But girls could break down a fish. They could scoop out innards with their bare hands. By the time Audra had two perfect trout fillets in front of her, Dahlia was ready to give her a resounding high five and begin smashing the patriarchy of the food world together.
But before Dahlia could get to patriarchy smashing, the thirteen contestants of season eight were sent back to their stations.
“Now that we all feel confident about breaking down a trout,” Sai Patel said with a smile, “there’s a small twist. Winners of yesterday’s Face-Off, please come to the Golden Circle.”
Lizzie, Cath, and the other Face-Off winners did as asked.
“Now, each contestant will be assigned a different fish today.” Sai gestured with an arm to the cornucopia of fish on the table. “And your advantage, Face-Off winners?Youget to choose which contestant is assigned which fish.”
Intrigued murmuring ensued, and then Lizzie and company were let loose to decide the losers’ fates. They walked around the table, whispering to each other and making notes, until handing a final list to Sai.
Dahlia ended up with swordfish, which was significantly larger, and hence more difficult, than rainbow trout. She was happy with it, though. Such a funny and badass creature, the swordfish.
Dahlia leaned down and tapped its intimidating bill.
“I’m sorry I’m going to slice through your anus and tear your guts out through your throat,” she whispered. She could practically feel Jacob’s eye roll next to her, and she didn’t care. She felt good today. “I appreciate you. Thank you for your sustenance,” she concluded, with one more loving tap, before straightening. Jacob was staring at her.
Oh! She could use some of those peppercorns she’d seen yesterday in the pantry. They were so pretty, a dazzling mixture of black, gray, burgundy, and hunter green. Dahlia could already hear them popping in her pan, the sizzle of the swordfish in butter. Lemon peel, parsley, garlic. Something simple for a side. She started stacking the building blocks in her head, and anticipation buzzed in her toes.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Tanner Tavish raised his arms dramatically from the middle of the Golden Circle. “Prepare yourselves for your first Elimination Challenge. Your hour of fish filleting and cooking is about to begin.”
London groaned, both at the dead fish lying on a thick black mat on their station, and at Tanner’sladies and gentlemen. Both, at the moment seemed equally irritating.
London had never actually gutted a fish before, which in hindsight seemed like an embarrassing skill to miss. Their assignment of halibut was a relatively common white fish whose meat London had cooked with before. But they had apparently never actually . . .seena halibut. It looked nothing like a rainbow trout, London knew now.
“Careful with this one,” the crew member who had flopped it onto London’s station had said. “Its scales are tiny and hidden in the skin.” And then he had smiled and floated away.
Fantastic.
It was also rather . . . flat. And had strange fin things on the top and bottom. Were they called fins?
London should have tried harder with their California rolls.
“And your time begins . . . ” Tanner leaned forward, drawing out the pause. “Now!”
The red numbers at the judges’ table clicked from 60 to 59.
London picked up a knife.
Things went smoothly for a while, or as smoothly as a slippery, unwieldy piece of protein could go. Scales were indeed sons of bitches, but once London had sliced their first fillet from the spine, they started to breathe easier.
And then they made the mistake of looking up.
Dahlia’s swordfish was already done, somehow, and her fillets looked flawless. She was currently helping Jacob, with Tanner Tavish observing, likely to make sure Dahlia didn’t helptoomuch. She was gesturing with one hand, holding Jacob’s knife along his catfish with the other. Her body looked fully relaxed, so different from how she had looked yesterday and the day before. London could tell by the way her shoulders were no longer bunched, by the smile on her face, by the way she leaned her hip casually against the station.
“Yes,” Tavish was saying. “Exactly. Excellent technique, Dahlia.”
Before Dahlia returned to her swordfish, she pointed to the now semi-mangled head of the catfish on Jacob’s station. She motioned to her own chin, surely saying something about the horrifying, slimy whiskers on the fish, although London couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying over Ahmed’s frustrated cursing next to them.
London flipped their first fillet over—slightly hacked, but intact, not bad for their first try, they thought—and started on the halibut’s other side.
From the corner of their eye, they saw Dahlia hold Jacob’s catfish up to her face, bug out her eyes, and make a loud sound to the effect of“Bleeuuurrrrgh.”
London started to laugh.
Their hand slipped. And then everything happened very fast.
Somehow Dahlia was there in a flash, reaching out to grab London’s hand, bunching up a corner of her apron and wrapping it around their thumb. She was applying pressure to the wound before Ahmed even looked over or Tanner Tavish had time to hustle around to their station.
