Jean-Michel whispers into Pip’s ear as they inspect our plates and nod in solemn agreement before he addresses us all.

‘We are looking to advance the best. But remember we are also looking to eliminate the worst. There are two dishes here today that really did blow our minds – by how bad they were.’

Pip walks over to the pass. He looks at the first plate presented by a tall, lanky chef with the biggest hands I’ve seen. He lowers to sniff the dish.

‘Blinis.’

The tall chef nods.

‘You know what this is like? To me, this is like going to the New York Philharmonic. You are excited, these guys are the best of the best, top of their game, selected from thousands, trained by the most celebrated in the world. Skilled, passionate, exemplary in every way. You are all dressed up, you’ve brought a hot date, or your wife. Everything is in place for something extraordinary, something memorable, something special… And then they play “Chopsticks”.’

The tall chef’s eyes widen. This sounds like it’s going in the wrong direction.

‘These blinis are “Chopsticks”. A complete let-down. Patronisingly simple. Devoid of imagination.’ Pip picks up his fork and begins to prod around the plate. ‘And you know what? These may taste great; these may be out of this world. But here is the thing. I don’t care enough to find out. I’m so uninspired by the mere word “blini” that I don’t even care to try this. I wouldn’t want to read it on a menu; I wouldn’t even want to ask my maître d’ to write it up because I suspect he may die of boredom before the second letter.’

Jean-Michel nods his head. ‘This challenge was about creativity. This is not creative. This is passé.’ He points to the door. ‘Please see yourself out, you are now eliminated from this process.’

Oh my God, he didn’t even taste it! I was going to go with blinis! Thank God I didn’t. But what about my dish? What’s he going to make of it? I just cannot predict his reaction. My palms start to sweat. Even though I have no idea what’s going to happen next, I’m going to have to act ready anyway. Stay calm. Stay rooted to the spot. Stay professional. I can’t let my insecurities leak out and make a mess everywhere.

I try to console myself. What’s the worst thing that can happen?

Well, except that both of them attack me, screaming, shouting, throwing my food in the bin in front of all these people, including Ben. And then they eliminate me and I have to break the bleak news to everyone that I have, indeed, failed again with the one thing that I’m supposed to be good at it. And then I wake up in my sleeping bag on Alice’s couch bright and early tomorrow morning to head back to Parkland’s kitchen with Bernie as my superior for evermore. And this time I’ll have no real hope or practical way of escaping.

I clench my jaw tight. And decide that my attempt to cheer myself up has actually just scared the living crap out of me.

I watch the tall chef slide his apron over his head and fold up his knives. The kitchen is utterly still and silent. Nobody dares move. I hear the swing door whoosh shut. And he’s gone. And we are one down, just like that. Nine of us remain. But for how long is anybody’s guess.

Jean steps up to the next plate, which belongs to a young, dark-haired chef with a goatee. He regards the dish. ‘C’est quoi?’

‘Pommes purée, chef. I immersed the potatoes in the sous vide at a high heat for twenty minutes before passing them through the sieve fifty times to ensure a perfectly even, silky-smooth texture.’

Jean-Michel’s face stays unmoved as he samples a small forkful.

‘Flavour is almost adequate. But texture? Colour? It looks like somebody already ate it, and brought it back up again.’

He considers the dish another moment, then puts down his fork.

‘Just because the equipment exists doesn’t mean we should use it for the sake of using it. I watched you as you cooked. You spent more time with the equipment than with the food. This upsets me. I am looking for creativity. And this should not have been created at all. It has no soul. To me, you have sucked the life out of this. Impardonnable. You have prepared your last dish in this process. Please, the door.’

A second chef stripped of his apron, he exits through the swinging door without looking back.

Jean-Michel dispatches the next four chefs in the same manner, one by one, a curled lip, a sigh, a grunt, a shrug of his shoulders, a shake of his head, and then a decisive nod to the door.

Eventually Pip looks towards me. ‘So, let’s get on to some better news. We were impressed with the talent that remains. Katie, you did yourself proud. I shall let Octavia know that her instinct about you proved correct. Today, you came out of your comfort zone. Your presentation is elegant, your flavour combination impeccable. This is what I would order at a high-end restaurant and if I was served this, I would be extremely satisfied. So well done, I look forward to more.’

