Chương 113: Nathan's True Face

Chris being named saucier landed like a bomb in Le Château's kitchen. It meant the soul of every main course — the final seasoning and emulsification of the sauce — would run through him. It was a position of real power and responsibility, usually held only by veterans like Philip. And Chris, a newcomer barely a month in who hadn't even fully settled into the hot line, had risen to it in a single leap. Envious looks flew at him like knives, again and again, from every corner of the kitchen.

The most undisguised of them came from Daniel Moore. Daniel felt it was an outright humiliation. He'd ground away at Le Château for two hard years, from prep room to cold station, one footprint at a time, diligent, never once slipping. He held himself more deserving than Chris, and more attuned to Le Château's style. And now this guy who'd gotten famous on a TV show had won Vincent's favor with a little opportunistic trick — and stepped straight over his head. He wouldn't accept it.

That evening, service was busy as ever.

"Four-top! Two Beef Wellington, two pan-seared sole!" Nathan's voice rang through the kitchen. The steak's sauce was Chris's improved black truffle red wine sauce; the sole came with a classic Beurre Blanc. That sauce was extremely temperature-sensitive: the base of white-wine vinegar and shallot had to be warm — too cold and the butter wouldn't emulsify cleanly, too hot and the sauce broke. The one responsible for prepping the sauce base happened to be Daniel.

Having finished the steak's sauce, Chris turned at once to the sole. Daniel came over carrying a small pot of warm base liquid and set it on Chris's burner.

"Base is ready." His tone was flat and hard.

"Thanks." Chris nodded and reached for the pot. At the instant his fingertips were about to touch the handle, the system alarm in his head suddenly flashed wildly. [Short-Range Foresight — auto-activated!] A picture flooded his mind: he adds the cold cubes of butter to this pot of base, and no matter how fast he stirs, the sauce won't emulsify — it turns into a pot of cloudy, broken failure. The image flashed by, and Chris's hand halted in midair. A layer of cold sweat broke out on his back in an instant.

He glanced at the pot of base. On the surface nothing looked wrong; it was still steaming. But he knew the core temperature of this liquid was absolutely wrong. Daniel had deliberately under-heated it, so the surface was warm while the inside stayed cold. If he used it as-is, the dish was ruined. A rookie mistake like that during Le Château's dinner service would make him — the freshly named saucier — the laughingstock of the whole kitchen at once. A vicious trick.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Chris lifted his head and looked coldly at Daniel, not far off. Daniel was pretending to be busy with something else, but out of the corner of his eye he kept glancing over, a barely visible sneer on his face. Chris didn't make a scene. He picked up the pot of base, walked back to Daniel's burner, and set it down hard in front of him.

"The temperature on this base is wrong." Chris's voice wasn't loud, but loud enough for those nearby to hear.

"Redo it." Daniel's face changed instantly.

"What did you say? This is how I always do it. How could it be wrong?"

"I said, it's wrong." Chris's eyes were calm but held an unshakable firmness. He pointed at the pot.

"Test the core temperature yourself, with your finger." The chefs around them stopped their work and looked over. Nathan came over too, frowning. Daniel's face went red, then white. Of course he knew the base was rigged — but he hadn't expected Chris to see through it at a glance. Test it with his own finger? Wasn't that confessing to the sabotage in front of everyone?

"Hurry up! Guests are waiting!" Nathan pressed impatiently.

"Daniel, what's going on?"

"I—" Daniel stammered, unable to get a word out.

"I'll do it." Philip had come over at some point. He stuck his finger straight into the pot of base, pulled it out, and said, expressionless, "It's cold." The truth was out. Everyone understood. This was naked backstabbing. Nathan's face went black as the bottom of a pan. He pointed at Daniel, dropped his voice, but the fury seemed ready to erupt.

"After service — my office!" Then he turned to another chef.

"You — remake a base for Chris, now!" A brewing scandal was strangled in the cradle, killed by Chris's almost uncanny foresight. After service, Chris saw Daniel called into Nathan's office, the door slamming shut behind them. He didn't go eavesdrop; he just quietly packed his things. He knew that from today, in this kitchen, he was finally on solid ground. Late that night, Chris was the last to leave. As he reached the kitchen corridor, a figure stepped out of the shadows. It was Nathan.

"Wait a second." Chris stopped. Nathan came up to him and offered a cigarette. Chris waved it off.

"Thanks, I don't." Nathan lit his own, drew deep, and blew out a plume of white smoke.

"You handled today well," he said. The usual severity was gone from his voice.

"I just didn't want to ruin the dish," Chris said.

"Daniel… he'll be transferred," Nathan said.

"Le Château has no use for a chef who plays dirty behind people's backs." Chris said nothing. He wasn't curious about Daniel's fate. Nathan was quiet a moment, seeming to gather his words.

"You know, when I first came to Le Château, I started in the prep room too." He'd suddenly turned to himself.

"I peeled potatoes for six months, cut onions for a year. It took me a full eight years to climb from apprentice to where I am now — sous-chef." Chris listened quietly.

"So when I saw you — someone who got famous on a TV show, with no legitimate kitchen experience — reach in one month the position it took me five years to reach…" Nathan gave a self-mocking laugh.

"I admit it. I was extremely unhappy."

"I can understand that," Chris said.

"I thought you were just a lucky opportunist, here for the gold plating, that you'd break under the pressure and clear off on your own soon enough." Nathan looked at Chris, his eyes complicated.

"But I didn't expect you to endure more, and focus harder, than any graduate I've seen come out of the top culinary schools."

"You're first in every day, last out. Tell you to cut onions, you cut them into perfect three-millimeter cubes. Put you on the hot line, you get chewed out until you're drenched in it, and you're back on time the next day. Today you even… saw straight through Daniel's game." Nathan crushed out the cigarette and dropped it in the trash.

"Chris White, I did look down on you before. Because your arrival negated eight years of my effort." He paused, then held out his hand.

"But now, I have no choice but to respect you. Because you've proven, through your actions, that you deserve this position. Welcome to Le Château." Chris looked at Nathan's outstretched hand and paused. It was covered in old calluses and scars — a hand that truly belonged to a chef. He put out his own and gripped Nathan's, hard.

"Thank you, Chef." In that moment, Chris felt he was finally no longer an outsider in this kitchen. With his own sweat and effort, he'd won a rival's respect. And that feeling left him steadier than winning any competition ever had.