Entering its twenty-fifth year and stronger than ever, Interstellar MegaChef was the most widely-watched programme in the history of Loop programming. The culinary contest was a gladiatorial gastronomical challenge, not for the faint of heart (or nuclear-powered core), that pitted dozens of the greatest chefs from across the known universe—people from all species included—against each other to crown a champion each year.
Its judges comprised the most discerning food critics and creators on Primus, those who’d risen through the ranks and fought bitter plated duels for their place among the who’s who of culinary culture. Occasionally, a judge would retire to do greater things on the interstellar world stage, and a spot would open up. In recent years, under growing pressure from an increasingly inclusive universe, the judging panel had expanded to feature non-humans on special episodes, and even the occasional non-Primian upstart.
It was a well-known fact that Primian cuisine was the most elevated, the most delightful, the most creative and tasteful of all the food arts anywhere in the cosmos. It did not come easy to everyone, and rightly so, for its emphasis on ras—or essence—was innate to Primian culture. “Tread lightly,” as the old and ever-relevant adage went.
So it was much to the establishment’s chagrin when the producers revealed that joining the judges this year, for the entire season, were Pavi and Amol Khurshid. Unknown to either of these young chefs, and entirely behind closed doors, protests had been staged, the current judges had threatened to quit, special perks were offered per episode, and the issue had come to a temporary, if uneasy, settlement. It was widely agreed that Pavi and Amol Khurshid were pretenders of the most deplorable kind: Earthling immigrants who dared to aspire to Primian cuisine, and worse still, successfully so. Their restaurant, Nonpareil, was booked out a year in advance, their faces were on every culinary holoscroll out there, and they were frequently and grudgingly invited to the most exclusive degustations. It was sickening, the other judges wholly agreed, but they resolved to smile and wave for the cameras, and hope this new fad would soon pass.
Pavi and Amol weren’t entirely unaware of the tension in the Judges’ Lounge that evening. It preceded them like a cloud, announcing their arrival at every room they stepped into. It had been this way ever since they first arrived on Primus. It was impossible to tell which smiles were false and which genuine, but in Pavi’s estimation, all of them seemed brittle.
‘Such a delight to have you, and welcome to our humble lair,’ Grace Aurelle, the head judge—or “Chief Chef”—said in a low raspy voice. She ran her finger around the rim of a cocktail glass in her hands, and licked the salt off it, gazing at them with cool blue eyes. ‘What do I call you? Pavi and Amol seem so naked, so lacking in… social standing, without given-names, don’t they?’
Pavi’s temper rose, but she smoothed it over with an easy smile. ‘Unfortunately, we aren’t eligible for given-names since we aren’t Primian citizens. So naked and lacking in social standing we will have to be.’
Grace Aurelle tilted her head back and laughed, her thick, long, braided grey hair whipping to the side like a scorpion’s tail. ‘I like you already,’ she said.
Pavi exchanged a look with Amol. It was a certainty she didn’t.
Grace Aurelle continued. ‘Let me introduce you to the rest—though, really, they need no introduction. Courage Ab’dal, They/Them, owner of Leaf and Bone; Harmony Rhea, She/Her, author of a dozen award-winning cook-scrolls; and, well, me. My pronouns are She/Her.’
Pavi resisted the urge to lower her tall, slender figure into a curtsy—a vulgar Earth habit that would drop her in their estimation quicker than you could say Earthling. The judging panel was intimidatingly star-studded; no party or restaurant opening she’d ever been to had hosted the like of the culinary wizards before her in this room.
Her twin, seeming to read her mind, stepped in to smooth things over in his calm, predictable fashion. Amol, portly and amicable, smiled at the imperious gazes upon him, eyes twinkling. ‘We’re honoured to be here!’ he said in that bright, enthusiastic tone Primians expected from off-worlders of any sort. His Ur-speak was impeccable, his accent more polished than his sister’s.
‘You must have had a great Ur-speak tutor,’ Courage Ab’dal remarked. ‘We were expecting both of you to speak Vox.’
‘Or worse, one of the regional vernaculars from Earth,’ Harmony Rhea tittered.
Amol laughed brightly, and caught Pavi’s eyes flashing in anger. ‘We’re as far from the barbarians as we might be, seeing as we attended boarding school here.’
