Petrozza had been asleep long enough to begin snoring when something stepped onto his chest.
One claw pressed through the blanket.
Then another.
He opened his eyes.
A brown hen stared down at him.
“I don’t remember ordering breakfast.” The hen pecked his pillow.
Across the room, Bobby woke to wings beating beside his head.
Matt stepped off his bed when a second bird ran beneath it.
Craig sat up too quickly, tangled both feet in his sheet, and watched a white chicken disappear with one of his socks.
“Why are there chickens in the bedroom?” Dominic asked.
The speakers answered him.
“GET UP!” Ramsay’s voice thundered through the dorm.
“GRAB A CHICKEN AND GET YOUR ASSES DOWNSTAIRS!
MOVE!” The room filled with feathers, bare feet, and men too under-slept to manage either.
Aurelio rolled out of bed and planted both feet before standing.
His body had recovered some of yesterday’s strain.
It had not forgiven the hour.
A hen shot between Petrozza’s bed and the wall.
Matt lunged after it.
“Don’t chase her,” Aurelio said.
“We’re supposed to catch one!” “That’s why.” Aurelio lowered himself beside the next bed.
He used a pillow to close the space on one side and waited.
The hen slowed when no one rushed her.
When she turned, he brought both hands around her body, kept her wings folded, and lifted with her weight supported against his forearm.
The bird settled after two offended clucks.
Dominic stared at him while holding another chicken as far from his body as his arms allowed.
“You’ve done that before.” “I’ve met chickens.” Bobby cornered his bird near the bathroom.
Ben caught one only after Louross blocked the doorway with a blanket.
Petrozza sat up slowly and lifted the hen from his chest as though accepting a warm, feathered delivery.
Craig crouched and held out his remaining sock as bait.
The chicken stared at it.
“I think she knows it’s a trap,” Louross said.
“Shut up and get yours.” “Mine’s right here.” Louross raised the bird tucked securely beneath one arm.
Craig looked at the sock in his hand, then at the chicken watching him from beside his bed.
“You’re doing this on purpose.” The chicken took his other sock.
◆ The red team reached the dining room first.
Jen carried her hen like a football.
Vanessa kept murmuring reassurance to the bird in her arms.
Rosann had thrown a robe over her sleep clothes.
Christina’s hair remained twisted from the pillow, and Corey had somehow found enough time to tie hers back.
Shayna entered last with feathers caught against one sleeve.
The blue team arrived behind them in an uneven line.
Aurelio stepped aside at the bottom of the stairs when Craig’s bird began flapping.
He waited until Craig regained his grip and cleared the final step before following him into the dining room.
Ramsay stood between two wire pens.
“GOOD MORNING!” “Good morning, Chef,” the chefs answered.
“That was pathetic!
GOOD MORNING!” “GOOD MORNING, CHEF!” “Better!” He looked over the nightclothes, the bare feet, and the live birds shifting in fourteen pairs of arms.
“You call yourselves chefs.
Every day, you cut meat, cook fish, crack eggs, and throw food in the bin when you fuck it up.
Most of you never stop to think about what had to exist before it reached your board!” Sous Chef Gloria approached with another hen held beneath one arm.
Sous Chef Scott followed with a heavy cleaver.
The room changed.
Vanessa tightened her hold on her bird.
“Oh, no.” Ramsay accepted the hen from Gloria and placed it on a low wooden block.
Scott handed him the cleaver.
“You want chefs to respect the product?” Ramsay asked.
“Then get close to it!” He laid one hand across the chicken’s back and raised the blade.
Corey leaned away.
Petrozza’s mouth opened.
Craig’s chicken struggled hard enough to rake one claw down his forearm.
The cleaver came down.
It struck the block beside the hen’s head.
The bird remained alive, loud, and deeply insulted.
Ramsay lifted it at once and returned it to Gloria.
“We are not slaughtering live chickens in the dining room!
Put yours in the pens, get dressed, and meet me in the red kitchen!
MOVE!” Relief broke through the room in several different sounds.
“Thank God,” Vanessa whispered.
Aurelio lowered his hen into the nearest pen.
He kept one hand near her until both feet were steady beneath her, then withdrew it and secured the latch.
The chicken immediately pecked his knuckle through the wire.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
◆ Ten minutes later, fourteen chefs stood in uniform before a row of dressed chickens hanging in the red kitchen.
Ramsay took one from its hook and placed it on a cutting board.
“This is what you work with.
Not a plastic tray.
Not a ticket.
An animal!” He picked up his knife.
“Eight clean portions.
