Pastry is precision and patience.
That was something my mother always told me when I was a kid, standing on a stool in the back of our bakery, carefully measuring flour while she piped delicate rosettes onto a cake.
This bake off was crucial to me.
I had spent years perfecting the little things.
Whipping egg whites just enough, folding batter without deflating it, knowing when to trust the oven and when to intervene.
My competitor, on the other hand, thought something else.
She believed in prestige. In labels. In the power of expensive ingredients to set her apart.
Her eyes flicked to my station. My standard grocery store ingredients.
But the thing about baking? The oven doesn’t care how expensive your ingredients are.
A Recipe for Rivalry
“I hope we’re being graded properly on ingredient quality,” she said, flashing a saccharine smile as she pulled out a bar of imported Swiss dark chocolate, setting it down with a deliberate thud. “After all, there’s a reason professionals don’t use grocery store brands.”
I glanced at my own selection of ingredients. A simple bag of cocoa powder, a bar of regular dark chocolate, and a stick of butter from the campus pantry.
It wasn’t fancy, but it was enough.
Genevieve’s gaze flicked to my station, and she let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “That’s cute. You’re really brave, Ava.”
I ignored the condescension. “A soufflé isn’t about the price of the chocolate,” I said lightly. “It’s about the technique.”
Genevieve smirked. “Oh, I agree. But let’s be honest, a top-tier soufflé needs top-tier ingredients.”
She picked up her expensive cocoa and turned it toward the light. “This is a single-origin cacao. The depth of flavor? Unreal. You can’t fake that with… whatever you’re using.”
I simply smiled, refusing to rise to the bait.
At the front of the room, Chef Vaughn clapped his hands, calling for attention.
“Alright, everyone. Today’s challenge: the perfect chocolate soufflé.”
A murmur went through the class. Even among experienced pastry students, soufflés had a reputation for being tricky.
One moment, they were puffed up like a cloud. The next, they were a sunken disaster.
“Remember,” Chef Vaughn continued, “every soufflé will be judged on three things: rise, texture, and taste.”
Genevieve’s smile didn’t waver, but I caught the way her fingers tightened slightly on her whisk.
Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as confident as she wanted everyone to believe.
Precision Over Prestige
From the moment we started, Genevieve worked with exaggerated confidence, her every move a performance.
She whipped her egg whites aggressively, the metal bowl screeching as she worked the whisk. She added her melted Swiss chocolate carelessly, barely folding it into the mixture before pouring the batter into her ramekins.
I kept my focus on my own station.
Soufflés were all about control.
You had to whisk the egg whites just enough. Stiff but not dry.
Fold in the chocolate gently. Preserving air, not collapsing it.
Too much movement, too much force, and the soufflé would deflate before it ever had a chance.
Across the room, Genevieve finished first, sliding her ramekins into the oven with a self-satisfied smirk.
“All about technique, right?” she mused, dusting her hands off. “Guess we’ll see.”
I didn’t respond. I just poured my own batter, tapped the ramekins gently on the counter to release air bubbles, and placed them into the oven.
Then, the waiting game began.
Genevieve leaned back against her station, arms crossed, looking at me like she already knew the outcome.
“You ever been to Paris, Ava?” she asked, her voice dripping with amusement.
I kept my eyes on the oven. “No.”
“That’s a shame. You learn so much about real patisserie when you’re immersed in it. I took a masterclass there last summer. Life-changing, honestly.”
“Sounds great,” I said.
“It was. I mean, sure, you pick up a few things in a small-town bakery or whatever, but the world’s best desserts aren’t made with discount ingredients. That’s just a fact.”
I could feel the eyes of other students flicking toward us, but I refused to take the bait. Instead, I just smiled and said, “Guess we’ll see what the chef thinks.”
She didn’t answer.
The timer dinged.
Every head turned toward the ovens.
This was it. The moment of truth.
I opened the door carefully, letting the heat escape in slow waves. All around the room, soufflés had risen beautifully, standing tall and proud.
Genevieve grinned smugly. “Perfect rise, of course,” she murmured under her breath.
And then—right in front of her eyes—her soufflé deflated.
It was subtle, just a slight sinking in the center at first. But then, like a balloon with a slow leak, it continued to collapse.
Genevieve’s smirk faltered.
The Great Collapse
Silence settled over the kitchen as Chef Vaughn examined the soufflés.
Genevieve sat frozen, staring at her sunken dessert like she could will it back to perfection. A few minutes ago, she had been smug, certain of victory.
Now? Not so much.
The chef tapped his spoon against the delicate rise of my soufflé, watching as it held firm. A clean cut, a perfectly airy interior, rich but balanced.
He gave an approving nod.
“This,” he said, “is textbook technique. Beautiful structure, light as air, and expertly handled.”
Genevieve stiffened as he moved to hers. The center had deflated further, the once-proud dome dipping slightly.
She gripped the edge of the counter as Chef Vaughn dug his spoon inside, revealing a texture that was just a bit too dense.
He sighed. “Your egg whites were overworked, Genevieve. That’s why it fell.”
Genevieve’s mouth opened, then closed.
She was calculating, searching for an excuse, a way to spin this.
But what could she say? She had bragged the entire time, made it sound like her success was inevitable.
And yet, here she was.
She swallowed hard. “But I used—”
“The best ingredients?” Chef Vaughn finished for her. He smiled faintly. “Yes, I noticed. But even the finest ingredients can’t save poor execution.”
The other students exchanged glances. Some smirked, others just looked intrigued. Genevieve, the ingredient snob, had been outdone by store-brand chocolate.
And worst of all? She knew it.
I met her gaze across the counter. I could have gloated. I could have thrown every snide comment back in her face.
But I didn’t need to.
Instead, I simply said, “It happens.”