I’m in. I passed. I’m coming back! I blow out my cheeks, letting a huge sigh of relief escape my lips. I stretch out my tightly furled fingers. And unclench my butt. And unlock my knees. My whole body loosens as the fear of elimination dissipates. That was tense. That was scary.

Pip then turns to Ben.

And I feel my fists ball and my butt re-clench and my knees re-lock. I’m as nervous for Ben as I was for myself. Please let him survive this! Please don’t send him out, away again, through those doors never to return.

I hold my breath. If Ben doesn’t get through I’m going to speak out about what I suspect Beardy did. There’s no way should Ben be going home. I cross my fingers and hold my breath. Hoping. Praying.

‘Vichyssoise. This was an inspired choice. A nod towards the British favourite of potato and leek soup, but light and elegant enough to serve as a summer’s day appetiser. It’s clean. It’s clever. It’s classical. It makes me think of all the other times I’ve enjoyed this great dish in other high-end dining rooms, and believe me, this is up there. It belongs here. And that tells me that you belong here.’

I unclench. God, that feels good.

Jean-Michel takes a step towards Ben. ‘What I like is that you served it at room temperature. Not cold. Not chilled. Just right so the flavours shine. At the wrong temperature, you can’t differentiate all the dimensions in there and it tastes as a plain potato soup. But, this…’ He takes another spoonful, closing his eyes as he swallows. ‘C’est vraiment très bon.’

Ben bows his gratitude and I watch a modest smile relax his lips. He glances over at me and winks his gratitude.

Jean-Michel praises another quiet chef called Joe for his efforts and spares him the walk of shame. He’s saved. He’ll return tomorrow.

Pip pivots on his heel and raises his chin towards the back-corner station. He claps slow and hard. ‘But let’s not get carried away with commendations when there is a clear winner amongst you.’

There’s only one chef remaining that he could be talking about.

And that’s Beardy. Beardy the soufflé assassin is standing, arms folded across his chest, a proud, smug smile across his round, red face.

‘Our grand chef of today, is Harry Trott. Harry, please talk us through your dish.’

Dirty Harry he should be called, the hairy, sneaking cheat.

Harry explains in a low, gravelly tone. ‘It’s a clam, pickled potato, and Sichuan oil salad. I sliced the potato finely with a mandolin, then placed the slices in a pickling broth of ginger and star anise, while the clams went into a saucepan to mingle with garlic, shallot, and a healthy glug of sake. With the fishy clams and the bright, luminous red Sichuan oil – which I made with plenty of chilies and peppercorns – I wanted to make a statement. I like loud, bold, in-your-face flavours. I like ingredients that intimidate: tongue, brains, jellyfish, cod sperm. I love nothing more than persuading diners to eat foodstuffs they wouldn’t ordinarily appeal. I take what’s intimidating and make it interesting,’ he says, chin high, nostrils flared, as if he’d already been crowned grand chef and we’re now his lowly minions. ‘I like to challenge. I like nervousness, anticipation, but most of all I like drama, because that’s what makes a meal great.’

Cod sperm? Did he say cod sperm?

Pip actually smiles. It is the first time I have seen his teeth. He walks forward and shakes Dirty Harry’s hand. ‘Now, I’m excited. The competition is hotting up,’ he nods towards us, the remaining four.

‘Go home. Au revoir et à demain,’says a big-chested Jean-Michel as he turns on his heel and out the door without a backward glance.

As I gather my belongings together at my station, I know I should be rejoicing at surviving today and having the chance to come back tomorrow, but I can’t help but feel enraged that Harry has got away with what he did. By the smug grin on his face, he is very pleased with himself, and his cunning plan to trounce the competition got him to the top spot after all. And I’m the only one who knows what he did to Ben. I’m the only one who knows his dirty little sabotaging secret. To everyone else, Harry Trott appears a genius, a daring savant, an unbeatable new grand chef.

But I know different. So, as I slip my apron over my head and fold it carefully ready for the next day, I decide that tomorrow is not just about survival, not just about avoiding elimination. Tomorrow, I’ve got to set my sights on winning. If nothing else, I want to wipe that smug look off Harry Trott’s cod-spermy face and serve him up his just desserts.

Ben calls out to me and I see that he’s making his way in my direction. But I’ve had about as much as I can take today. Personally and professionally. So I nod my goodbyes and dash out into the fading evening light. With a surprising sense of relief and a swell of pride, I jump on my bike and start pedalling straight for Parklands.