Chapter Text
The video opens on Gordon Ramsay, white jacket on and hands clasp pointedly in front of him, the typical intro music swelling in the background. He seems cheerful, but that could change at any second. Seven members of the blue and seven members of the red team file in, standing in front of their respective kitchens, jacket on, clean and ready to go.
They all look like they’re in various stages of grief, which is fair considering the funeral that was last night’s dinner service. One member of the blue was kicked out during the production, the other, a red team member, was eliminated at the end of the night, marking it as one of the rare double eliminations that Hell’s kitchen has experienced.
“Right,” Gordon drops his hands, coming to brace them on his hips, tugging the coat down slightly, “good morning all.”
A drone of “Good morning chef.” is returned.
Lifting one hand up from his hip Gordon gestures to all of them; “Now, new day, new beginning. Everybody is starting with a clean slate.” As he speaks, the camera cuts between close up shots of different team members nodding stiffly, looking morose. “Because for the first time ever in Hell’s kitchen,” the music starts darkening, “we are going to be hosting,” the camera cuts between nervous chef’s faces as the music beats deeply, “a hockey team dinner!” The music spikes back up to pleasant as Gordon grins at the now nervously shuffling and, for some, slight laughing, chefs.
The voice over of a confessional begins as the camera pans over the gathered chefs, nervous smiles and laughs echoing to background noise, before it cuts to the chef sitting in the confessional booth.
His blue banner reads: Harvey, 34, lifelong Toronto fan.
“I love hockey,” he’s saying, “I was going to go pro if my back didn’t give way to me! Hey, but, uh, cooking for them, that might be the next best thing right?” He laughs awkwardly.
The camera cuts back to the chefs, now lingering on a red team member as a female voice over begins to speak, cutting to her confessional seconds into her voice.
Her red banner reads: Lena, 28, lifelong Boston women’s hockey league fan, played semi-professional for two years.
In the confessional booth she had both her hands up with her fingers crossed and she is repeating; “Please be the ladies, please be the women, please. Don’t make me interact with hockey men, please god!”
The camera’s cut back to Gordon who looks delighted, both hands are off his hips now, palms pressed together and fingers pointing outward to the teams, gesturing to all of them as he speaks.
“Two of the most famous, most popular, national hockey league teams will be coming here, this evening, to eat at this restaurant.” The camera sweeps along the grins off the chefs, cutting back to the confessional of Lena.
“No!” As she drags out the word, she tips forward, sagging in her seat.
The camera cuts back to the chef line. Gordon asks them, cheerfully, “Excited?”
“Yes chef!”
They chorus.
The camera cuts to a new blue team confessional, this time reading: Dustin, 23, knows nothing about hockey.
“I know nothing about hockey! Like nothing! I’m going to embarrass myself so bad.”
The camera cuts back to Gordon, whose grinning maybe a little to excitedly. The music bounces around, joyful for the challenge. “Okay, listen carefully.” The camera sweeps over the chefs again, all with more serious expressions on then their previous nervous smiles.
“Through that door over there,” Gordon gestures to the right, “is one of the best captain of one the greatest hockey teams in North America. So good in fact, that this year he was sent to the Olympics to lead his countries team.”
Theres a hush and necks crane as the teams try and catch a glimpse of the man through the solid wood and glass doors. Whispers are hissed between members, and glances thrown.
“And,” and now heads whip back to Gordon, “through that door,” gesturing to the left with both pointer fingers of his still clasped hands, “is the captain of the current top team in hockey, a man who is likely about to win the Most Valuable Player award in a week’s time.”
Necks fly the other way, to yet another solid wooden door, closer than the first but no more see through.
“Red team, as the winners of last night’s dinner service it is your choice,” the camera cuts from Gordon and his clasped hands, back to the now forward-facing teams, “between your team mates right now, is which door are you choosing? Whichever door you pick, left or right, will be the captain of the team you dishes will cater too and who you will be serving tonight.”
A pause as the camera sweeps over the red teams faces slowly.
“Got it?”
“Yes chef!”
“Now between yourself, choose a door. You have sixty seconds.”
Frantically the red team huddles, frenzied whispers are caught on camera the views cut between different angles of each team member. Phrases are caught, such as “it’s definitely …” “got to be a catch..” “..difference between them?” “Anyone know..”
Theres an overlay of the sound of a clock ticking in the background as the hushed words blur together. With a clap, the camera recentres on Gordon and the red team splits apart, filing back into line. The blue team stares at them dejected from the corner of their eyes.
“Got your answer?”
“Yes chef!”
“Now, I hope you have chosen well. Because athletes are known have extremely demanding diets, and you must cater to that diet precisely!”
Music swells as the camera glides over the assembled red team, faces fighting to be blank but nerves creeping across them regardless.
“Red team, you choice?”
A brunette woman speaks up, “The one on the left,” she gestures with her head a little as the rest of the chefs swivel to look at the door.
“Good choice. Now, blue team, that means you will be cooking for the right-side door, got it?”
“Yes chef.”
“Now let’s meet the men you’ll be cooking for!”
The dramatic music returns with multiple cuts of doors opening without showing who’s walking through, in dispersed with images of shocked faces from the blue and red teams alike.
Clearly two people are approaching the centre, but you can’t make them out just yet. One is blonde, sharp shoulders and jacket, the other is in a blue button up.
“Oh and there’s one more thing I forgot to mention;” The camera pauses, a dramatic bass-lined beat roars in the back as the frame freezes over Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, who have both just entered into view from the side doors, and have now frozen, looking at each other. “These two,” and Gordon, with a grin, gestures over one shoulder with pray-palmed hands, “Are sworn rivals. Just like you two teams.”
