile on his face instead of the resigned doom on it, and Phil finds that he doesn’t really mind. “Can you not?”
Phil sighs. “Fine,” he says, like a liar. He knows that this is taking up everyone else’s time, but if the rest of the judges’ looks at him were any indication of what they feel, they also really want to take the plate of donut holes like a trio of starving camels who had seen the water in the desert, and frowns. Was that how the metaphor went?
Beside him, Callahan holds out the bundle of white apron, waves it in front of a wide-eyed Tommy in good grace, and hands it off to Sam, who bounds down the steps, eyeing the platter. It’s really less of a play on breakfast food in general, but more specifically of a play on coffee and donuts.
Coffee and donuts is not technically a dish, but it is a good choice in comfort food. Maybe his specific choice of comfort food, but.
It’s just a few minutes before the calling for the lunch period, but when Tommy grins, unlike the smaller grudging ones he gave earlier, it kind of distracts them for a while from the mission of taking the plate. It reminds them that he still kind of is a kid, barely old enough to be an adult, despite of the way he handled himself like an old, old man who had the courage to meanly jab at the production crew just because he can.
The teen barely conceals a whoop when the automated doors open, and gives them one last satisfied smile. “Good fucking day, gents,” he almost booms, day made, walking out to a cheering crowd who gape at his white apron.
Phil thinks it’ll be an interesting new season.
He clears his throat when the cameras cut and the production crew starts to head out for lunch, but the three judges have a mission. Still, he stands up before the other two even bother. “I’m just going to take a couple more.”
The rest of the two follow—all three of them taking advantage of a dish someone forgot about.
World-class chefs or not, they can still appreciate a damn mean batch of donuts.
In the backroom, where all of the other waiting contestants and their families and the winners are being herded out for the lunch period, Tommy remembers something essential too late.
He fucking swears. One guy in a beanie and a allergic bright yellow sweater looks at him weirdly, and moves on. Everybody else in close proximity doesn’t know why.