‘Bonjour, Mesdemoiselles et Messieurs.’ Jean greets me and the three remaining male chefs as we fall in behind our individual stations like military officers awaiting command.

Octavia nods her head towards us all. I am so glad to see her here today. Without her it would be just me and six men including the judges and maître d’; it’s easy enough to be overwhelmed by the pressure without feeling in the minority as well. Her eyes stay on me a beat longer than the rest and a smidgen of a smile raises the corner of her lip. I feel a swell of pride carry through from my stomach to my throat, and I want to run over and wrap my arms around her and say, ‘I’m still here! Thank you for believing in me!’ But regal and dignified Octavia doesn’t seem the sort to appreciate hugs and hollering. I blink my gratitude but I dare not put a foot out of line; as every day progresses, this gets more serious. As we’ve seen the competition whittled down to just four of us, we know that it will take every ounce of concentration, of imagination and of strength of will to make it through today. And if I make it through today, then I’m in touching distance of a brand new life as a Jean-Michel’s grand chef: my career rescued, my status redeemed, my self-respect restored. I straighten my back and focus. Today is big. In this world, it doesn’t get much bigger.

‘Like every creative, every visionary, we are not always wonderful in a team,’ says Jean-Michel. ‘The vision makes sense to us, we know how to realise it ourselves, and it frustrates and delays us to involve other people in the process. Chefs are just the same and as a result can be the world’s worst delegators. As perfectionists, we want to do it all ourselves. Not possible.

‘We have these recipes in our minds that we are not patient enough to write down, and therefore we run the risk of becoming inconsistent. This cannot happen. Assembling the recipe, fine-tuning it, establishes a consistent high mark in terms of standard. This is paramount. This is what makes a great restaurant a Michelin-starred restaurant. Unfailing consistency. Every. Single. Time. Not just for the Times reviewer or the high-profile client, not just the signature dish or when the grand chef is watching. But every forkful, at every sitting. Perfection without fail.’

Octavia nods towards Jean-Michel and places both hands at the pass. ‘So before you can cook perfection, you must taste it. If you don’t know how it is supposed to taste, then you shouldn’t be cooking it. But if you know how it tastes perfectly, then you will cook it one hundred times better. So today we will begin in an old-school way, focussing on taste. The ultimate culinary test, today you will be replicating a highly technical Jean-Michel dish.’

Jean-Michel steps out from behind the pass and begins to walk towards a vacant station. ‘I am not going to tell you what to do. I am going to show you. You will have to rely on your eyes and your palate to recreate it – as I will not give you a recipe or a list of the ingredients I am using, nor will I answer any questions. I will cook it. Then it will be your turn.’

Jean-Michel slips an apron over his head and begins to cook. He’s mesmerising to watch, moving with such speed and confidence, the likes of which I’ve never before seen. He uses so many ingredients, moves so fast, so smoothly. He places a fillet of white fish – Is it halibut? Sea bass? – into a pan. On another gas ring he is making a sauce, light, opaque and fragrant. Lemon and dill? Garlic and fennel? My mind is racing as I try to take in and analyse everything whilst listening to Jean-Michel’s commentary at the same time.

‘This is the exciting part,’ he says as he nears the end. ‘Plating up.’ He stops and considers the round white plate. ‘For me there is nothing so exciting as an empty plate. It is like a clean piece of paper, a blank canvas, naked, new, it is ready for your creation, ready to become. Just like your own life, it is up to you what you will do with it… You are the creator, the expression is yours, just like any artist.’ Slowly, with eyes narrowed, he arranges his leaves. ‘Using the plate as a canvas is key in mastering the art of presentation. Use sauces, sprouts and other garnishes to frame the focal point. It’s all about proportions and really following your instincts. Sometimes I need to take a few steps back to look at the plate like a work of art; sometimes you need a bit of distance.’

