Chương 135: I'll Be Your Translator

The night the first joint session failed, Chris couldn't sleep. He lay on the hotel bed, the dim light on the ceiling as unable to find a clear focus as his mind was just then. The chaos and quarreling of the day's kitchen played over and over in his head. Marcella's words stabbed at his heart like needles, one line after another. Do you actually want to win, or do you only want to prove you're better than your teammates? Chris asked himself: did he want to win? Of course he did.

He'd fought with everything he had for this ticket to Paris — not to go there and be a loser. And Ethan and Kira? They wanted to win too. Of that Chris had no doubt. Ethan's competitiveness was written on his face, and Kira's obsessive pursuit of the extreme was itself a kind of hunger for victory. So why did three people who all wanted to win, thrown together, turn into a disaster instead? Where was the problem, really? Chris sat up and switched on the desk lamp.

The way he used to when he hit a stubborn bug back in his programming days, he took out pen and paper and began to analyze the problem. He wrote down three names: Chris, Ethan, Kira. Under Ethan's name he wrote the keywords: technique, precision, control, results-oriented, perfectionism. Under Kira's name he wrote: creativity, intuition, artistry, process-oriented, soul. And under his own name he thought for a moment, then wrote: balance, logic, coordination, framework, stability.

Looking at the three utterly different clusters of words, Chris suddenly understood. The three of them were like three completely different programming languages. Ethan was C++ — rigorous, efficient, chasing peak performance, but with complex syntax that tolerated no error. Kira was Python — flexible, elegant, rich in creativity, able to quickly realize all sorts of wild, soaring ideas, though it sometimes sacrificed a little execution efficiency.

And he himself was more like a project manager — or rather, the designer of an API. He realized he'd made a fundamental mistake. He'd tried to command Ethan and Kira, to make them run on his logic and his framework. But that simply didn't work. You couldn't ask a C++ programmer to write code with a Python mindset, or the reverse. What they needed was not a commander perched above them, but a translator — someone who could understand them and let them communicate effectively with each other.

Someone who could string Ethan's precise technique and Kira's artistic creativity together in one unified "language," forming a complete, self-consistent "program." That role — only he could fill it. At the thought, the fog lifted. He knew what he had to do. Early the next morning, when the three gathered again in the training kitchen, the mood was still awkward. Both Ethan and Kira had dark circles under their eyes; clearly neither had slept well.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"Before we start, I'd like to put a plan on the table." Chris spoke up first, breaking the silence. Ethan and Kira both looked at him, a trace of wariness in their eyes.

"I agree with what Marcella said — yesterday we were all too eager to prove ourselves." Chris spoke earnestly.

"I think our team doesn't need a captain barking orders." The line made Ethan blink.

"All three of us have our own field of mastery, and all three of us have our pride. Forcing one to obey another can only end in disaster." Chris went on.

"So my suggestion is this: no captain. On the menu design, each of us holds absolute authority over the dish we're responsible for." At that, Kira's expression softened a little.

"But," Chris turned, "a team can't exist without cooperation. I'm willing to take on the role of the 'connector' — or, the 'translator.'""Translator?" Ethan asked, not following.

"Yes." Chris nodded.

"Ethan, you can give your technical strengths free rein and make that most perfect Beef Wellington of yours. Kira, you can follow your intuition completely and make your most spirited sashimi. Neither of you has to change to accommodate the other."

"And my job is to make sure your works can be seamlessly 'translated' and connected. I'll take charge of the overall flavor logic of the menu, making sure that from Kira's appetizer, to my fish course, to Ethan's main, the whole tasting experience builds in layers, harmonious and unified. I'll also take charge of our overall pickup rhythm, streamline how the kitchen runs, and make sure that under the high pressure of competition we never fall into yesterday's chaos again."

"I won't interfere with what you specifically make. I'll only make sure that what the three of us make can, in the end, join into one complete story." Chris finished and looked at the two of them. This was the result of a whole night's thinking — the only method he could imagine that might get this team running. The kitchen was silent. Ethan lowered his head, seeming to weigh Chris's words. He had to admit the analysis made sense. Being told what to do by someone else — that he couldn't manage.

But being left to focus on the thing he did best — that he could accept. Kira watched Chris, a new curiosity in her eyes. She hadn't expected this man, who'd looked so steady, even conservative, in the contest, to offer a solution this full of intelligence. The word "translator" described precisely the thing they most needed right now.

"No objections here." Kira spoke first. Ethan lifted his head and glanced at Chris, his eyes complicated.

"I can try it too. But if your 'translation' goes wrong and it affects my dish, I won't go easy on you."

"Of course." Chris smiled. The second simulation began, formally. This time the mood was completely different. The three of them settled their division of labor fast. Kira took the appetizer and the dessert — the fields where her creativity was most concentrated. Ethan took the main, choosing the technically most difficult roast squab, the best stage there was to show off his precise heat control.

And Chris took the fish course in the middle, and oversaw the whole picture — the final seasoning on every sauce and the coordination of the pass. In the kitchen, it was still three people busy in their own zones. But this time there was more communication.

"Kira, your appetizer uses citrus and shiso — so my fish course will pick that up with some fennel, to make the flavor transition smoother."

"Ethan, your roast squab comes with a cherry sauce, fairly high acidity — so Kira, it's best your dessert doesn't lean on high-acid fruit again."

"Got it."

"Understood." Chris was like a man drawing thread through a needle, ceaselessly passing information between Ethan and Kira, adjusting the details of the whole menu. When the three finished dishes were set on the table, everyone let out a breath. Kira's appetizer, "Sea Tide," wrapped fresh sea urchin in sake jelly and sea grapes — fresh, ethereal. Chris's fish course, "Warm Current," paired sous-vide flatfish with fennel foam and toasted almond flakes — gentle, delicate.

Ethan's main, "Blaze," had the squab roasted with crackling skin and a pink, juicy interior, dressed in a rich cherry-balsamic sauce — bold, powerful. Three dishes, wildly different in style — but from the cool chill of "Sea Tide," to the mild warmth of "Warm Current," to the searing heat of "Blaze," they formed a clear, complete curve of emotion and flavor. There was still some rawness in the coordination — but this time, at last, their work had the wholeness a team's should have. They knew this was only a start.

But at least they had found the right road.