Alexander picked up his fork.
Every movement was measured, deliberate. He didn't speak—just sliced a piece of the chicken, brought it to his mouth, and chewed slowly. His brow furrowed briefly, almost imperceptibly, before smoothing again.
Next, he lifted a spoonful of the consommé. Its deep ruby hue shimmered under the lights.
He tasted. Then paused.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
He placed the cutlery back down with precision. Three seconds passed before he spoke.
"Technically," Alexander began, voice steady, devoid of drama, "this is a precise and well-executed reinterpretation. Traditional elements have been deconstructed and reassembled without losing depth or integrity."
A subtle glance passed across the judge's table—never landing on Charlotte.
"There's restraint in the seasoning. Confidence in the balance. And control, especially under pressure." He added, "The palate progression is linear, yet complete. Nothing screams. It… holds."
