Chương 121: The Selection Officer from Paris

The joy of victory didn't linger long in Chris's chest. When that heart-pounding Secret-Menu Night came to a close, when Whisper of the Earth was officially confirmed for Le Château's trial menu next season, an immense fatigue swept over him like a tide. But what followed it was a calm and a steadiness he'd never felt before. He was no longer the television star who needed a champion's title to prove himself.

In Le Château — a genuinely elite kitchen — he'd won everyone's respect fair and square, with the plainest of potatoes. The mood in the kitchen had quietly shifted too. Since Daniel's transfer, no one dared openly provoke him. Nathan was still strict, but there was less venom in his words now and more of a plain, matter-of-fact professionalism. Philip was as silent as ever, but he'd occasionally, while Chris worked a sauce, pass over a clean towel from the side, or tip his chin toward a soup pot about to boil over.

These wordless details made Chris feel he'd truly joined this place, more than any spoken praise could. He was no longer an outsider — he was a recognized cog in the precision machine that was Le Château's kitchen. One ordinary Tuesday afternoon a week later, lunch service had just ended and the kitchen was in a brief lull. Chris was taking stock of the sauce bases for the evening, checking the reserves of each stock. Right then, he felt a gaze settle on him.

Not the familiar, professionally appraising looks of his colleagues, but a colder, more penetrating line of sight — as if it could see straight through to the logic behind his movements. Chris instinctively lifted his head and followed the feeling. At the kitchen entrance, near the door of Vincent's office, stood a woman he didn't know. She looked to be in her early forties, in a well-cut charcoal-gray suit, her blond hair cut short and sharp, her deep blue eyes watching him calmly.

She simply stood there, quietly, with no move to come in and no word to say, radiating a professional, keep-your-distance presence. Something dropped in Chris's chest. Who was this? A new manager? Or a reporter from some food magazine? But the way she watched people wasn't a reporter's — it was more like… an examiner's. He drew his eyes away without a flicker and went on with his work. But he could feel that the gaze hadn't moved off; it tracked his every motion.

From skimming the foam off the surface of a stock with a spoon, to filtering a sauce through fine cheesecloth, to checking the body and color of every pot… she watched with absolute concentration. It laid an invisible pressure on Chris. He forced himself to forget the gaze and pour all his focus into the work in his hands. The sauces he made had to be flawless in execution, without the slightest deviation.

Through the whole afternoon prep, the woman moved like a ghost — appearing at the sauté station to watch how Philip seared scallops, then standing at the cold station, watching the line cooks assemble salads. But where she lingered longest was Chris's sauce station. She spoke to no one, and not even Vincent came out to accompany her. She was like a privileged observer, silently recording everything that happened in this kitchen. After dinner service began, the kitchen shifted into high gear.

Chris soon forgot the woman's presence entirely, throwing himself fully into blending sauces and firing plates. Not until service ended and the clamor gradually died did he, wiping down his burner, see that figure again. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. She was standing with Vincent at the office door, talking in low tones about something.

"Chris." Vincent's voice reached him. Chris set down the towel and walked over.

"Chef."

"This is Madame Marcella Duval." Vincent introduced her briefly.

"She'd like a few words with you." Chris felt a tightening inside, nodded, and looked at the woman named Marcella.

"Hello, Mr. White." Marcella's English carried a clear French accent, her intonation flat, betraying no emotion.

"This afternoon, I observed your work."

"Hello," Chris said, not knowing what else, and answered only politely.

"Your fundamentals are solid," Marcella went on, her tone like reading out an assessment.

"Emulsifying, filtering, reducing — every step of your sauce work is to standard. Especially during the dinner rush, running the final output of five sauces at once, you didn't slip a single time. Your rhythm control is good." Chris was a little surprised — she even remembered exactly how many sauces he'd been responsible for.

"But," Marcella's tone turned, "I didn't see a single 'surprise.' Everything you did was precise as a textbook — and, like a textbook, lacking in variation." Chris's brow furrowed faintly. That didn't sound like praise.

"When Vincent recommended you to me, he said you were a chef who could 'work miracles with a potato.'" Marcella's gaze sharpened.

"But what I saw today was only an excellent saucier. An excellent saucier who could be replaced by anyone." The words spared nothing, and Chris's heart sank. He glanced instinctively at Vincent, but Vincent only looked at him without expression, with no intent to rescue him.

"Madame Duval," Chris drew a deep breath and decided to defend himself.

"My duty is to keep Le Château's sauces consistent in quality — not to improvise during nightly service. That would be irresponsible to the restaurant." Hearing the answer, a very faint smile touched Marcella's face for the first time.

"A good answer. It shows you understand a professional chef's responsibility." She nodded, seeming reasonably satisfied.

"So, now, I'd like to talk about something else." She paused, her deep blue eyes fixed on Chris.

"Have you heard of the Global Culinary Champion League?" Chris froze. The name — he'd seen it somewhere before… That was it: the system! When he'd just won the championship, when the system was upgrading, the words had flashed once in a corner of the panel.

"…I've heard a little," he answered vaguely.

"The Global Culinary Champion League is held once every four years, in Paris. It is not open to the public, not televised. It is the highest event within the professional kitchen world, anywhere." Marcella's tone turned serious.

"We gather the most promising professional chefs in the world under the age of thirty-five. Every one of them is chosen from their country's most elite kitchens. Within the industry, the league is called the cradle of 'the next generation of the world's top chefs.'" Chris's pulse began to climb. He felt he was touching a whole new, far vaster world.

"This edition of the league will be held six months from now. The United States has three competitor slots." Marcella looked at him and said, one word at a time, "Chef Vincent has already formally recommended you to the league committee, as one of eight candidates." There was a roar, and Chris's mind went blank. Chef Vincent recommended me? To compete in this… Global Culinary Champion League? He turned abruptly to Vincent, his eyes full of shock and question. Vincent finally spoke, his voice as calm as ever.

"Your Whisper of the Earth won you this qualification. That dish proved you're not merely an excellent saucier."

"But," Marcella pulled Chris's attention back again, "the recommendation only earns you an entry ticket. The final three slots will be decided two months from now, at the US Regional Selection here in New York. Eight candidates will fight through three days of closed competition for the last three seats to Paris." She took from the briefcase at her side a fine white envelope and held it out to Chris.

"Inside are the time, place, and basic rules of the Selection." Chris reached out mechanically and took it. The envelope was thin, yet it felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. He looked down at the gold-foil emblem on it — a chef's knife crossed with a globe — and for a moment couldn't say a word. From Burning Kitchen champion, to Le Château prep cook, to saucier, he'd thought he'd already come a long way. But only now did he realize he'd merely reached the starting line of another track.

A track that led to the world's stage — and a genuinely brutal one.