Aurelio changed in the bathroom.
White extinguisher powder marked the front of his jeans and the cuffs of his jacket.
He folded both garments into his suitcase, washed his hands twice, and put on a clean chef uniform.
The dormitory moved around him.
Bobby placed the stuffed bear on his bed.
Louross changed into his jacket while describing the electrical flash for the fourth time.
Matt corrected him from across the room.
Ben corrected both of them.
Petrozza said nothing.
Aurelio fastened the final button of his jacket and opened his notebook.
He wrote the date and location.
Santa Monica Pier.
Beneath it, he added three lines.
Control capacitor ruptured.
Emergency brake engaged.
No serious injuries.
He stopped there.
The event on the pier required no further explanation.
The cabinet had failed.
The safety system had contained the failure.
Everyone had returned.
The older comparison did not belong on the page.
Aurelio closed the notebook.
Dominic stood at the next bed, tying his apron.
“You all right?” “Yes.” “You moved fast.” “The child was too close.” “That isn’t what I meant.” Aurelio returned the notebook to his suitcase.
“We have service.” Dominic held his gaze for a moment.
Then he nodded.
◆ The blue team entered the kitchen with two hours and twelve minutes remaining.
Fresh pasta filled the walk-in.
Pizza dough rested in covered containers.
Baskets of potatoes waited beneath the preparation table beside trays of chicken, beef, salmon, and scallops.
A separate dessert station had been arranged near the pastry ovens.
Aurelio read the preparation list once.
“Who has stations?” Bobby asked.
No one answered.
Bobby looked toward Aurelio.
“Navarro?” “Ramsay hasn’t assigned them.” “We still need prep.” Aurelio placed the list on the worktable.
“Dominic, check fish.
Ben, appetizers.
Bobby and Matt, meat.
Louross, pasta and pizza setup.
Petrozza, garnish.” Matt looked down the line.
“And you?” “Wherever prep is behind.” “You gave everybody else a station.” “Because everyone else asked what to prepare.” Aurelio opened the lowboy beneath fish and checked the containers.
Dominic joined him.
The scallops had been portioned but not dried.
Salmon rested skin-side down in a hotel pan.
Two portions near the corner were thicker than the others.
“Sort those by size,” Aurelio said.
“If they cook on the same tray, the thin ones finish first.” “I know.” “Then do it.” Dominic began separating the portions.
At appetizers, Ben lifted the lid from the risotto stock and smelled it.
“This needs reducing.” “It needs to stay light enough for the children’s menu,” Aurelio said.
Ben looked toward him.
“Are you working my station?” “I’m standing beside it.” “Then stand somewhere else.” Aurelio moved to garnish.
Petrozza had begun blanching vegetables.
Potatoes simmered in two pots, one larger than the other.
“The smaller pot is boiling harder,” Aurelio said.
“I saw it.” “Switch burners.” “I was about to.” Aurelio exchanged the pots himself.
Petrozza watched him.
“You planning to visit every station?” “Yes.” “You should consider visiting yours.” “When Ramsay gives me one.” “He gave you the team.” Aurelio looked at him.
Petrozza returned to the vegetables.
“That’s what the strongest-chef question was for,” he said.
“He didn’t ask because he needed help making conversation.” Across the kitchen, Bobby opened the meat refrigerator.
“Who stacked the chicken like this?” “Red prepped both kitchens,” Louross said.
“They buried the Wellingtons.” Matt reached past him.
“I can get them.” “Don’t crush the pastry.” “I know how to move a tray.” “You knew how to hold pasta too.” Matt turned.
“That was one bundle.” “Enough,” Aurelio said.
Neither man looked at him.
Aurelio crossed the kitchen.
“Bobby, inventory the proteins.
Matt, score the chicken trays against the prep sheet.
If anything is short, tell Scott now.” Bobby moved the Wellingtons.
Matt unfolded the sheet.
The argument ended because both men had something measurable to do.
Petrozza looked across the kitchen.
“That,” he said, “was your station.” ◆ In the red kitchen, Jen assigned herself appetizers.
Corey reacted before anyone else.
“Of course.” Jen lifted the risotto pan.
“Something wrong?” “You pick the first station Ramsay sees.” “I picked the station I can run.” “You mean the station that gets you on camera.” Christina placed a container of stock beside Jen.
“We’ve been on camera all day.” Corey ignored her.
“I’ll take meat.” Vanessa looked up from the salmon.
“You were on meat last service.” “And?” “And some of it came back.” “So did your fish.” Ramsay entered before the argument could move farther.
He walked between the two kitchens without greeting either team.
“Line up.” The contestants left their stations.
Ramsay stopped at the pass.
