The old truck rattled down the street, the faint metallic clink of pots and pans sounding like a drummer's beat. Smoke from the morning prep still clung to Vincent's jacket, carrying the promise of seared meat and sizzling burgers.
He checked the rearview mirror. His own face stared back at him, calm on the surface, but his lips twitched into a half-smile he couldn't suppress.
Today felt different.
As he turned into the park, the scene hit him like a thunderclap.
The crowd wasn't the usual five hundred plus regulars. It was easily double that—families, students, office workers who must've left early. Phones were already out, camera lights flickering like restless fireflies.
"Wow," Vincent muttered under his breath. "I don't think I brought enough stock for this much crowd."
"He's here!" someone shouted.
"Culinary contest—we saw your post!"
"Chef Vincent!"
"Contestant Vincent, future champion!"
The chants rolled through the air like a tide.
Vincent slowed the truck and parked in his usual spot. But before he could even lower the serving window, half a dozen people were already pressed close, their excitement buzzing like electricity.
A young man in a soccer jersey pointed dramatically at him. "Vincent, you legend! You're going to crush those fancy chefs!"
An older woman cupped her hands around her mouth. "Don't forget us little people when you're famous!"
Vincent leaned against the counter window, laughter shaking his chest. "Easy, easy! I'm still the same guy serving you burgers, alright?"
"No way!" a teenager yelled, phone aimed directly at him. "You're our rep now! The park's pride!"
The cheer that followed was deafening.
Someone began chanting, "Vin-cent! Vin-cent!" and within seconds the whole front line had joined.
Phones were raised higher. A dozen livestreams buzzed at once, comment bubbles popping up faster than Vincent could track.
He raised his hands like a referee calling for silence. "Alright, alright, listen up!"
The crowd hushed, though the excitement still vibrated under their skin.
"The competition begins next week. Monday." His voice carried, steady but filled with fire. "That means…" He paused, letting the tension hang. "I won't be working the park as usual."
The groan of disappointment was instant, loud, overlapping.
"Come on!"
"We can't survive without your burgers!"
"Chef, don't do this to us!"
Vincent raised a palm. "Wait! I said as usual." His grin spread wide. "Tuesday, I'll open the truck. Just for you. But I'll need the rest of the week off—Thursday and Saturday are competition days and I've got to be ready. Also, I won't be here tomorrow, I've got to attend the contest registration and orientation. Deal?"
The cheer that followed shook the ground.
"Deal!"
"You focus on winning!"
"We'll be here Tuesday! Don't worry about us!"
The line formed faster than he could blink.
Every order came with a cheer, every plate carried more than food—it carried their hopes.
"Make them taste what we taste every week, Chef!" one man said, slapping the counter.
"You're the underdog! That's what makes you dangerous!" another shouted.
After five hours straight, Vincent's truck was wiped clean. Every burger, every fry, every grain of rice, every strip of meat, gone.
He wiped his brow, exhausted but alive, heart pounding in rhythm with the crowd's lingering energy.
This… this is momentum.
- - -
Later that afternoon, Vincent pushed through the heavy doors of the butcher's section of the market. The air was sharp with iron and smoke, filled with the symphony of cleavers and bargaining voices.
"Vincent!"
A booming voice cut through the noise. The meat vendor was waving at him.
Vincent walked over, smiling. "What gave me away?"
The vendor laughed so hard his belly shook. "What gave you away? Kid, you've been on my phone all morning! Social media's blowing up. Your post, the crowd clips—damn, even my niece in another city knows your name now."
He leaned across the counter, lowering his voice. "I'll be honest. I used to think you were insane. Who on earth goes through over half my beef stock every week? But now? Now I get it. You weren't crazy. You were building something."
Vincent chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I was."
The vendor slapped a massive wrapped cut of beef onto the counter. "Competition meat. On the house. No arguing. You win, my stall wins. You lose, I'll still brag I sold to you first."
Vincent blinked, touched. "I can't just—"
"You can. Take it." The vendor's grip was firm, his eyes sharp. "Make them choke on your smoke, Vincent."
The words hit harder than Vincent expected. He extended his hand, and the vendor clasped it with a grip that could crush bones.
The next morning, Vincent stood before the convention center just after sunrise, his food truck parked safely back home.
The building loomed tall, its glass doors gleaming under the floodlights. Banners stretched across its façade, bold letters screaming across the skyline:
"National Culinary Masters — Culinary Ascension (Season XIl)."
Inside, the lobby was all clean lines—white floors, chrome counters, neatly dressed staff with sleek tablets in hand. Cold. Professional. A stark contrast to the smoky chaos of his food truck.
He took a slow breath, adjusting his jacket. The nerves in his stomach twisted like knots.
A staffer in a black polo greeted him at the desk. "Name?"
"Vincent…" He hesitated, suddenly aware of how ordinary his name sounded compared to the sharp, star-like personalities around him. "Vincent."
The staffer checked a clipboard, nodded, and handed him a lanyard with a shiny badge.
CONTESTANT #7 — VINCENT
"Please sign here to complete your registration." She slid the clipboard forward.
Vincent picked up the pen. For a moment, his reflection stared back at him in the polished surface of the counter—smoke-stained jacket, calloused hands, eyes that had seen more fire than sleep.
Once I write my name… there's no turning back.
He pressed the pen to paper. His hand didn't tremble. Stroke by stroke, his name appeared in ink. Final. Irrevocable.
The receptionist took the form back and gave a small nod. "Welcome to the competition, Chef Vincent. You'll need to head down the hall for your orientation."
The orientation. That was the highlight of today.
Vincent followed the staff through the polished halls, heart steady despite the flood of adrenaline. Ten chefs—including him—were gathered, a mix of calm confidence and jittery excitement painting their faces.
The hall stretched like a tunnel of pressure. The air smelled faintly of polish and nerves.
Other contestants walked alongside him, their badges swinging, their expressions a mix of bravado and unease. He caught fragments of conversation.
"…my sponsor's expecting a feature in the opening episode."
"…Michelin star or bust."
"…I'll annihilate anyone with fusion dishes."
They weren't talking to him, but their words lingered. The arrogance. The weight of reputations.
At the end of the hall, double doors opened into a massive auditorium.
Ten chefs—including him—were gathered, a mix of calm confidence and jittery excitement painting their faces. Cameras circled above like vultures. A stage stood at the front, floodlit, banners cascading down either side.
Vincent slipped into a seat near the middle. Heads turned briefly, whispers trailing.
"Is that the food truck guy?"
"Seriously? They let street vendors in?"
"Don't underestimate him—did you see the crowd outside his truck?"
He ignored the whispers, focusing on the stage.
He kept his gaze fixed on the stage, expression unreadable. Let them talk. Words were smoke—vanishing as quickly as they came.
His food would be the fire. His cooking would do the talking.