PC gives me a quick shoulder massage like I’m about to enter a UFC fight. This is it. The moment we’ve all been waiting for. But when we reach the front gates, Pedro looks it up and down like he’s about to face a giant.

“Is it just me or did this building suddenly get taller?” he asks.

“Don’t be scared, Chef,” PC teases, patting him on the back.

“Who says I’m scared?” Pedro retorts, but I see the sheen of sweat already beading at his temples.

We head inside, holding the box with our creation carefully. There’s a stage smack-dab in the middle of the building, where contestants display their entry dishes on a long table. Fruit parfaits, seafood stews, skewered meats, breads... I look away before it all overwhelms me, motioning for Pedro to come help me set up our cake.

We open the box and slowly remove our two-layered Romeo and Juliet cake. Cheers erupt from the audience, and when we look down from the stage, PC, Victor, and Cintia have already taken their spots. They give us a thumbs-up and I wave back, smiling. But when I turn to Pedro, he’s starting to look decisively green.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Of course!” He steps away, working on displaying our cake. The ruby guava melts into the cheesy corn cake looking like a flower sprouting in the sun-kissed earth. This is the best compromise between our families’ bakeries. It’s perfect.

I glance at the dishes next to ours. A team of contestants—father and sons, I think—assembles a pretty display of tall clay pots holding black beans and pork sausage. They neatly place many small bowls all around it, each showcasing a regional choice of condiment: vinaigrette, olive oil, hot sauce with chunky red peppers. My mouth begins to water just looking at it.

“They made feijoada,” Pedro whispers to me, noticing I’ve been scanning the competition. “And down the table, did you see, they’ve brought moqueca. And over there, they have the most elaborate fruit basket I’ve ever seen!”

“I think the basket is edible, too,” I point out. Pedro’s face scrunches up with nerves. It’s odd seeing his usual confidence give place to fear. “What’s wrong?”

“Most contestants are Gastronomic Society students,” he says, pointing out their jackets.

He’s right. At least one person in each group gathered on stage has the Society’s logo on the side of their jackets—a big, entwined GS in silver lettering. There are even full teams of GS-only competitors, like the triplets down the table. Even though the contest opened for nonmembers this year, outsiders were clearly intimidated.

Pedro and I are the only team that’s entirely comprised of nonmembers.

He steps around and crouches behind the table. I crouch next to him. “Who are we hiding from?” I ask.