Chương 15: That Knife Work Has to Be Faked, Right?

Chris's left hand was a precise caliper, pinning the potato steady, the second knuckles of his fingers bent slightly to brace against the flat of the blade — fixing the ingredient and shielding his fingertips at once. His right hand held the chef's knife, wrist loose, and at a constant rhythm, the blade began to fall. Thock. The first cut landed clean and steady. And then came the unbroken sound, precise as a metronome. Thock, thock, thock, thock, thock…

It wasn't loud, but amid the surrounding rasp of peelers and the clang of pots and pans, it carried with unusual clarity — a drumbeat with something like magic in it, pulling every eye toward it. Sarah, the nearest, stopped her own hands without thinking and looked over. She saw the knife in Chris's grip seem to come alive, flashing up and down, while on the board the potato turned, at a speed the eye could follow, into a heap of slices uniform to a frightening degree.

The camera operator on three had been sent to capture Chris's humiliation. But when he saw, through the lens, that absurdly steady blade, professional instinct lit him up. He reported through his earpiece at once: "Director! Station one! His knife work — look at this!" In the control room, the director had been scanning the wall of monitors in agitation, hunting for conflict. At the report, he cut the main feed to camera three. On the screen was a close-up magnified several times over.

The blade flashed, and every fall sliced off a near-translucent round of potato. The slices lifted on the blade and toppled, neat, to one side, like a row of dominoes. Hardly any difference in thickness from one to the next.

"My god…" a young assistant in the control room couldn't help blurting.

"Get a macro lens in there! I want the edge and the slice in close-up! Move!" the director roared, exhilarated. He knew they might have caught gold. The studio audience, watching it on the big screen, gradually fell quiet too. The earlier jeering vanished, replaced by a stifled wave of awe.

"Is that… machine-cut?"

"No way, look, he's using a chef's knife. Pure handwork."

"How long do you have to train for that? Every slice the same thickness, it's unreal…" Marco was bent over his own ingredients. His plan was a complex potato purée — boil, pass through a sieve, many steps. He noticed the room going quiet around him, found it strange, and glanced up at the big screen without thinking. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. One glance, and his heart sank like a stone. On the screen, Chris had already finished the first potato.

The paper-thin slices were stacked neatly to one side like a deck of cards. He picked up the second potato, and his knife technique changed. No longer a straight up-and-down cut, but a push forward and a draw back, the blade hissing softly across the board. Under his knife the potato became slices first, then a turn of his wrist gathered them, and the blade fell again. This time, what appeared on the board were strands of potato finer than matchsticks. He didn't stop there.

He scooped up a small pinch and held it to the camera. Every strand distinct, even in thickness, crystalline under the lights. The knife in Marco's hand stopped without his willing it. He looked down at his own board, at the unevenly-cut chunks he'd hacked off chasing speed, and his face went hot in an instant. He'd always believed knife work was just the base — that creativity and seasoning were king. His pride was his understanding of high-end cuisine, not this grind of fundamentals that line cooks sweated over.

But now Chris had used the plainest, dullest fundamentals to land a ringing slap across his face. This wasn't cooking anymore. It was a performance. A show of force. A silent show of force — and the most crushing kind.

"Damn it," Marco swore under his breath, and in his agitation the knife slipped, nearly catching his finger. He hurried to steady himself, only to find his rhythm completely shot. At the judges' table, the female judge's mouth had fallen open; she'd lost her words. The other male judge, a former food critic, pushed up his glasses and said gravely, "Knife work at that level is flat-out impossible without five years of dedicated training. And look at his posture — relaxed, steady, already muscle memory.

That tells you it isn't showmanship for the competition. It's his everyday standard." For the first time, real interest crossed Gareth Vane's face. He stared at Chris as if to see down into his bones. The rookie who couldn't even control an oven a week ago, and the chef in front of him whose knife was steady as a machine — were they really the same man? Chris knew nothing of any of it. In his world there was only the knife in his hand and the potato on the board. System. Current status. [Knife Work (B): 70/100.] [Slice thickness: 2. 01 mm, standard deviation: 0. 03 mm.] [Julienne: 1. 5 mm × 1. 5 mm, standard deviation: 0. 05 mm.] [Assessment: stable, precise. Meets professional-kitchen standard.] Good. The days of frantic practice hadn't been for nothing. Done with the julienne, he picked up the third kind — the starchy, floury potato. His knife changed again. Broad, decisive strokes: thick slices first, then batons, then the blade rose and fell and they were even little cubes.

Slices, for the body of the gratin — for even cooking and a fine texture. Fine strands, to fry into a crisp potato nest — a top garnish and a textural counterpoint. Cubes, seared then roasted — for a charred aroma and a solid chew. One dish. Three forms, three textures, three methods. When Chris had sorted all his prepped potatoes into three bowls of clean water to stop them oxidizing, he looked up at the clock on the wall. Seven minutes gone.

His station was spotless, just three bowls of potato in three different forms. At the station beside him, Mike was still fumbling to peel his potatoes, and Marco's counter was a wreck. The stark visual contrast carried, through the cameras, into every viewer's eyes. The "Potato Guy" everyone had taken for a joke had, in the first seven minutes of the round, used the most basic knife work to silently dominate the floor. Chris wiped his hands and turned toward the stove. The real fight was only now about to begin.