Classic Novel
438 Finding Me
438 Finding Me (Cass)
"Cass," Chef Thierry's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding. It's nice to hear an English word at last. I haven't hear many in three days.
I glance up, still scrubbing. He's standing a few feet away, holding a small bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. His expression is inscrutable, his sharp features etched like stone. "Here. As you are the... 'ow you say, soup expert..." He gestures with the spoon, offering it to me. "Taste."
I wipe my hands on my apron, glancing around.
They can be scared of him. I'm not. He's just a man doing a job, like any other man.
Taking the spoon, I dip it into the soup he's holding and taste.
The flavors bloom on my tongue-rich, earthy, with a faint hint of bitterness. It's incredible, no question, but... there's something missing.
Thierry's eyes narrow as he watches me, waiting. Almost daring me to defy him again.
I grab a clean spoon, dip it into a jar of honey I'd seen him use earlier, and swirl a small amount into the soup. Then I sprinkle some of the fresh chopped Lemon Thyme over the top. "Try that." I say to him, handing him a clean spoon.
The entire kitchen falls silent. You could hear a pin drop.
Thierry arches a brow but doesn't say anything. He tastes it, his expression unchanging. Then, after what feels like an eternity, he sets the bowl down on his counter with a deliberate motion
He doesn't say a word. Instead, he gestures toward the sink, where an even larger stack of dishes has appeared. His message is clear: back to work.
I return to the sink, my back to the rest of the kitchen, but I catch the faintest flicker of a nod from Thierry to his sous chef out of the corner of my eye. Each soup that goes out now has my finishing touches. That is probably the most satisfying feeling I've ever had.
The next morning, I'm chopping vegetables for salad and garnish under Thierry's watchful gaze.
His commands are brisk, his criticisms sharper, but I've learned to tune out the tone and focus on the words." Precision, not speed," he snaps as I dice an onion. "First technique, then speed will come. And no waste. Every piece matters."
I nod, adjusting my grip and trying again. When I get it right, he doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to. The absence of his criticism is praise enough.
The lunch rush hits, and the kitchen becomes a symphony of controlled chaos. Why and how they get so many customers in this backwater is beyond me.
+
438 Finding Me
Chef Thierry is the conductor, orchestrating every movement, and I find myself caught up in the rhythm. He lets me plate a salad, and though my hands tremble, I pour everything I've learned into the presentation.
It looks refined, modern and edgy. I pop on some violet petals and I think it looks perfect.
When it's done, Thierry inspects it, his eyes scanning every detail before giving a curt nod.
The day continues like that and once lunch service is over, I'm washing dishes to get ready for dinner service. But something is ignited inside me. I think I might be good at this food stuff.
I mean, I knew I was. But this is different.
**
It's late when Chef Thierry calls me into his cramped office and I stand awkwardly in the doorway.
He doesn't look up immediately. After a moment, he folds a piece of paper, slides it into an envelope, and seals it with deliberate care.
Finally, he glances up at me, his sharp eyes piercing as ever.
"This," he says, holding out the envelope, "is recommendation."
I take it carefully. "Thank you."
He waves off my gratitude with a gruff grunt. "Take it to any head chef in Brussels. It will get you job."
"I'm sure all dishwashers come highly recommended." I quip with a smile.
""When you leave?"
"In two days. I'll take the train to Brussels. Thanks to you I'll have enough money."
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Listen carefully, Cass. You have something. A spark, a talent. But it's raw. Unpolished. Useless in its present state." "Ummm, thanks, I guess."
"You need to train," he continues. "At least five years. Work in kitchens everywhere you can. Big, small, fancy, simple. Learn from all of them, but don't let anyone twist your vision. Take what you need and leave the rest." "Five years?" I echo, raising an eyebrow.
He shoots me a glare that could slice through steel. "Yes, five years. Or more. You're not ready to make a name for yourself before that. If you try, you'll be crushed. Learn and you'll have something no one can take from you." I nod again, his words sinking in. "And then?"
"Then you make your food. No apology. No compromise. Your food, your way. But first, you need to understand it. Respect it."
I can't help the small smile tugging at my lips. "No pressure, then?"This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org - ©.
"Plenty of pressure," he shoots back, his tone clipped but not unkind. "If you want to be the best! But you've already proven one thing." +
438 Finding Me
"What's that?"
He leans back again, his expression softening just a fraction. "You're not afraid. That's rare."
I let the words settle, my chest tightening. "Thank you, Chef. For everything."
He nods once, his sharp demeanor returning. "Don't waste your spark."
"I won't."
"Leave the green stuff for cooking, no? Not smoking. It will make you stand still."
Shit, how does he know? I've barely had any. "Oh, I can stop anytime..."
"Can you? You need to. Standing still is a... killer, for chef Feel everything, Cass. It makes better food. Passion. Love. Hate. All of it."
I stare at him. "Okay."
"Good. Now go. I still have to finish menu for next week." He waves me away like I'm wasting his time.
"Want some help from the soup expert?" I grin at him and, damn it, if he doesn't smile back.
"Out! Out! Out!" He roars with his grin in place.
I leave his office with the envelope clutched tightly in my hand, a strange mix of pride and determination settling over me.
Thierry might be a gruff, hard-ass of a chef, but he's given me something more valuable than I could have imagined: belief in myself. Two days, and I'll be on my way to Brussels.
It's time to find Winona and be honest.