‘Huh. I read about that in your interview in The Consummate Culinary Journal,’ said Grace Aurelle. ‘But let’s talk later, after we’re done with official business. We’re reviewing audition videos from our contenders to see what we might expect tomorrow.’ She gestured at the lavish flowmetal bar behind her. ‘Pour yourselves a drink and join us, will you?’
Pavi was aware of the eyes boring into her back as she and Amol walked towards the bar. This was a test of elegance and skill. Every single thing about the cocktail she created would be scrutinised—the ingredients she chose and their symbolic value in Primian culture, the techniques she decided to display, and her performance in assembling them. All this would speak volumes about her, and she must not forget to add a personal touch, something to indicate her roots or her personality, as part of the greater whole.
A line of top-shelf spirits and liqueurs lined the bar—cloudy blue Saxeny, bubbling pink Rosestahl and crystal clear Minerali among them. To use one of these would be a sign of hubris, symbolising that she had achieved the pinnacle of Primian culture already; and so she demurely settled on a green bottle twisted like coiling vines. Verdatis would do nicely—it symbolised growth. Beside her, Amol made a similar choice, picking a robust, ochre Sherberry, which hinted at being grounded yet radiant.
The manner of the making was as important as the end result, which isn’t to say it was done with flourish: quite the opposite. All Primian cuisine was made with elegance, a minimalism of movement that underscored precision, getting to the essence of flavour. Pavi poured out a shot of Verdatis, immaculately measured to a precise 45 ml. She created a familiar blend of speckled white mento-leaves and neon yellow citra-fruit, using a syringe to extract their ras from the solitary specimens lying on the table, adding a spot of concentrator.
She injected her ingredients into a mid-sized edible sphere, a staple in any Primian kitchen, taking care to ensure the speckled white and neon yellow marbled its surface as they spread across it. It was vulgar to use whole natural ingredients in one’s food—it hinted at excess, at indiscriminately taking from the land. She popped the sphere into the cocktail glass, then added a dash of hot chilli ras, a direct infusion into the cocktail. The cocktail turned effervescent with a delightful popping, and she raised it in a toast to the other judges, who politely applauded.
‘Clever,’ Grace Aurelle smiled approvingly. ‘Mento-leaves for calmness and citra-fruit for playfulness—a classic Primian pairing, I’ll say—with a personal touch of chilli for your fiery ambition.’
Pavi smiled and took a sip of her cocktail. ‘My spin on the greenwood pop.’
Beside her, Amol raised his Sherberry with honey caviar, and carefully crafted cocogel flowers.
‘Cheerful disposition and charm. Cocogel for eccentricity, and the floral shapes for harmony with the earth.’ Grace Aurelle raised an eyebrow. ‘My, what an interesting pair of siblings you are.’ She indicated two wingback armchairs on either side of her. ‘And now, to review this year’s worthy hopefuls.’
Pavi settled in at one end of the judging table, Amol across from her at the other.
Harmony Rhea tapped her thumb and index finger together, sliding into the Loop. She flicked her wrist out, as if dealing cards. The visio-nodes embedded in the table caught something and flared blue, and a holostream appeared.
‘Behold the luminous final twenty-four,’ Grace Aurelle said with condescension.
‘I can’t wait to watch them fail all through this season.’ Courage Ab’dal cracked their knuckles.
The first chef auditioning prepared a meen crudo, knife slicing through vat-grown meen-fish in a blur.
Harmony Rhea pretended to yawn. ‘Another flashy demonstration of knife skills a la the Ninno School.’
‘We get one of these every year,’ Courage Ab’dal said, for Pavi and Amol’s benefit. ‘Can slice through any kind of meat or vegetable, but ask them to use a syringe and they’re all ham-fisted.’
‘This one isn’t very good,’ said Grace Aurelle. ‘Look at the edges of the meen-fish? They’re fraying. Consistent, yes, but fraying. This is a chef who’s going to rail against tradition for whimsy.’
And sure enough, the traditional meen crudo, meant to symbolise being one with the waves of the ocean, took an unexpected turn when the chef in question added a citrine-fruit infusion.
