I
Day of the Duel
The American Sovereign lounged in the team room as chaos whirled around him. Yet, it wasn’t truly chaos. His entourage, a veritable hivemind, worked with precision, sharpening his knives, cleaning his armor, and preparing his materials. Despite his extensive training, he felt the eyes of the paintings on the wall burning into his very soul, as he had every time he sat in this room. Waters, Keller, Humm, Achatz, Ramsay, and Crenn, the venerable founders of the proud country over which he now ruled, might have been opposed to this duel he was about to undergo. Very opposed. But he didn’t see it as reckless—the Sovereign would not back down from a challenge like this.
He had been a battle-hardened veteran before taking office and had gone to a brutally competitive school for just this purpose. “The best the US has to offer,” according to his mentor. He had sacrificed years of his life, his friendships and family, to master his craft. Even if it wasn’t fun anymore, he still loved to win.
The duel was about to commence. He inhaled. Visualized the battle ahead. Exhaled. Putting his crown atop his head, he girded his armor around his waist, grabbed his knives, and gazed at the aluminum swinging doors ahead of him. As his name was announced, the doors opened before him, and he was greeted by the roar of the crowd.
Competing in the US arena is a singular experience. Unlike other nations, the US treats their duels the same way that they treat their Super Bowl or World Series: not as politics, but as entertainment. It can be jarring at first, to be in there—the tremendous crowd, cheering with every swing of a knife, jeering at the opposing nation, and wearing head-to-toe American flags. Needless to say, competitors struggle to adapt quickly to this environment. This perversion of the sport we love is painful. Yet this is the most impactful thing that the US can do to you: once you’ve tuned out the noise, the US isn’t a challenging opponent.
~ Jeanne-Pierre De Cuisinières, “A Sovereign’s Guide to the World”
II
Three Weeks Earlier
“Italy is challenging us for land?” the Sovereign asked, incredulous. Italy had never needed American land before. They certainly didn’t need it now, having just won a vast expanse of Europe through various duels.
“They’ve challenged us for the grape-bearing regions of California. Apparently, Tuscany just isn’t enough for them anymore,” an attendant said, sighing. “We don’t have to accept, of course—the last Sovereign would have ignored it. The spoils Italy is offering aren’t worth all that much anyway, and the Napa Valley is priceless…” The Sovereign shushed him with a motion of his hand, considering Italy’s proposal.
He was new in the office; he had beaten the last previous Sovereign in a duel for the crown less than a month ago. The Italians were testing him here. Trying to probe him for weaknesses. How much was he willing to risk?
“Tell them we accept their challenge,” the Sovereign said. The attendant sputtered but was silenced by the Sovereign’s upraised finger. “On a few conditions. One, I don’t want their useless mountain goats. At least give me…I don’t know, I haven’t left the US in a while… how about Parma? And two, I get to decide what we are going to cook.”
A WCA competition is more than just a duel between two nations: it is a true art form. There is something magical about watching Sovereigns sweat in the crucible of this fire, toiling away alongside their opponent in a high-stakes match to decide their country’s fate… It is truly a joy!
~Takumi Mishima in the Introduction to the “WCA Rulebook”
III
Day of the Duel
The US Sovereign grated garlic cloves on autopilot. He had practiced this dish thousands of times. His five-spice marinade was critical to the success of this meal. Imitators had tried to replicate it, but none had been able to beat his “Potato-Crusted Duck with Spinach Emulsion and Five-Spice Marinade.” He had chosen the theme of duck for a reason: this recipe could not be beaten. The US Sovereign recited his recipe like a mantra as he worked. He didn’t hear the roar of the crowd. He didn’t hear the Italian Sovereign working across from him at the other station. All he heard was the Five-Spice Duck mantra in his head, in his heart, grilled onto his very soul. There was a robotic quality to his approach—no wasted movements, ingredients, or time.
After three hours of nonstop work, he put the duck into the oven. Finally, he had a moment to breathe. When the timer rang, he would serve the unbeatable Five-Spice Duck to the astonished judges. He smiled to himself. There were times when the attendants tried to make him change the dish, but he always refused. Whenever he cooked it, it won. It was perfect. He didn’t even need to taste it. The Italian Sovereign couldn’t beat him. How could she? He glanced over at her, certain that he would see the hopeless look of despair as she realized that he had won.
Yet she was humming. Humming! As though this was some sort of game. Like this competition, which he had spent his entire life preparing for, was nothing more than an average day in the kitchen! She had a spring in her every step. She smiled at him. A nagging feeling began to simmer in the US Sovereign’s mind. She wasn’t using a recipe. This wasn’t terribly uncommon; most chefs memorized their recipes. The issue was that she was cooking something…new. He knew every recipe ever published in the Post-BANQUET Era. There wasn’t a recipe he hadn’t heard of. For the first time since he could remember, he broke into a nervous sweat. But his timer dinged, and he pushed his feelings aside like he always did. He had to get back to his Five-Spice Duck.
Judging is critical in a WCA competition. We hold the fate of nations in our hands. We must take cooking to its absolute limit, with every day of toil in these kitchen walls. The cooking competition BANQUET was an awakening for many chefs. We must continue to refine and evolve, otherwise we will stagnate and become irrelevant…
~Virgilio Martinez, “The WCA Judge’s Handbook”
IV
“Tell me something, chef,” said a British judge, taking another bite of the US Sovereign’s food. “Do you like to paint?”
“What do you mean? I haven’t painted since grade school,” the Sovereign replied. The judge stared at him.
“Does cake decorating count?” The judge raised an eyebrow.
The US Sovereign pushed on, growing defensive. “Why are you asking me this anyway? I’m a chef, not an artist.”
“I can tell. Your cooking, quite frankly, is as unartistic as it could possibly get.” The other judges nodded their agreement. The crowd began to boo and jeer. Yet the critique continued. “You follow a recipe as well as the rest of us, probably better, but this dish lacks elegance. It’s like eating a plate full of stagnation. Did you even taste this?”
The judge held out a fork full of Five-Spice Duck. The Sovereign stared at the perfectly cooked meat. What could possibly be wrong with it? He took a bite.
The dish turned to sawdust in his mouth. It was the taste of years of plateauing.
If it was a painting, it would be a drab, gray canvas.
All around the arena, his face was projected on huge jumbotron screens. Now, all he could see was his own face, twisted in a look of disappointment. For the first time since the duel began, the crowd was silent. A tap on the shoulder made him spin around. The Italian Sovereign took the fork from him, wordlessly replacing it with a plateful of her own duck dish.
The first bite was the greatest thing he had ever eaten. It was like she had whispered to the duck, had told it what flavors she wanted out of it, and the duck delivered. It was tender beyond belief. It didn’t just melt in the mouth; the mouth melted along with it. If he had painted his entire canvas gray, hers was a vibrant Van Gogh. This tasted like everything he had lacked for the past few years. What he had originally loved about cooking: the feeling of surpassing the recipes to create something new and original, to push the limit of his own talents. He needed to travel, to learn from others. To reignite his ideas and find new innovations. To discover what was happening beyond the arena.
The US Sovereign didn’t wait to hear the judges announce their votes. He shook hands with his opponent and the judges, grabbed his knives, and took off his crown. As the weight left his head, he felt free. He tossed it to a shocked attendant.
“Give this to the Vice Sovereign. It’s his turn now. I’m heading back to the kitchen.” He exited through the aluminum swinging doors and back into the world of cooking.