He continues to build and layer. ‘Simplicity is always beautiful. But it must be executed perfectly. Can you imagine Van Gogh with an unfinished brushstroke? Jimi Hendrix playing even one wrong chord, Pavarotti’s voice splitting on a high note? You would be disgusted. Even minute imperfection renders everything imperfect. Food is our medium. This is the standard expected.’ He gently lifts the final various exotic vegetables from the pan to the plate, with the accuracy and sensitivity of a surgeon.

I watch him build the plate, complete his canvas. It is a masterpiece. In terms of colour, shape and balance. And I haven’t even eaten the thing yet.

My eyes drift from the dish to the man himself. This is the first opportunity I’ve had to actually study Jean-Michel up close, almost touching distance. Usually it is us in the spotlight, under his scrutiny, and we have no time to look up, no time to get a sense of who this crazy genius actually is. He has a large head, ruffled unkempt black hair, pointing now in all directions, and a face of deep lines, like childhood scars. You don’t see lines like these on a man who has just turned forty. Jean-Michel doesn’t smoke, and is a mountain marathon runner. The lines betray something that exercise can’t melt: Stress? Fear? Fury? Guilt?

He wipes the sides of the plate with a clean dishcloth and raises his hands in the air. ‘C’est fini. Bon appetit.’

We each marvel at the intricate fish dish in front of us.

‘Food should be created with passion, thought and technique, but plated with a light hand, with direction from nature. Colours should reflect the seasons, with contrasting light and dark shades that evoke emotion. In the end, keep it simple and let the ingredients be the stars. Now, taste.’

Each of us takes a fork and digs in. The first mouthful is absolutely divine. Light, lemony, aromatic, slightly fruity with a real kick from the fresh herbs. How I would love to sit down with this and a nice, crisp glass of white wine! But I must remember that I am here as a student, as an apprentice. I dive in for another bite. Carefully, I try to decipher all the flavours I can identify. The fish is halibut, I’m certain. The sauce is a delicate combination of wine, stock and olive oil with a hint of marjoram and lemon for a light citrus tang. Okay, I think I’ve got it.

Octavia speaks. ‘We need to see you working in a team. How you communicate with each other, how you reach a decision, how you delegate and deliver. So, Harry and Joe, you are Team A. Katie and Ben you are Team B. You have one hour to select your ingredients from the pantry and replicate Jean-Michel’s dish. Your time starts now.’

I turn to Ben. He looks as shocked as I am.

‘Katie and Ben, together again. Who’d have thought?’ he says, rubbing his neck, eyes lowered to the floor.

We shuffle on the spot a second, unsure of where to start. How to restart.

In the background I hear Harry’s voice screaming orders at mild-mannered Joe. Team A ain’t waiting around bonding. And I cannot let Harry beat us. I clap my hands together and take a deep breath. It is on.

‘Right, let’s do this. You raid the pantry for the vegetables and seasoning, I’ll take care of the fish and get the stove on.’

‘Yes, chef,’ he says with a smile. And just like that, we are on our way.

Ben and I work like dancers. I move forward, he moves back. It is like there is a music that only we can hear. Everything that Ben brought from the pantry is exactly what I thought. Right down to the length and arrangement of our courgette ribbons. A sideways glance towards the pan, a slight eyebrow raise, a licking of the lips and we understand each other. Everything makes sense. And we just know what the other is thinking, we are perfectly aligned.

Unlike Team A.

Harry is pounding through the kitchen in a sprint-walk, disturbing everyone, taking over at least three stations, chopping carrots whilst muttering curses, tasting the sauce Joe has prepped (‘We’re not going with that! Get some water into you now! You must be dehydrated, your palate is fucked.’), wilting an endive (‘No, this is how you do it – you start with a really hot pan, right? What the hell is wrong with you?’).

I feel for poor Joe, just twenty-three, adolescently thin, long-limbed, with big ears and the quick-twitch temperament of a racing animal.