Two breasts.
Two wings.
Two thighs.
Two drumsticks.
Find the joints and let the knife do the work.
Hack through bone, leave meat on the wrong piece, or tear the skin, and you’ve wasted it!” His blade moved through the first leg joint.
He separated thigh from drum, removed the wing at its joint, and followed the breastbone without sawing.
Each finished piece retained the meat that belonged to it and none that did not.
Eight portions reached the tray.
“That is how a chef shows respect!” Ramsay faced the teams.
“Red team, six chefs.
Blue team, eight.
LOUROSS!
DOMINIC!
You’re sitting out!” Dominic’s face fell.
“Chef, I can do this.” “I didn’t say you couldn’t!
I said sit out!
Watch every cut, because the next bird may be yours!” “Yes, Chef.” Louross and Dominic moved behind the blue line.
One chicken waited at each of the remaining boards.
“You have five minutes!
I want eight perfect portions from every one of you!” Ramsay raised his hand.
“Your time starts—NOW!” Twelve knives struck twelve boards.
◆ Aurelio opened the first hip joint and cut through the space his thumb found.
He bent the leg until the knee joint showed, then separated the thigh from the drumstick.
Across from him, Petrozza worked more slowly than Ben but wasted no movement.
Bobby spread the chicken flat and checked both sides before making his first cut.
Matt drove his knife down hard enough to shake his tray.
Craig was already fighting the bird.
“Find the joint,” Aurelio said.
“I know where it is.” Bone cracked beneath Craig’s blade.
Aurelio returned to his own board.
On the red side, Christina and Corey worked two stations apart without looking at one another.
“This team was solid before last night,” Vanessa said as she removed a wing.
“Then cut your chicken,” Corey answered.
“You’re the one who tore it apart.” “Not now,” Rosann said.
“She put up our strongest cooks!” Vanessa continued.
“And I’m still here,” Jen said.
“Keep the blade on the bird.” Corey made the next cut cleanly.
“THREE MINUTES!” Ramsay shouted.
Aurelio separated the second thigh and drumstick.
Four pieces lay on his tray.
He removed the right wing cleanly, then turned the carcass.
The left shoulder joint sat deeper than the first.
Aurelio found the opening with his thumb and rotated the carcass.
Something caught beneath his right shoulder.
“TWO MINUTES!” Aurelio cut.
His arm checked for less than a second—not enough for anyone watching another board to notice, but enough to alter the pressure behind the knife.
He could have corrected it with more than ordinary strength.
He didn’t.
The blade passed through the joint and carried a strip of breast meat away with the wing.
Aurelio saw the damage before the pieces separated.
One brief failure of control had spoiled two portions.
There was no clean way to put the meat back.
He released one measured breath, changed hands to turn the carcass, and continued.
He followed the breastbone on both sides, freed the final two portions, and arranged all eight pieces on the tray.
At the end of the line, Craig still had one leg attached.
“ONE MINUTE!” “Craig, move!” Ben shouted.
“I am moving!” “You’re murdering it twice!” Matt said.
“Shut the fuck up, Matt!” “WATCH YOUR OWN BOARDS!” Ramsay roared.
“THIRTY SECONDS!” Shayna pressed her knife along the breastbone.
The tip slipped and opened the meat too deeply.
“Come on,” she whispered.
“Come on.” Craig forced the last leg apart.
“TEN!
NINE!
EIGHT!” Corey wiped her blade and stepped back.
Christina did the same.
“THREE!
TWO!
ONE!
STOP!” Every hand rose from its board.
Craig’s knife stopped above a tray of uneven meat and exposed bone.
He stared at what he had made.
◆ Ramsay began with the red team.
Jen carried her tray forward.
“Both drumsticks cut too high!” Ramsay said.
“You’ve left meat where it doesn’t belong!
Six!” “Yes, Chef.” Shayna followed.
Ramsay lifted one breast and opened the deep cut across it.
“Look at that!
You’ve gashed the bloody thing!” “Yes, Chef.” “Six!” Vanessa brought up eight clean portions.
“Beautiful!
Eight!” Rosann matched her.
“Eight!” Christina’s tray held intact skin, even breasts, and joints cut through the right places.
“Perfect!
Eight!” “Thank you, Chef.” Corey came last.
Ramsay inspected every piece.
“Eight out of eight!” The red team applauded.
Corey returned to the line beside Christina.
“Good work,” Christina said.
“You too.” Neither sounded ready to forgive the other.
“Red team—forty-four!” Ramsay announced.
