We are here to create elites

As I headed toward the door, my focus so intent on the task ahead, I didn't notice it swing open until it was too late.

A blur of movement collided with me, and before I could react, I was tumbling backward, landing ungracefully on the ground.

"Ow," I muttered, blinking as I tried to process what just happened.

When my vision cleared, I found myself staring at a woman sitting on the floor across from me.

She looked young, maybe in her early twenties, her face streaked with tears. She was trembling, her shoulders hunched like the weight of the world had just crushed her.

"I'll never come back here again!" she sobbed, scrambling to her feet. Without sparing me another glance, she bolted down the hallway, her anguished cries echoing behind her.

I sat there for a moment, stunned. "Well… that was weird," I muttered under my breath before picking myself up and brushing off my clothes.

Shaking off the odd encounter, I stepped into the room.

The kitchen was enormous and intimidating. Gleaming stainless steel countertops lined the walls, each equipped with an array of tools and appliances.

Pots and pans hung meticulously from racks overhead, polished to a mirror finish. The air was thick with the scent of butter, herbs, and something faintly burnt.

In the center of the room, five cooking stations were occupied by individuals furiously working over their dishes.

Steam billowed from pots, and the sizzle of food hitting hot pans punctuated the tense silence. At the far end of the room sat a woman on what could only be described as a throne.

It was an ornate chair, upholstered in dark red velvet, its back towering like a regal monument. The woman herself was as severe as her seat—sharp cheekbones, thin lips, and eyes that could pierce steel.

Her aura radiated disdain, and her scowl made the woman who had reviewed my papers seem like a saint.

She turned her gaze to me, her eyes narrowing. "Take a seat," she commanded, her voice cold and clipped.

"You will wait for these fools to finish, and then it will be your turn."

The tone reminded me of Riley on one of her more impatient days. Without arguing, I found a chair along the wall and sat down, clutching my bag tightly in my lap.

My attention drifted to the five people cooking. They were working with lobster, their counters scattered with shells, clarified butter, and various seasonings.

It didn't take long for me to start mentally critiquing their techniques.

One of them was hacking at the lobster with a cleaver like it was a piece of firewood, leaving the poor crustacean in jagged, uneven chunks.

Another was boiling the lobster to oblivion, the shell turning an overdone shade of orange that screamed rubbery texture.

One woman was drenching her lobster in a sauce so thick it might as well have been soup.

I couldn't help but think of Leora. She loved teaching me how to cook and was always meticulous about technique.

Never overcook lobster, she'd say, waving a finger at me. Treat it with respect—it's the star of the dish, not an afterthought. Watching these people massacre their lobsters, I could almost hear her voice scolding them.

This is painful, I thought, wincing as one person reached for pre-ground garlic paste. Leora would have a heart attack.

One by one, the cooks presented their dishes to the woman on the throne. The first was a man with a nervous smile, holding out a plate of lobster in what appeared to be a creamy risotto.

The woman took one bite, her expression unchanging. Then, she spit it into a napkin and glared at him. "This tastes like glue," she said, her tone biting. "Did you cook this with your eyes closed?"

The man turned pale, muttered an apology, and slunk away.

The next dish was a lobster salad, artfully arranged but drenched in a vinaigrette that overpowered the delicate flavor of the meat.

The woman took a single bite, grimaced, and dumped the entire plate into a nearby trash bin without a word. The loud clatter of the dish hitting the metal made the room even tenser.

"You call this cooking?" she sneered at the next contestant, who had presented lobster thermidor. "This is an insult to thermidor. Get out."

Each critique was more scathing than the last. One dish was "inedible," another "an abomination," and by the time the final plate was delivered, the woman didn't even bother to taste it.

She merely sniffed it and pushed it away.

When the last person had been dismissed, she stood and surveyed the room with a withering gaze.

"You are all bad," she declared, her voice echoing in the silence. "None of you are accepted. We are here to create elites, not mediocrity. Now, get out of my sight."

The defeated cooks shuffled out of the room, their heads hung low. I watched them leave, feeling a mix of pity and apprehension. This woman was merciless.

As the door swung shut behind the last contestant, the woman turned to me. Her eyes bore into mine, and for a moment, I felt like prey caught in the sights of a predator.

"You," she said, pointing a finger at me. "You have thirty minutes. Cook whatever you want. I don't care."

Her words hung in the air like a challenge, and despite the knot forming in my stomach, I nodded, standing up and making my way to the nearest station.

My heart was pounding, but my mind was already racing with possibilities.

Whatever I want, I thought, glancing at the array of ingredients laid out before me. Time to show her what I've got.