Second course: Sterling’s halibut with champagne beurre blanc. Dorinda’s: slow-braised pork shoulder with mojo sauce and black beans so creamy they sang. “Haunting,” Aaron whispered.

Sterling built a deconstructed black forest cake—mirror glaze, gold leaf, smoke from dry ice.

Her first dish—a humble sopa de pollo with handmade noodles—made Joe shut his eyes and murmur, “My nonna would have liked you.” She advanced. Week after week, she survived. Not with foam or liquid nitrogen. With soul.