‘You are cooking like a robot,’ shouts Harry into his ear. ‘How could you think that was OK? Use your head.’ Then, seeing Joe start to become flustered, Harry claps him on the back, massaging his shoulder. ‘It’s okay. Stay calm. We are going to win this, Joe. Hands down. We are going to wipe the floor with Team B.’

Ben gives me a nudge but we don’t take our eyes off the stove. This is too important. We need to stay focussed. We need to make this right.

Harry’s last words to Joe should have been reassuring, but then he whips his dishcloth angrily on to the floor, slamming his hand on the steel table. ‘You are making me so nervous, man,’ he says.

Joe stiffens visibly, which inflames Harry yet again.

‘Did you hear me? You are making me very fucking nervous.’ He stares at Joe and, not getting a reply, screams, ‘Will you just fucking relax!’

Joe’s ears turn deep red.

Once Harry has allowed himself to get angry, he seems to look around for other things to stay angry about, as though something has been switched on that he can’t control. For Joe, the next task involves the fish. He’s cooking it in a sauté pan.

Harry walks over and stands inches away. ‘More oil in your pan! You’re not cooking it. You’re scorching it. Did you hear me? You’re ruining the dish.’

‘Yes, chef.’ Joe quickly adds oil to his pan.

‘Why are you scorching it?’

‘I don’t know, chef.’

‘You don’t know! Will you get a grip?’

‘Yes, chef.’

‘Will you focus?’

‘Yes, chef.’

Harry continues to stare. ‘You are so fucking insular. It’s like you’re wearing a straitjacket. Will you fucking loosen up?’

Joe seems, understandably, unable to loosen up while being screamed at.

We work hard to the final minute, plating up with the same surgeon-like accuracy we saw Jean-Michel use.

‘Three, two, one. Stop!’

Both Ben and I raise our hands in the air and exhale for what feels like the first time in sixty minutes.

Octavia approaches the pass, where we stand beside our plate and Harry and Joe stand beside theirs. I try to catch Joe’s eye, to reassure him, to give him some moral support. But he won’t look anywhere but at his feet. I understand. His face has puffed up with held-back tears. He doesn’t want sympathy or pity. He’s humiliated enough by the end of a long and relentless haranguing by Harry.

Jean-Michel approaches the pass after Octavia, both of them with forks at the ready. Both our dishes are presentable. Both look elegant, balanced: a good replication of Jean-Michel’s own dish.

He tastes ours first.

He finishes his mouthful. And points his index finger to the sky.

‘Bravo.’ He glances down to our plate. ‘Stunning. You nailed it. Flavours, balance, presentation. It is like a symphony.’

I can’t help but catch Ben smiling, which makes me smile too.

Then he turns his attention to Harry and Joe and tucks in.

‘This also is a very promising effort. A few things wrong, not perfect. You over-seasoned your couscous and the garnish looks a little sparse, but overall, not bad…’ He looks to Octavia.

‘Yes, we threw you in at the deep end,’ she says. ‘Yes, we asked you to replicate a three-star Michelin dish whilst working in a team. Jean-Michel is satisfied with your food. However, what we are also really looking for is potential. Leadership potential.’ She turns to Joe first. ‘You have the potential, but you need to find your voice. You are not taking control. You are being controlled.’

Jean-Michel winces. ‘Look at you,’ he whispers. ‘When there’s a problem, you shrink, you sulk. It’s not good enough. You need to find yourself still. Please go. Leave. You are not ready for my kitchen.’

