Chương 104: The Legend Arrives — Vincent Leclair

After about ten minutes, the kitchen door swung open. A man stepped out. He looked to be in his fifties, lean and spare, in a set of chef's whites without a single crease. His short gray hair was groomed to the last strand. His face held almost no expression, and his eyes were sharp as a scalpel. He carried a distinct kind of presence — not Vane's outward, overbearing tyrant's aura, but something inward, an extreme, exacting precision.

Simply standing there, he seemed to be the center of gravity of the entire kitchen. This was Vincent Leclair. He didn't shake Chris's hand, offered no small talk. He looked Chris over once, up and down, then spoke in English carrying a faint French accent.

"Come with me." Not loud, but every word unnaturally clear. Chris was on his feet at once, following him into the fabled kitchen. Le Château's kitchen was smaller than Chris had expected, but startlingly bright. The stainless-steel counters were polished to a mirror; he could see the reflection of the ceiling's light tubes in them clearly. Every tool and machine sat in flawless order. Less a kitchen than a precision laboratory.

Vincent walked straight to a prep counter and pointed at a crate of potatoes in the corner.

"Vane said, on the phone, that you won your championship with potatoes." His tone was flat — impossible to read as praise or anything else.

"Yes, sir," Chris answered.

"Good." Vincent picked up a potato, weighed it in his hand, and looked at Chris.

"Now. In my kitchen. Make me a potato dish." Chris blinked.

"Right now?"

"Yes. Right now." Vincent glanced at the clock on the wall.

"Thirty minutes." This wasn't an interview. It was a pop quiz. In a completely unfamiliar elite kitchen, on completely unfamiliar equipment, in thirty minutes, cook a dish for a living legend. The pressure was worse than the finale of Burning Kitchen.

"I'll need—" Chris started to say he'd need to get familiar with the equipment first. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. But Vincent cut him off.

"Everything you need is in this kitchen. Time starts now." With that he stepped aside, folded his arms, and — like an overseer — watched Chris in silence. Chris's mind spun at full speed. Thirty minutes. What could you make? Not enough time for a gratin. Mashed potato was too simple. He thought of the dish he'd first failed at, and finally used to prove himself. Potato Pavé. It showed off knife work and heat control better than anything, and it was the dish he was surest of. All right. This one, he decided.

He quickly picked several evenly sized potatoes from the crate and began peeling. The peeler here was unbelievably sharp; he could barely feel any resistance at all. Then, slicing. He picked up one of the kitchen's chef's knives. It was heavier than any blade he'd ever held, but the balance was perfect. He drew a deep breath and began to show the knife work he'd tempered through a thousand repetitions inside the system. Slice after slice, thin as cicada wings, flew off the blade. But he soon hit a problem.

The equipment in this kitchen was too good. Good beyond the edge of his experience. He went to slide the potato slices into the oven — and found it fully computer-controlled, the interface complex, the temperature curve settable to a tenth of a degree. It and the crude single-knob oven he'd used on the show were two different species. The "cook by feel," the "listen for the sound," that he was used to failed him completely here.

He could only fall back on theory, setting a temperature and time he judged appropriate. While the oven ran, he quickly made the herb butter for seasoning. Through all of it, Vincent said nothing. He only watched, quietly. That gaze left Chris feeling seen straight through, inside and out. Thirty minutes were nearly up. Chris drew the small Potato Pavé from the oven. The surface was golden, the aroma spilling out. As fast as he could, he cut a portion, set it carefully on a plate, and carried it to Vincent.

"Time," he said, his voice a little dry with nerves. Vincent stepped up. He didn't taste it right away. First he looked at the plate. Then he took a fork and pressed gently against the side of the pavé. He read the resistance the fork sent back, gauging how the inside had set. Only then did he cut a small piece and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly. Still no expression at all. Chris's heart was in his throat. These few seconds felt longer than a century.

At last Vincent swallowed and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. He looked at Chris and delivered his first verdict.

"Your potato is better than it looked on television." Hearing it, Chris felt something loosen in his chest. But Vincent's next sentence dropped him straight into an ice pit.

"But in my kitchen, this only passes." Passing. He'd bet everything, poured in all he had, made a dish that to his own eyes was near-perfect — and here, all it earned was a "pass." Vincent set down the fork and looked Chris in the eye.

"Your knife work is good. You have the fundamentals. But your understanding of temperature is still stuck at reading numbers. You're giving the oven orders. You're not having a conversation with it."

"You used too much butter. The aroma buried the potato itself. You wanted so badly to perform that you forgot the ingredient is the lead."

"You didn't make a dish. You made a standardized answer for a judging panel to look at." Every sentence was a small hammer, striking with precision at Chris's weakest points. Chris couldn't argue. Because he knew Vincent was right about all of it. He had reflexively chosen the safest, most technique-flaunting option — just to pass this "exam."

"I—" He wanted to explain something, and found every word came out pale. But Vincent waved it off.

"No need to explain. At least you didn't burn the potato." He turned and, walking away, said over his shoulder without looking back:"Six a. m. tomorrow. Report here."

"You start at the very bottom."