Chương 119: Secret-Menu Night Begins

On the night of Secret-Menu Night, the mood in Le Château's kitchen was as grave as a command post before battle. The restaurant wasn't open to the public. Only six tables stood in the dining room, set for the twelve mysterious guests. In the kitchen, everyone had changed into their cleanest, crispest whites, a flicker of tension and excitement on every face. Chef Vincent presided over the pass in person, his gaze sharper than usual, scrutinizing every plate about to leave like a hawk.

The slightest flaw — even a single drop of sauce splashed on a plate's rim — would not escape his eyes. Chris and Daniel each made their final preparations at their own stations. A stretch of distance lay between them; neither looked at the other, but the air was thick with an invisible current. By the draw, Daniel's dish went out first. His French Blue Lobster with Citrus Foam and Saffron Gelée came together with methodical calm.

The blue lobster was cooked precisely to the point where the shell went bright red and the meat had only just set, every fiber springing with juice. When he performed the final step — draping the airy citrus foam carefully over the lobster meat — everyone in the kitchen held their breath. The foam was white and fine, with a seductive sheen, like a cloud floating on the plate.

Standing not far off, Chris breathed in the scent drifting from Daniel's station — ocean brine blended with citrus brightness — and couldn't help an inward murmur of admiration. No question, it was a flawlessly executed French classic. Technically, you could hardly find a fault.

"Daniel, fire!" Vincent's voice rang out.

"Yes, Chef!" Daniel drew a deep breath, carried out the first plate himself, and handed it to the runner. Twelve orders of blue lobster went out from the kitchen, one after another. The kitchen went briefly silent, everyone straining their ears to catch the front-of-house reaction. Soon, faintly, came the murmured praise of guests.

"Mm… the lobster's cooked to perfection."

"The foam is very sophisticated — pairs beautifully with the lobster's sweetness." This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"A mature piece. Solid, well-grounded technique." Hearing it, a look of ease and satisfaction crossed Daniel's face. He knew this round was in the bag. He shot a glance at Chris, and the meaning in his eyes was plain: See? This is what the judges want to eat. Now it's your potato's turn. Chris ignored the look. He closed his eyes, adjusted his breathing, and shut out every distraction. In his world there was only his station and the work he was about to create.

"Chris, ready!" Vincent's voice came.

"Yes, Chef!" Chris opened his eyes, his focus absolute. His turn. He began his performance. His movements weren't fast — slow, even — but every step carried a strange cadence, steady and precise. First, on the pure white plate, he drew an elegant arc of potato silk mousse. Its texture was smooth to the extreme, glowing softly under the lights. Next, he set the cicada-wing-thin truffle potato crisps into the mousse, in a way that looked casual yet full of design, adding dimension to the whole dish.

Then the crystalline potato-saffron gel, like a piece of amber, which he set gently on the other side of the plate. After that, the black-garlic caramel potato sphere, baptized by flame — its deep color and glossy surface a sharp visual contrast to the white mousse. These four forms already composed an image of striking modernity, like a work of art. The other chefs in the kitchen were transfixed. Many were seeing Chris assemble this dish in full for the first time.

They couldn't imagine that the most ordinary potato could be deconstructed into something this complex and beautiful. Nathan stood to the side, arms folded, brow slightly furrowed. He granted that the dish's creativity and technique were astonishing, but he also felt a thread of worry. This dish… was it too much of a performance? Might its very complexity strike the judges as flashy and hollow? Right then, Chris picked up the last thing he'd added — the simplest roasted potato slice.

He didn't set it in any prominent place. Gently, he placed it at the very center of the composition. The gesture made everyone pause. That roasted slice was so plain, so unadorned, that beside the refined elements around it, it even looked out of place. Like a child's stick-figure drawing suddenly appearing in the middle of an expensive abstract painting. But strangely, the moment the slice was set down, the whole plate's character changed in an instant.

If before, the dish had felt like an aggressive, sharp-edged "work of art," now it suddenly gained a still, inward, reassuring sense of story. It was no longer just a display of technique. It had a soul. Having done all this, Chris finally took up the siphon holding the smoked potato foam. He piped the light foam, carrying its seductive smoky aroma, into the plate's negative space. Just as he was about to stop, that familiar, sixth-sense Chef's Intuition brushed lightly against his mind. Yes. Just so.

A voice told him everything was exactly right. He set down the siphon, lifted his head, and said to Vincent, "Chef. Done." Vincent came over and studied the plate carefully. He looked for a long time — long enough that Chris's heart climbed again. In the end, Vincent offered no verdict. He only nodded.

"Fire it." Twelve orders of Whisper of the Earth went out of the kitchen. The whole back of house sank into a silence even more complete than before. Everyone wanted to know what verdict New York's twelve most exacting palates would deliver on this unprecedented world built from the potato.