I am shocked. I can barely believe that it’s Joe that is being sent away, not Harry. Harry was a complete brute! All of us know that this industry is not an easy ride. We are all more than aware of the sacrifices it involves: the hours, the scrutiny, the weeping, spending the night on a dining-room banquette because there wasn’t time to go home and be back for the morning prep. And then it dawns on me. Maybe Harry is what Jean wants. Maybe it’s this behaviour that he wants perpetuated. I guess we’ve put up with it because it was Jean-Michel: god, genius, legend. But seeing it in someone lesser shows it for all its monstrosity. It is nothing to do with being in a position of authority. It is clear that Harry is a bully, and now I see that Jean-Michel is too. He is no better than Bernie or that man who shouted at my mother in the car park all those years before. All this about pushing us beyond our limits is crap. It’s just about pushing us as hard as he can, ruthlessly pushing some of us over the edge.

He watches as Joe slips his apron over his head and tries to stop his bottom lip from trembling. He looks up one more time and, for a split second, I think he is going to say something, that he is going to find his voice and stick up for himself, scream down Jean-Michel and Harry and let them know that he is ready, that holding his tongue was his brand of courage. That putting up and plating up was his way of being strong and making sure the job was done, not because of Harry but in spite of him.

But Joe closes his mouth again and walks out the door, his head bent low.

A heavy, tense atmosphere descends upon us. Part of me wants to rush out and see if Joe is okay. Another part of me wants to find my own voice and ask Jean-Michel why on earth he thinks it is necessary to treat anyone that way. I look to him. He too has paused and become reflective, seeming to savour the effects of his punishment. Then his face breaks into a smile.

‘Did you see that? Did you see that young chef’s face?’ His voice is high-pitched, almost shrill. ‘The way it was all knotted up? Wasn’t it fantastic? He was in terrible pain. Isn’t it fascinating how food can make for such pure emotion? He was desperate. He wants to be here so badly it hurts.’

I clear my throat. I need to speak out. This is vicious, cruel. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Again I cough, but something only akin to a squeak escapes.

Jean-Michel raises his arms above his head and meets each of us in the eye.

The moment is gone. I missed it, choked with a mixture of horror and fear.

‘My final three. Ben, Katie and Harry. Prepare your taster menus: three courses. Tomorrow night, here at the Marchand, we will test you for the final time.’

I am in the final three. I look to Octavia.

She smiles at me as she says, ‘You shall all run your own kitchen, serving your own menus to ten of the most influential diners in London. The most successful will be appointed the new grand chef.’

Tomorrow night I will run my own high-end kitchen. I will prepare and serve my own menu. Tomorrow night, I will make or break my career forever.

‘Bonne chance,’ they both say in unison, and with that we are dismissed.

---

As I unlock my bike outside, Ben catches up with me.

‘Hey. Why do you always run off so fast? I’ve been trying to catch you every day so far.’

‘Really? For what?’

He widens his eyes and looks up at the sky awkwardly. ‘To say hi. Properly. To, you know, catch up. See how you’ve been, what you’ve been up to.’

I throw my leg over the crossbar. ‘There’s nothing much to report.’ I don’t want to tell him that everything I’ve been up to has fallen flat on its arse.

‘How about a quick drink?’ he says. ‘My shout. There’s a cool Italian place I spotted right there across the road. It’s busy all the time so they must be doing something right. It’d be nice to check it out and… celebrate. Besides, I feel like I owe you one.’

‘Owe me? For what?’

‘For the vichyssoise. If you hadn’t suggested it I’d be gone by now and it would just be you and Harry against each other. So please, one drink, just to say thanks.’

I stop and think. I know I should just decline, but what could a little drink hurt? After tomorrow we’re going to be going in different directions again. I may never ever see Ben again. And besides, I’ve got to be at the home for my shift in a couple of hours so there is no chance of me drinking too much and getting maudlin, or divulging way too much because I stay too long. It’s literally one drink. Between two chefs who work well together. Two people with something to celebrate. That is all.

‘Okay,’ I tell him. ‘But just the one because I’ve got to be somewhere else for 7 p.m.’

Ben’s mouth breaks into a wide smile and his eyes flicker wide. ‘Great! That’s great. Here, let me take that.’ He leans over and takes my helmet for me. Then he looks at me and says, ‘That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.’