Chương 156: Vincent's Call Across the Ocean

New York time, late at night. Le Château's kitchen had closed out a hard service and gone quiet. Chef Vincent sat alone in his small office. He wasn't looking at the books or working on the menu. He was looking at his phone. On the screen was the official site of the league in Paris, and the finals bracket, perfectly clear — Team USA vs. Team England. He thought back to a few months ago, when Chris had left New York for the regional selection.

The young man had shown flashes even then, but in Vincent's eyes he'd still been raw stone that needed grinding. Now the stone was about to throw its last light on the highest stage in the world. Vincent's finger moved across the screen and opened Chris's contact. He hesitated a moment, and then dialed. Paris, small hours. Chris had just used the new module to run a tactical simulation with Ethan and Kira that came out close to flawless. All three of them were up somewhere between excitement and total focus.

Then his personal phone rang. Seeing Vincent on the screen put warmth through his chest. He walked to a quiet corner and picked up.

"Chef," he said, respectfully. On the other end came Vincent's familiar voice, slightly roughened. There was no background noise at all; he was somewhere very quiet too.

"How's the preparation for the final." No preamble; straight into it.

"We've… found our direction," Chris said. He didn't go into detail. Vincent didn't need it.

"Good." Nothing readable in the voice.

"I didn't call to teach you to cook. At this stage there's nobody left who can teach you anything technical."

"Yes, Chef." A few seconds of silence on the line. Then Vincent asked a question.

"Chris. Are you afraid right now?" The question went in like a key and opened the exact corner of himself he'd been working around. Was he afraid? Of course he was. He was afraid of losing. Afraid of failing the trust of his teammates. Afraid of disappointing every person who had backed him. He was afraid that he still wasn't strong enough, that at the last moment he'd make the mistake you can't take back. He was afraid of the perfect machine on the other side of the floor, Arthur Campbell. Love this novel?

Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. Those fears got pushed down when he and the others were arguing tactics, got covered over by reason when he was running data. They had never gone anywhere. They lay on the deepest floor of him, waiting for a weak hour to come up. Chris didn't lie. He chose to be honest.

"…Yes." He said it low.

"Very afraid." On the other end, Vincent seemed to let out a very slight sigh, the kind that sounds like satisfaction.

"Then that's correct." He said it slowly.

"Only the ignorant and the arrogant don't know fear. Fear is baggage every cook carries for life, and the ones at the summit carry the most of it."

"I remember telling you the last lesson at Le Château." Chris remembered. Vincent had told him the terrifying thing is not a strong opponent. It's the fear inside you.

"Today I'll give you the second half of that lesson." The voice went deeper.

"Fear is not your enemy. You don't need to defeat it, and you certainly don't need to throw it away. What you need is to learn to live alongside it. Treat it as a partner."

"A partner?" Chris couldn't follow.

"A partner," Vincent said.

"When you're afraid, your senses sharpen past their usual range. Your attention narrows to a point. Your body gives you adrenaline, and you produce strength you don't have on an ordinary day. Fear keeps you humble. It keeps the deepest respect in you — for the ingredients, for the craft, for the man across from you. It stops you becoming arrogant, and it stops you making the cheap errors that come from taking a thing lightly."

"Think back. Every one of your best pieces of work — which of them wasn't made under enormous pressure and enormous fear? The potato pudding in the Burning Kitchen final. The team service at the regional selection. The semifinal you just came out of. Every time, you were frightened out of your mind. And every time, the fear made you sharper and stronger."

"So don't try to drive your fear out, Chris. Accept it. Feel it. And then use it."

"Let it be the source of your focus, so that when you pick up the knife there's nothing in your head but the thing under it. Let it be the bell that keeps you humble, so that what you put in front of the judges is the most honest work you have. Let it be the trigger on your strength, so that at the moment that decides everything you make the right call."

"What gets tested on a finals floor stopped being technique a long time ago. What gets tested is who can ride the animal inside himself better. The animal's name is fear." Every word landed in Chris like molten iron off a ladle. He had always treated fear as a negative state, a weakness to be overcome. Vincent was telling him it was a gift. A source of power. He shut his eyes and went back down into the worry and the dread. This time he didn't fight it; he tried to take it in.

And he found that when he stopped treating it as an enemy, the churn really did settle — and turned into something else, something cold and enormous and steady that he'd never felt before. His senses seemed genuinely to widen in that moment. He could hear, clearly, the small sounds Ethan was making calibrating the centrifuge at the other end of the kitchen. He could smell the complicated aromatics coming off whatever Kira had open.

"I understand, Chef." There was no tremor left in his voice at all.

"I understand."

"Then go." Warmth finally came into Vincent's tone.

"Go and bring the title back to New York. The kitchen at Le Château is waiting to celebrate you." The line went dead. Chris stood where he was for a long time without moving. It felt as though a valve somewhere in his body, held shut for months, had been opened all the way. He wasn't afraid anymore. Or rather: he was still afraid, and he was ready to carry the fear with him onto that final floor. He turned and walked back to his teammates. His stride had never been that certain.