Clearly, the head chef's assessment of these people had been correct. They had no interest in fine food. They frequented this restaurant only because it belonged to the Wayne Hotel and admitted only the famous and wealthy. They treated it solely as a social venue and had no respect whatsoever for the so-called chef or the food.
Someone tremblingly picked up a pen, scratching at their head as they wrote down a few words, but most of it was vague, perfunctory nonsense. Some had remembered a few sentences and began scribbling furiously, yet without knowing the context, their writing sounded like a rambling travelogue.
Some discovered that they simply could not write any sort of backstory, so they started with the flavor of the food instead. They lifted their wineglasses, carefully sampled the wine, and wrote down their impressions.
Others chose to speak with those beside them. Needless to say, under an elimination format, no one wanted to tell anyone else the answers. Everyone clutched their papers tightly. They did not want to be the ones eliminated.
The restaurant was enormous, but only half of it was in use. There were roughly twenty-some tables, with four people at each, bringing the total close to a hundred. Eliminating only the last ten this time was already merciful enough. Everyone believed they would not be the worst writer there.
Time ticked by second by second. After a little over a minute, someone finally broke down. A man in a suit threw down his pen and began cursing loudly.
"What's going on here? Why do I have to stay here? I've had enough! I'm leaving right now!"
He stood up and started toward the exit, but clearly, the spines hanging from the ceiling were not going to let him go so easily.
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