“Family Night is not an easier service.
Children have less patience, parents notice everything, and one late table becomes an entire family waiting together.” He looked toward the red team.
“Jen, station.” “Appetizers, Chef.” “Corey?” “Meat.” “Christina?” “Pasta and pizza.” “Vanessa?” “Fish.” “Shayna and Rosann?” “Garnish, Chef,” Shayna answered.
Ramsay turned toward the men.
“Bobby?” “Meat, Chef.” “Matt?” “Meat with Bobby.” “Ben?” “Appetizers.” “Dominic?” “Fish.” “Louross?” “Pasta and pizza.” “Petrozza?” “Garnish.” Ramsay reached Aurelio.
“Where are you?” “Floating.” “Again?” “Yes, Chef.” “Why?” “The menu has more stations than usual, and I can cover whichever one falls behind.” Ramsay looked down the blue line.
“Who decided that?” “I did.” “So the strongest chef on the team has chosen not to own a station.” Aurelio kept his hands at his sides.
“I chose to own the kitchen.” “You haven’t earned the kitchen.” “No, Chef.” “You’ve earned one jacket and three services.
Get on appetizers with Ben.” “Yes, Chef.” Ben’s expression did not change.
Ramsay stepped closer to Aurelio.
“You can see what breaks before it breaks?” “Yes, Chef.” “Then make sure appetizers don’t.” “Yes, Chef.” Ramsay moved toward the dining room.
“One hour.
Finish prep.” The teams scattered.
Ben returned to appetizers first.
“You asked for that.” “No.” “You told him you owned the kitchen.” “I said I chose to.” “Same thing.” “No.” Ben set a stack of risotto pans beneath the range.
Aurelio checked the pasta portions.
“We need two more pans.” “We have six.” “We need eight.” “For what?” “Two risottos, one children’s pasta, one spare for each, and three working rotations.” Ben counted the pans again.
“We can wash.” “During service?” Ben took two more from the lower shelf.
“You really do need everything your way.” “No.
I need enough pans.” ◆ The kitchen compressed as service approached.
Every surface acquired a purpose.
Finished preparation moved into lowboys.
Tasting spoons disappeared into containers.
Towels were folded and placed beside cutting boards.
Stock came to temperature without boiling.
Aurelio worked beside Ben without taking over his station.
Ben controlled the risotto.
Aurelio portioned pasta, checked the sauce, and arranged the pans so either man could reach them without crossing behind the other.
At fish, Dominic tested the scallop pan.
Aurelio heard the oil before he looked over.
“Too hot.” Dominic lifted the pan from the burner.
“I was testing it.” “It passed.” Dominic lowered the flame.
Ben glanced sideways.
“Your station.” Aurelio returned to the pasta portions.
“Right.” Two minutes later, Bobby called from meat.
“We’re short one tray of chicken.” Matt held up the prep sheet.
“It says six.” “There are five.” “It says six.” “The paper isn’t a chicken.” Aurelio kept his hands on appetizers.
“Tell Scott.” Bobby looked toward him.
“You’re not checking?” “I’m on appetizers.” For one second, Bobby appeared surprised.
Then he carried the sheet toward Sous Chef Scott.
Ben stirred the stock.
“You can learn.” “I’ve always been able to.” “That’s not the same as doing it.” Aurelio checked the clock.
“Your stock is reducing too quickly.” Ben moved it to a lower burner.
Neither man mentioned the exchange.
◆ In the dining room, Jean-Philippe removed his tie.
Ramsay looked at the open collar of his shirt.
“Better.
It’s Family Night.
Try not to frighten the children.” Jean-Philippe adjusted one cuff.
“I do not frighten children.” A toddler near the entrance stared at him and hid behind his mother’s leg.
Ramsay looked toward the child.
Jean-Philippe looked straight ahead.
The first families entered.
High chairs appeared between the regular dining chairs.
Children received paper menus and crayons.
Parents folded strollers beside tables or passed infants between them while the servers explained the shorter menu.
The noise changed the restaurant before the first order reached the pass.
It was not louder than an ordinary service.
It was less predictable.
A spoon struck the floor.
A child laughed near the kitchen doors.
Another began crying at a table near the bar.
Chairs moved without warning as parents stood to retrieve dropped toys.
Ramsay returned to the pass.
“Scott, Gloria—ready?” “Yes, Chef.” “Red team?” “Yes, Chef!” “Blue team?” “Yes, Chef!” Jean-Philippe approached the doors.
Ramsay stopped him.
“One more thing.” Jean-Philippe turned.
“If a child asks where their food is, don’t give them a French speech.” “I am Belgian.” The doors to Hell’s Kitchen were officially opened.