Chương 89: The Ultimate Technique in the Humblest Food

The air in the studio froze solid. Every camera was trained on the judges' table at the front. Three "ultimate dishes" sat side by side on the table before Vane. On Ethan's plate: sous-vide duck breast with black-truffle sauce and roasted root vegetables. The pink of the duck's cross-section was as even as if it had been measured with a ruler, the black-truffle sauce drawing a perfect arc across the white plate, a few caramel-colored roasted celery roots and carrots set among it.

It was, frankly, a piece of art you could put in a museum. On Sarah's plate: her grandmother's secret-recipe braised beef with hand-rolled noodles. Big chunks of beef braised soft, the rich tomato-meat gravy clinging to the rustic handmade noodles, fresh parsley scattered over the top. The dish gave off a homey warmth that made you want to dig in at once. And in front of Chris was a plain white deep bowl.

In the clear golden chicken broth the noodles were coiled neatly, the pink char siu, the runny soft-boiled egg, the emerald scallion, and the golden corn lying quietly on the surface of the soup. Clean, understated, even a little plain. Vane stood at the table, his eyes sweeping back and forth between the three dishes.

"A hundred and twenty minutes. You put your souls on these plates," Vane said, his voice low.

"Now, let me taste exactly what your souls are made of." He went to Ethan first.

"Ethan, sous-vide duck breast." Vane picked up his knife and fork.

"In this competition, you've always been like a precision instrument. This dish still looks that way." He cut off a piece of duck, dabbed it in a little black-truffle sauce, and put it in his mouth. Chewed. Vane closed his eyes. The whole place went so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Ethan's hands clenched into fists, his nails nearly digging into the flesh. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"Ethan." Vane opened his eyes and looked at him.

"Chef."

"This may be the most perfect duck breast I've eaten on this show." Vane didn't stint his praise.

"The heat is exact to the hair, the fat under the skin completely rendered out, crisp as glass. The black-truffle sauce is rich, but it doesn't steal the flavor of the duck." A smile of pure relief finally crossed Ethan's face.

"But what surprised me most was your garnish." Vane pointed his fork at the roasted celery roots.

"You always used to like dressing things up with all those molecular-cuisine foams and spheres. Today, you used only the simplest slow roast. You kept the earthy aroma and the sweetness of the root vegetables themselves. You've finally learned to let the ingredient speak for itself, instead of forcing it to become what you want."

"This dish has technique, and now it has warmth too. Beautifully done."

"Thank you, Chef." Ethan bowed deeply. He knew he already had one foot in the final. Next, Vane went to Sarah. Sarah was so nervous her lips were trembling. Vane looked at the braised beef and drew a deep breath.

"This smell…" Vane's eyes softened.

"It reminds me of the way my mother's kitchen smelled, busy on a weekend." Sarah's eyes rimmed red in an instant. Vane forked up a piece of beef and a few noodles and put them in his mouth. He chewed for a long time.

"Sarah, if this were a family restaurant, I'd give this dish a perfect score." Vane set down his fork and looked at her.

"The acidity of the tomato and the flavor of the beef blend beautifully. Your grandmother's recipe really is wonderful. This dish is full of sincerity and love." Sarah was about to smile when Vane's expression turned serious.

"But this is the semifinal of Burning Kitchen." His tone went stern.

"As a competition dish, there are obvious flaws in its technique." Sarah's heart sank.

"First, you didn't clean the sinew off this short rib. It's braised soft, but the texture is still a little coarse. Second, your noodles soaked too long in the broth—they've started to go soft and lost their bite."

"The emotion is a perfect score. But the technique falls a little short." Vane shook his head. Sarah bit her lip, fighting to hold the tears back.

"I understand, Chef." Last, Vane came to Chris. He looked at the white deep bowl.

"Chris. A bowl of noodles, late at night." Vane read out the name with a trace of doubt in his voice.

"You gave up lobster, gave up truffle, used chicken bones and flour. You'd better pray there's magic in this bowl." Vane picked up a spoon and lifted a spoonful of the clear golden chicken broth. He didn't drink it right away—first he held it under his nose and smelled it. In the rich meat-and-bone aroma there was a thread of the sweet seafood clarity of dried scallop. He brought the broth to his mouth.