"Yes."
"You denied her a promotion she had earned."
"Twice."
"And the woman I dumped a plate on, sweet-talked into a $100,000 bet, called bus stop food on a livestream, was the chef who ran your kitchen better than you did."
Garrett did not answer.
Vanessa stood up. She did not say anything for a long moment. Then she walked to the front of the tent and looked out across the plaza at the line that now extended all the way past the fountain—300 deep, 400 deep. Every customer she had ever served standing in someone else's line. And she felt something inside her go very still.
The final round was in thirty minutes. She did not know what she was going to do. Across the plaza, the line at Mama B's had stopped being a line; it had become a tide.
The final round began at 1:00.
The festival had cleared a small stage at the center of the plaza between the fountain and the row of vendors. Two folding tables stood at the front, set with identical white plates and silverware. Behind them, the three judges sat at a longer table with leather notepads and bottled water. A microphone on a thin stand faced the crowd. Cable cameras flanked the stage on either side.
Brianna walked to her station carrying a sheet tray of golden thighs straight from her own oil. Garrett walked to his carrying a steel hotel pan of his own. Vanessa stood behind a velvet rope, her arms folded across the printout she had not let go of.
The festival president was a 64-year-old man named Wallace Brennan who had been organizing this event since his father's time. He stepped to the microphone.
"Three rounds, blind tasting. The judges score in silence and submit cards. Round one: buttermilk fried chicken. Round two: chef's choice side. After the judges have scored, we will conduct a final tasting open to every member of this crowd: 200 plates each, identical, unlabeled. The vote will be physical. You taste, you choose, you walk."