Chương 46: Your "Home" Tastes Too Expensive

"Ten minutes left!" The host's voice echoed through the kitchen, and everyone entered the final sprint. Vane began his "death tour." Like a lion patrolling its territory, he moved with steady steps, his eyes sharp, doubling the pressure on every contestant he passed. He went first to Jack's station. Jack's roast chicken was out, golden and very appetizing. He was preparing sides — roast potatoes and carrots.

"Roast chicken, hm?" Vane picked up a fork and poked a leg.

"Looks good. This is your home flavor?"

"Yes, Chef!" Jack answered, a little nervous.

"Every Sunday when I was a kid, my mom made this. Only she'd bake it a bit dry. Mine's juicier." Vane said nothing, only nodded, and walked to Sarah. Sarah's chicken pot pie was done too, breathing a rich aroma of cream and chicken. She was cutting a portion with a mold to plate.

"Chicken pot pie. Very classic, very home-style." Vane looked at her.

"Smells wonderful. You're sure this represents you?"

"Yes, Chef." Sarah smiled.

"The flavor of this dish is the flavor of my childhood. Warm, safe, full of love." Vane's expression softened a little; he seemed to go for this sort of thing. He liked dishes with a story, especially warm ones. Then he came to Ethan's station. Everyone instinctively held their breath. Ethan's counter was clean as an operating room, and his dish was done. It was an extraordinarily complex-looking dish. He'd made the breast into a perfect low-poached cylinder; cut open, its cross-section was an even pink-white.

Beside it were geometric sides made from corn and potato, and a few drops of vividly colored sauce. The plating looked drawn with a ruler and compass — precise to the millimeter.

"This is your 'home'?" Vane looked at it, brow knitting slightly. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Yes, Chef." Ethan's answer was cool and confident.

"My father is an architect. He taught me that anything — a building or food — should have precise structure and logic. To me, 'home' means order and perfection." Vane fell silent. He touched the chicken with his fork tip and looked again at the geometric sides.

"Your 'home' must taste very expensive," Vane suddenly said. Ethan froze, not understanding his meaning.

"I'm not praising you." Vane's voice went cold.

"In this dish I see technique, I see precision, I see your ambition. But I don't see home. It's too perfect — perfect like a show suite in a five-star hotel, not a place with any human warmth. It's beautiful, but it has no soul." Ethan's face turned ugly in an instant. It was the first time he'd been so directly negated by Vane in his own field. He wanted to argue, but opened his mouth and could say nothing. Because he knew Vane spoke the truth. He'd only used his strongest method to complete an assigned essay.

Last, Vane came to Chris. His gaze fell on Chris's equally refined, equally design-driven dish.

"You again, Chris." Vane's tone gave away neither pleasure nor displeasure.

"What is this? A deconstructivist art piece? I asked you to make a dish about home, not to build a circuit board." His words drew low laughter from those around. Chris's dish really was too "engineering." Chris wasn't cowed by Vane's presence, and he didn't panic at the laughter. He raised his head and calmly met Vane's gaze.

"Chef, to me, this is the taste of home."

"Oh?" Vane raised an eyebrow.

"Explain."

"This dish has three textures of chicken and two forms of corn. They all come from the same ingredients, but through different methods they show completely different flavors." Chris pointed at the plate, like a product manager presenting his product.

"It's like the home in my memory. Under limited conditions, through your own thinking and effort, to discover and create more possibilities and get the best experience." He paused and went on, "To me, home isn't a warm harbor. It's one person's laboratory. A place where, in loneliness, you seek out flavor and find contentment in it." When Vane had heard him out, he said nothing for a long while. He looked down at the plate, his eyes turning complicated.

He'd seen too many chefs dress up their dishes in florid words. He'd heard too many stories of "mother's cooking" and "grandmother's secret recipe." But to make "loneliness" and "laboratory" the core concept of "home," and to lay it out in language so cool and rational — that was the first time he'd seen it. It was an entirely new culinary philosophy, one he'd never encountered.

"Sounds interesting," Vane said at last, his tone still flat.

"But in the end, a kitchen speaks through flavor. I hope your dish doesn't taste as boring as you make it sound." With that he turned and left, leaving Chris a back full of meaning. Time. Every contestant stopped. The host announced that the judges would choose their three favorite dishes to taste and give the final judgment. Every heart climbed into every throat.