A PA announcement cut through the murmurs.
"Welcome, chefs, to the first official orientation of the Culinary Vanguard Championship!"
The room fell into respectful silence. Four figures stepped forward, each commanding attention.
"Let's begin with introductions," said a staff member.
First came a woman in a tailored blazer, her sharp eyes scanning the room like a hawk. "I am Marissa Cole, your food critic judge. I've written for Gourmet Review for over fifteen years and have eaten in kitchens around the world. "
Next, a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped forward, the restaurateur of a multi-starred bistro. "I'm Henri Dumont. My focus is on precision, efficiency, and how chefs handle pressure."
The third figure drew immediate attention—a woman whose presence alone seemed to command heat. Chef Emilia Rojas, known for her unrivaled skill and meticulous techniques, bowed slightly to the contestants. Her gaze landed briefly on Vincent. "I've seen your park videos," she said, voice calm but cutting. "Creative, bold, and… fast. Don't let the glare of the crowd distract you. Keep that focus in the kitchen. The same goes for the rest of you."
Vincent felt a thrill ripple through him. The legendary chef had noticed him. "Understood, Chef Rojas. I'll focus on every detail."
The fourth was quieter, older, and dressed in a scholarly suit. His eyes held centuries of culinary knowledge. Professor Lionel Ashcroft, a culinary historian, nodded at the group. "Chefs, innovation balanced with respect for technique—that is what will carry you forward. Observe, adapt, and make each ingredient speak."
After introductions, a staff member guided the group into the main kitchen. Rows of stainless steel counters gleamed under the lights, each station equipped with induction stoves, prep boards, knives, and ingredient bins meticulously labeled. A pantry wall stretched the length of the room, stacked with spices, sauces, meats, and vegetables, all organized with surgical precision.
"You'll be assigned your stations for the first round," the staffer explained. "Everything here is available to you. Take a moment to familiarize yourselves with the tools."
Vincent moved along the counters, eyes flicking over every knife, pan, and burner. He could almost hear the sizzle of his truffle burgers in his mind, the aroma of seared beef and melted truffle butter.
A junior staffer approached, bowing slightly. "Chef Vincent? Some of us… we've been following your park posts. Tried your food ourselves. It's… divine."
Vincent blinked, surprised by the sincerity. "You came to the park?"
"Twice," she admitted with a shy laugh. "I just… wanted to see if it was real. And it is. You'll win this competition, I just know it."
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thanks. I'll do everything I can to make it count."
Another staffer waved from across the room. "Vincent! Big fan! Social media is exploding about you joining. Keep that fire—you'll crush it in here!"
Vincent couldn't help but grin, the energy of the crowd in the park somehow transferring to this clinical, intimidating space. He nodded, feeling the weight of expectation—and excitement.
As the orientation continued, chefs mingled, some sharing stories of past competitions, others silently studying the kitchen like predators sizing up prey. Vincent listened, smiled politely, but kept his focus.
A staffer finally guided them toward the uniform rack. A rack of crisp white coats lined the wall, each one embroidered with the golden flame insignia of the competition. Aprons, folded neatly on tables, carried the same logo. Each chef was handed a pristine jacket with their name embroidered in bold letters across the chest, and a matching apron.
A woman behind the counter smiled. "You're Vincent? Here's yours."
She handed him a pristine chef's coat with his name stitched in bold black thread across the chest. Below it, the apron — sturdy canvas, straps reinforced, brand new yet already carrying the weight of reputation.
Vincent ran his fingers over the embroidery. His name. His own. For a second, his food truck world — the park, the smoky grill, the endless crowd — felt like another lifetime. This was real.
"Do we… return these at the end?" he asked.
The woman chuckled. "No. That's yours. Win or lose, you keep it."
Vincent couldn't help but smile. The coat wasn't just fabric; it was proof that he had stepped into a bigger arena. He slipped it on, adjusting the sleeves, and tied the apron at his waist. It fit like it was waiting for him all along.
