Chương 98: The Best Decision I Ever Made

The three judges stood, came down from the table, and walked to the two dishes. The very air seemed to freeze. By custom, they tasted Ethan's "perfect French rack of lamb" first. Vane picked up his knife and fork and cut off a small piece of lamb. The cross-section was a perfect pink, the juices abundant. He speared a piece, dabbed it in a little sauce, and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, no expression on his face. Nina and Hale tasted in turn.

"Ethan," Nina spoke first, breaking the silence.

"The doneness on this lamb is the most perfect I've seen in any cooking competition. A second more and it's overcooked, a second less and it's underdone—it sits right on that perfect point. The pairing of the sauce and garnish is airtight too. This dish is proof of the ceiling of your technique." Hale nodded as well.

"Flawless. On a technical level, this dish is a hundred out of a hundred. If I were a professor at a culinary academy, I'd use this dish as a textbook example." Both of them gave the highest marks. A relieved smile finally crossed Ethan's face. He knew he hadn't made a mistake. Last, everyone's eyes gathered on Vane. Vane set down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth with the napkin. He looked at Ethan, silent for a long while, before speaking slowly.

"Ethan, this dish… makes me respect you." Hearing the words, Ethan's eyes lit up.

"But," Vane turned it, "it didn't surprise me." The smile on Ethan's face froze.

"You chose what you're best at, used the way you know best, and took it to the limit. That's remarkable. But this dish, your duck breast in the semifinal, your rack of lamb before the final—they're the same thing in essence. It's perfect, but it's a cold, perfect art museum. I saw your technique, but I didn't see your heartbeat." Vane's verdict was like a precise scalpel, cutting open Ethan's flawless technical shell, straight to the core. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent.

Report any appearances on Amazon. Ethan's lips moved, but he could say nothing. Then the three judges turned to Chris's Potato Trilogy. Looking at this dish—plain to the point of almost being crude—everyone's expression turned a little strange.

"Chris," Vane said, looking at him, "you're the first person I've ever seen make a finale dish out of potatoes." He didn't pick up his knife and fork first—instead he took a spoon and lifted a small scoop of the potato ice cream on the far right. It was the most daring, and most curiosity-stirring, part of the whole dish. The instant the ice cream entered his mouth, Vane's eyes flew wide. Nina and Hale tasted the ice cream too, the same shocked expression crossing their faces.

"My god…" Nina couldn't help exclaiming.

"This… this is potato? It has the aroma of potato, but the texture is silky as top-tier gelato. The sweet crunch of the caramel crisps, and the aroma of the black-truffle honey… Chris, this is a flavor I've never experienced. It's a poem about humility and ambition." Hale spoke, moved too.

"You took the most unremarkable potato and created a dessert of the highest order. This is crazy, and it's magnificent!" Then they tasted the gratin in the middle. The familiar balance of acidity and layers of flavor made all three of them nod without a word. Last, Vane's gaze came to rest on the far left of the plate, on the reborn potato pavé. He picked up the knife and cut, gently. The blade passed through without the slightest resistance, the layers distinct. He speared a small piece and put it in his mouth.

In that moment, Vane closed his eyes. The whole place was silent; everyone watched him, tense. He remembered, a few months ago, in this same kitchen, throwing a piece of overcooked potato pavé into the trash and roaring at a young man: "Get out of my kitchen!" And now, the same dish, the same person, gave him a completely different feeling. The heat was perfect, the cream rich, the softness of the potato and the char on top mingling in the mouth. There was no more of that damned, extra forty seconds.

Vane opened his eyes and looked at Chris, an emotion he couldn't name in his gaze. He was silent for a long time—long enough that everyone felt they couldn't breathe. At last, he spoke.

"The first time you stood here, I told you to get out of my kitchen. Because you made a plate of overcooked potatoes." His voice wasn't loud, but through the microphone it reached everyone's ears, clear.

"Now, you've made potatoes again. You're either the bravest man in the world, or the most insane." Vane paused, his gaze like fire.

"You're both."

"This dish has a fatal flaw. It's too risky—that ice cream, one wrong step and you'd have become a colossal joke. The ingredients are too cheap; on the grand finale stage, it's frankly contempt for every top-tier ingredient there is."

"But…" Vane's voice rose sharply.

"With this cheap potato, you told the most complete, most moving story of the entire season! In this dish, I tasted your failure, your refusal to give up, your struggle, your growth, and all of your ambition for the future!"

"Ethan's dish was made for the judges to look at. Your dish was made for yourself!"

"This—THIS, goddamn it, is what the spirit of a chef means!" With that, Vane turned and walked back to the judges' table. The final vote was about to begin.