“Meet Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montréal Metros and Olympic medallist, and Ilya Rozanov,” Gordon pronounces is flawlessly, “Captain of the Boston Raiders and the latest winner of the Stanley cup!”
Theres a smattering of applause from the assembled teams. Hollander and Rozanov smile lightly, but look a little putout. First time on reality television will do that, it’s not quite the same as sport television, points out more than one viewer later.
“Now, Not only will you be competing in this first challenge for which meals get onto the final team-menu, but you will be competing against the other team in a way never done before on Hell’s kitchen.”
Cut to a confessional, the title reads; Terri, 24, rightfully scared.
“When you hear that from Chef Ramsay, you know it’s not a good thing. So, you kind of just stand there and pray he’s not about to make you, like, kill a cow or something.”
The cameras cut back to Gordon looking pleased, Rozanov stands a meter to the left of Gordon while Hollander stands a meter to the right. Both men appear a little unsteady, maybe from being off the ice, sideways glances throw at each other’s backs as the camera recenters to Gordon.
“Right,” Gordon’s hands are back on his hips, “here are the rules.”
Dramatic music, that never quiet seems to go away, returns with gusto. Determined chef faces stare ahead and off camera.
“Each team will produce eight delicious and diet conforming meals, two for each course. As many as wanted of which will be added to the team-menu in addition to our regular menu items. These meals should be specifically catered to the captain you team has chosen, and the team with the most dishes selected wins the challenge and avoids punishment.”
“But there’s a catch.”
Music crashes, shocked and dramatized faces stare at Gordon suddenly serious face;
“Shane and Ilya can also ‘steal’ meals from the other’s team, adding them to their own menu and gaining two,” the number is emphasised with a beat of sound that would probably be music if it had studied harder in school, “points for the team that made them. Remember their strict diets here, with eight meals, do you risk making four of them for the other for that extra point?”
Theres a general murmuring from the teams, did they risk it? If they, say the red team, made half their meals for their chosen player, and the other half for the other in hopes of doubling their points, they might ruin their chances of getting any unique meals on the red menu, having all their dishes ‘stolen’ to the blue kitchen to be made. But it could also win them the challenge. Would it be a risk they would take?
The camera panned over the chefs one by one, some lip biting, others calm. It would be a tough decision.
“You each get now, to ask questions of our striking guests here, to make sure you have that diet down pat. Okay?”
Nods all round, and hand’s raised;
“Uh,” Gordon points a dyed-blonde women at the end of the red line, “Lena.”
Lena drops her hand and asks; “Both of you, can you give me an overarching view? Just like, pescatarian, high fibre..?” She trails off.
“Yeah I-” “Don’t worry-”
Both men begin speaking at the same time. Rozanov gestures to Hollander, “You first.” His voice is gruff, thick accented and a little strained at the edges, likely ragged run from the enormity of partying the Boston team seemed to have been doing over the past week. Hollander is silent for a moment, before huffing and turning back to Lena and the teams with a bright media-trained smile.
“Yeah, I have a, uh, pretty strict diet. No high concentrated fats, salts or sugars. And low carbs. Also, most meat is a no go, but,” he shifts slightly, “All fish and chicken is good. Macrobiotic is the term used generally for it, but I don’t know how familiar you’ll be with it. Thanks.”
Lena nods and turns her head a little towards Rozanov; “I will eat anything,” a pause, “Not Hollander’s boring food though, give me more than that.”
Rozanov seems to hesitate for a moment before shrugging; “No high salts like Hollander, I prefer skinny meat and pasta. Ah! And no pork fat.” He shifts his hands around as he talks, glances thrown at Hollander every few moments like he’s expecting a punch. Maybe he is. The last few Montréal games against Boston had been brutal, with both captains slamming each other into the boards with enough force to rattle around the entire arena.
“He eats anything, he says!” Gordon says with a laugh, before pointing at a member of the blue team with a nearly entirely bald head, and a ginger beard nearly down to his chest. “Trent!”
“Any allergies?”
Again, Hollander speaks first. “None, just the diet.”
On the other side of Gordon, Rozanov shakes his eat, “No.” is all he says.
“Any more questions?”
Another blue team member raises their hand, “Go ahead Gary.”.
The man turns to Hollander and asks bluntly; “Any exceptions to the diet? Like, treat foods or..?”
Hollander looks a little alarmed, but media training works faster than blood flow to a flush, and he answers back clearly; “Chicken is a treat food, but I can add eggs and dairy to that. Some fruit would be okay too, but nothing too sugary.” Rozanovs lips are sealed, face carefully clear and hands rigid at his sides.
The camera swaps back to the blue team who all look more than a little put out, before cutting to a confessional with Gary in the hot seat.
“What the fuck am I going to do with that? Just serve the guy boiled chicken, no salt by the way, and a carrot?”
Cuts to another confessional; Heather, 31, worked as a dietitian.
“Oh boy, we chose the right door. Macrobiotic diets are a nightmare to cook for, but there’s some really good choices out there!”
Pause, camera cuts back to Heather standing in the line looking thoughtful before cutting to the confessional; “Still, the boys are going to have their work cut out for them. And maybe we’ll be able to steal a couple of plates from them!”
Gordon is back in centre frame, hands on hips.
“Now, there are seven of you, and there are eight very precise meals to make… You have one hour."
The team’s brace for what they know is coming.
“Your time starts… now!”
They scattered, bolting around the kitchen front to enter and begin preparation, voices calling over each other and ideas being shouted from across the room. As all the team members begin to race through the kitchen, hands grabbing raw ingredients and calling plans, the video cuts to multiple shots of the outside of Hell’s kitchen, freezing on the flaming pitchfork, before cutting to black.
An old ad begins to play on the screen, a CCM one from 2009. Weird, that hasn’t aired in years.