“Blue team, you need something fucking special!” Aurelio carried his tray to the front.
Ramsay found the damaged wing immediately.
“What is this?” “I took breast meat with the wing, Chef.” “And what did that do to the breast?” “Ruined the edge.” “Exactly!
One careless cut, two bad portions!
SIX!” “Yes, Chef.” “You knew the second it happened, didn’t you?” “Yes, Chef.” “Then don’t fucking do it again!” “No, Chef.” Petrozza placed his tray on the counter.
Ramsay worked from one end to the other.
“Eight perfect portions!
Well done!” “Thank you, Chef.” Ben earned the same score.
“Perfect!
Eight!” The blue total reached twenty-two.
Craig lifted his tray.
Matt looked away before it reached the counter.
Ramsay accepted the first wing.
“One.” Then the second.
“Two.” He picked up a drumstick with splintered bone at one end and thigh meat hanging from the other.
“What the fuck have you done?” “I was trying to get through the joint, Chef.” “The joint wasn’t hiding from you!
You hacked straight through the bone!” “Yes, Chef.” Ramsay raised one of the breasts.
Its skin was torn, and a strip of meat remained on the carcass.
“Thirteen years in a kitchen, and this is your idea of butchery?
A customer would think the chicken lost a fight with a lawn mower!” “Yes, Chef.” “TWO OUT OF EIGHT!” Ramsay dropped the portion onto the tray.
“Blue team, twenty-four!
Even if Bobby and Matt score perfectly, you cannot catch forty-four!
RED TEAM WINS!” The women erupted.
Jen pulled Vanessa into a hug.
Rosann clapped both hands above her head.
Christina smiled toward Ramsay; Corey smiled toward the blue team.
Bobby’s untouched tray remained on his board.
Matt looked from his own chicken to Craig.
“My pieces were good,” Matt said.
“They didn’t need judging,” Craig answered.
“Because yours were shit.” “MATT!” Ramsay shouted.
“Craig’s board lost it, but your team put him in that position!
Save the argument for upstairs!” “Yes, Chef.” Ramsay turned to the women.
“Red team, get changed!
I’m taking you to the Saddle Ranch Chop House on the Sunset Strip for lunch!” The women cheered again.
“Blue team, you’re going to a one-hundred-acre farm to pick peppers—in the sun, by hand!” The men remained silent.
“Craig!” “Yes, Chef.” “That chicken gave you eight portions!
You gave me two!
Get out of my kitchen!” “Yes, Chef.” ◆ Craig sat on the edge of his bed with his forearms braced against his knees.
Ben pulled work trousers from his case.
“Two pieces,” he said.
“Two fucking pieces.” “I know what I scored.” “Do you?
Because the rest of us are going to a farm with you.” “We know exactly what you mean,” Matt said.
“Craig fucked us.” He threw a shirt into his open locker.
It struck the back wall and slid to the floor.
“My chicken didn’t get judged because he couldn’t cut his.” “Neither did mine,” Bobby said.
“Throwing clothes won’t change it.” “I’m not throwing clothes.” Matt threw another shirt.
Aurelio removed his chef’s jacket without taking off the dark undershirt beneath it.
He folded the jacket, placed it on the bed, and pulled on the denim work shirt production had provided.
His bad wing cut remained clearer in his mind than Craig’s tray.
Six accepted pieces hadn’t lost the challenge.
They hadn’t won it either.
Petrozza tied a bandanna around his neck and looked at himself in the mirror.
“I resemble a man who owns one unfortunate horse.” “You look fine,” Dominic said.
“That’s what people tell the unfortunate horse.” Louross lifted the straw hat left for him.
“Does this make my head look small?” “Your head makes your head look small,” Ben said.
The reply came quickly enough to break the room’s anger for half a second.
A horn sounded outside.
“Transport!” a producer called.
The men descended to the loading area.
A clean Hell’s Kitchen coach waited beside the curb.
“At least the bus has air-conditioning,” Bobby said.
The coach pulled away without them.
Behind it sat a faded blue school bus with dirt across the windows and an engine that coughed between every turn.
Louross stared at it.
“That thing sounds like it wants permission to die.” Sous Chef Scott leaned out through the folding door.
“GET ON THE BUS!” The men climbed aboard.
Aurelio moved down the aisle and stopped beside an empty seat.
Craig was still outside, retrieving a work glove that had fallen beside the curb.
When Craig finally ducked through and the doors folded shut behind him, Aurelio sat.
The engine coughed again.
Petrozza gripped the seat in front of him.
“If we reach the farm, I’m counting it as a reward.”