Pavi tutted, and her ears grew hot when everyone turned to regard her. ‘Unconventional. All flavour is supposed to be derived from ocean ingredients in this dish.’
‘Exactly!’ crowed Grace Aurelle. ‘I have a feeling we might just get along, despite our … differences.’
A succession of chefs displayed their best work in the kitchen, each with techniques hailing back to one of the great schools of interstellar cuisine. It was breathtaking to watch them work, but most of them, being human, would eventually slip up; and then the judging panel would crow, looking forward to weaknesses they could exploit over the next two months’ filming.
One chef from the Serenius College of Sweet Treats stood out for their remarkable piping techniques.
‘Flawless!’ gasped Harmony Rhea. It was the only nice thing she’d said in their entire discussion.
Another chef used micro-paté to great effect in a futuristic dish created from hundreds of little layers, evoking Ancestor Rock, where the first settlers of Primus left their handprints in the moss.
‘Ingenious,’ gushed Courage Ab’dal.
A B’naar cook impressed them all with xir delicate use of xir mechatronic limbs to create petalescence.
‘That’s your dark horse for the season,’ Grace Aurelle said.
There were also an E’nemon and an Askalion chef among this year’s contenders.
‘This is the politically correct faction,’ explained Courage Ab’dal. ‘They don’t last very long, but there are mandatory spots reserved for them by the Culture and Heritage office. Part of our PR as an inclusive planet.’
At the end of the twenty-four videos, during which Pavi and Amol had chimed in with the occasional observation laced with snark, Grace Aurelle half-rose, stretching her long arms luxuriantly over her head.
Harmony Rhea frowned. ‘Hang on. There’s one more.’
Courage Ab’dal shook their leg restlessly. ‘Aren’t we done with twenty-four? I’ve got all my notes.’
‘This is a “wild card,” apparently,’ Harmony Rhea explained. ‘The producers think views of our first episode will skyrocket, thanks to her.’
‘Oh! I think I signed her invite,’ Grace Aurelle said. ‘Let’s get this over with?’
A short, curvy woman smiled brightly at the camera. Her face was oval-shaped and dimpled, her skin golden brown and heavily freckled. Her hair was pulled back in—
‘A ponytail?’ asked Grace Aurelle in shock. ‘Did she just get out of bed?’
The chef in question proceeded to cut a slab of meat on the counter in front of her, explaining the dish she was making.
‘Her Ur-speak is deplorable,’ Harmony Rhea said, giggling.
Pavi exchanged a look with Amol as her heart sank. She recognised that accent all too well.
Courage Ab’dal gasped. ‘Is that an open flame?’
The woman on video tossed something onto a metal pan and held it over a fire.
‘Barbarian!’ Grace Aurelle said in shock.
Suddenly, the woman glanced behind her and a large spot of plaster dropped from the ceiling into the kitchen. She looked hurriedly back at the camera, keeping her smile in place with a visible effort.
‘What is going on?’ Courage Ab’dal frowned, leaning forward.
The walls of the kitchen in which the woman stood began to shake, and pots and pans fell off them with loud metallic chiming, a discordant symphony to accompany the unnerving sizzling of fat on the fire. A large hole appeared in the back wall, and smoke whooshed through it.
‘Is her city collapsing?’ Harmony Rhea asked, aghast.
Undaunted, the woman on video began to throw whole vegetables into the pot, stirring it with a hastened violence, shredding herbs and tossing them in after.
‘Nine Virtues, she’s savage!’ Grace Aurelle whispered.
As she began to pour her concoction into a large earthenware bowl, the video blurred out of focus and the screen went black.
‘What the starfucking hell is this?’ Courage Ab’dal asked, clearly shaken.
Pavi’s insides were cold, and her hands trembled as she tried to sip her cocktail. She knew exactly where this video was from, and while she didn’t know the cook in it, she knew the opinions she was going to be expected to express come judging the next day.
‘Huh. Her name is Sara-southey Karri,’ said Harmony Rhea, reading off something only she could see. ‘Ran some big shot restaurant called Elé Oota on… No way!’
She slid out of the Loop, eyes as big as saucers, and looked from Pavi to Amol, back to Pavi. ‘She’s from Earth.’ ...
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