Chương 45: Chicken, Corn, and a Little Loneliness

Chris's station became a precision laboratory. He pressed the whole sheet of chicken skin between another sheet of parchment and a tray, slid it into the oven, and set a relatively low temperature. He'd render every bit of fat from the skin with a low slow bake, while making it thin and crisp as glass. It was a technique he'd learned from a modern cookbook, to get the purest "chicken flavor" and ultimate crispness. Next he handled the bones in the pressure cooker.

He added little water, just chopped onion and a small amount of liquid, using the cooker's high heat and pressure to press out the richest bone broth in a short time. An extremely efficient method, perfectly in line with his programmer's mode of thinking — the optimal result in the shortest time. Then the breast and leg meat. He cut the breast into even pieces, seasoned simply with salt and white pepper. The leg meat he skinned, boned, and cut the same way. The most critical step was the corn.

He didn't boil or grill the kernels like the others — he shaved the fresh kernels off whole with a knife. He put half of them into a high-speed blender with the just-strained, scalding chicken broth from the pressure cooker, and blitzed it on high. In the roar of the machine, the kernels were pulverized in an instant and mixed with the rich broth, forming a silky corn purée somewhere between a sauce and a soup. The sweetness of the corn and the umami of the broth fused perfectly under the heat.

"What's he doing? Is that corn soup? But why blend the soup so fine?" Owen watched, his face full of confusion.

"No, that's not soup." Ethan had stopped his own work without anyone noticing. He looked at Chris's blender, his eyes turning grave.

"That's a corn purée — a French sauce. He's using the pressure cooker to extract broth fast, then using the broth's heat to draw out the corn's sweetness and aroma… It's very clever, and extremely efficient." For the first time, a thread of admiration entered Ethan's tone. He could see that none of Chris's steps were arbitrary — each had been precisely calculated. It was, to a degree, similar to his own culinary philosophy.

And yet different: Chris's method seemed to hold fewer rigid formulas and more of something direct, more feral. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. Chris paid the talk no mind. He strained the corn purée into a bowl of pale-yellow, fine-textured sauce. Then he put the other half of the whole kernels and the diced leg meat together into a skillet and sautéed them fast in the chicken fat just rendered from the oven.

Sizzle— The aroma of chicken fat and the sweetness of corn burst out at once. The leg meat turned gold quickly, and the kernels caramelized faintly under the heat, their sweetness drawn further out. Last, he handled the breast. By a low slow poach, he warmed it in herb-infused olive oil over a water bath to a precise 144°F. It was the temperature that kept chicken breast tenderest and juiciest. Of the hour, more than forty minutes had passed.

On Chris's counter sat several components: a bowl of golden, silky corn purée; a pan of leg meat and corn sautéed in chicken fat; several pieces of tender, low-poached breast; and a sheet of skin baked golden and crisp in the oven. He began the final assembly of every element. First, at the base of the plate, he spread a wide band of warm corn purée with a spoon, like a golden river. Then he scattered the sautéed leg meat and corn over the "river," casual.

Next he sliced the poached breast and laid it gently, like feathers, over the leg meat. Finally he took the skin — crisper than a potato chip — and crumbled it lightly by hand, scattering it like golden snow over the top of the whole dish. He made one more unexpected move: he spooned a little of the clarified, gold-leaf-clear chicken fat rendered earlier over the dish, as the master stroke. The dish was complete.

It didn't have the bold "eat big chunks of meat, drink big bowls of soup" feel of a traditional home flavor, nor the cozy warmth of a comforting stew. It looked more like a piece of modern art. Refined, beautiful, every element carefully designed and placed. The chicken and corn on the plate appeared in entirely new, deconstructed forms. The chicken had three textures: the tenderness of the poach, the char of the sauté, and the crispness of the skin.

The corn had two forms: the silk of the sauce and the sweet crunch of the kernel.

"This… what is this?" Sarah stared at Chris's finished dish, completely frozen. Her traditional chicken pot pie had just come out, fragrant, full of a mother's flavor. But beside Chris's, her work looked a little "plain."

"It doesn't look like 'home.' More like a dish from a Michelin restaurant," Jack couldn't help saying. Chris didn't explain. He silently wiped the rim of the plate clean and named the dish "Chicken, Corn, and a Little Memory." No, he said to himself — perhaps it should be called "Chicken, Corn, and a Little Loneliness." This dish was a summary of his own past life.

A lonely soul, through countless late nights, using limited ingredients and his own wit and effort to create the greatest flavor and comfort for himself. It was a unique "home" flavor that belonged to the modern city dweller. He didn't know whether the judges — Vane above all — would be able to taste it.