The smoky, chaotic man from the park now transformed into a contestant of the Culinary Vanguard Championship.
For the first time since the email invitation, the contest stopped feeling like a dream. It was happening. And he was wearing it.
After the uniform fittings, the chefs were led into a bright, open room lined with cameras and microphones. This was the pre-interview space—media crews and social media teams ready to capture every story, every spark of ambition.
A producer stepped forward, clipboard in hand. "Alright, chefs. We're going to hear a little about you—why you're here, your culinary journey, and what this competition means to you. Vincent, you're up first."
All eyes subtly turned toward him. Vincent took a measured breath, adjusting the collar of his jacket.
"Vincent," the interviewer began, microphone extended, "tell us a little about yourself. Where did it all start?"
Vincent's gaze swept the room, calm but carrying the weight of a lifetime of sweat and fire. "I started with a food truck," he said simply. His lips curved into a faint, humble smile. "Just me, a few pans, and the idea that good food should be shared with everyone—no matter the place, no matter the price."
'Idea? More like I was forced by the system with my life on the line. I didn't even like cooking or know how to cook good food,' he thought wryly, letting the mental admission stay private.
The cameras clicked and whirred, capturing every word.
"And this competition," the interviewer continued, leaning in slightly, "what does it mean to you?"
Vincent's eyes brightened, a spark of fire lighting them. "Winning… it's more than a trophy. It's the chance to turn a dream into reality. That prize money—it'll go straight into opening my own restaurant. A place where I can keep sharing flavors, where the recipes I've honed for years can meet more people, more plates. That's been my goal since day one."
'Recipes I've honed for years sounds cliché. I didn't even need to hone anything thanks to the system, and I absolutely know nothing about flavors,' he thought, smirking just enough to keep the private joke from slipping into his voice.
He paused, letting It sink in. "I'm not just cooking to win. I'm cooking to create a space for people to experience what I love—flavors that tell stories, dishes that make people feel something real."
The interviewer nodded, impressed. "And your culinary style? What defines it?"
Vincent laughed softly, a quiet, self-assured chuckle. "Bold, honest, a little chaotic—but always with balance. I take risks because I know the payoff is worth it. I started in a park, feeding thousands every week, figuring out what works under pressure. That's the style I bring here too."
Another crew member piped up, "You've got a lot of fans already from social media. Does that add pressure?"
Vincent shrugged lightly, grin teasing his lips. "Pressure? Maybe. But it's also motivation. I know there are people out there who believe in what I do. I owe it to them—and to myself—to show that the hype isn't misplaced."
The interviewer leaned close. "Some critics argue a street vendor can't compete with professionally trained chefs. How do you respond?"
Vincent's eyes met the interviewer's, steady and unflinching. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"I'm not here to argue. I'm here to cook." He paused, letting the words settle. "I've spent years figuring out flavors under pressure, learning what works and what doesn't. This stage isn't about titles or past accolades—it's about the food you put on the plate. That's what I'll let speak for me."
'well not years though but that doesn't matter right?' he thought.
He leaned back slightly, calm but focused. "I plan to prove that every dish I make is worthy of the same stage as any other chef here. That's all the response I need to give."
The camera operators scribbled notes and adjusted angles, capturing the genuine intensity of his tone, the calm confidence underlined by excitement. There was no arrogance, only certainty that his cooking would earn respect—naturally, without words.
"Last question," the interviewer said, leaning closer. "If you win, what's the first thing you'll do in your restaurant?"
Vincent's smile widened, and for a moment his eyes sparkled with childlike delight. "The first thing? I'll serve the dishes that got me here. My signature meals, the ones people know and love. That's how I started, and that's how I want it to continue. This competition isn't just a challenge—it's the next chapter of a story that started in a little food truck in the park."
The room filled with the faint sound of impressed murmurs. Crew members whispered, scribbled, and tapped their tablets. Vincent stepped back, calm on the surface but adrenaline racing underneath. For him, this wasn't just an interview—it was the first official step toward turning weeks of sweat into a real legacy.