Chapter 112: The Winner’s Scale (1)
Chapter 112: The Winner’s Scale (1)
Chloe took a long, deep breath. She tied her hair back with a white floral bandana, and with a white apron over her clothes, she somehow looked rather rustic. The contrast became even stranger when she stood beside Joanne, who insisted on sticking to 1920s fashion. People said the fashion of that era was rather good, but in the end, it was still going backwards in time.
A white striped shirt, a brown cardigan, and a floppy brown felt hat. Joanne looked almost like an American young lady from that era. It would have made for quite a funny sight if they had gone into the mission dressed like that, but unfortunately, that did not happen. The staff handed them cooking uniforms instead, and both women lowered their heads in disappointment.
“I wanted to show off my fashion sense since this is the last time.”
“Me too.”
“How about going to a modelling audition later?”
“I wouldn’t even be able to apply because I’m too short.”
At Jo Minjoon’s joke, Chloe answered in a serious voice. Had she really dreamed of becoming a model at some point? Kaya stared at the uniforms for quite a while before speaking.
“Ours are better than theirs.”
Kaya’s team had black uniforms. Anderson’s team, on the other hand, wore white. In practical terms, a light colour was better because stains were easier to spot, but purely in terms of appearance, black looked better. For one thing, it made people look a little slimmer.
Once everyone had changed and gathered together, Kaya spoke. There was none of her usual rebellious, troublemaking air in her. Her voice was calm, steady, and warm.
“Thank you, everyone, for working so hard over the past six days and following my way of doing things without complaining. I’m definitely going to win. No.” Kaya took a breath, then spoke as though making a vow. “Let’s win.”
Everyone answered her with smiles. They found themselves wondering whether Kaya might have been the person who had grown the most throughout this competition.
They were not talking about cooking ability. She had grown as a person. Of course, there were differences between them because everyone had grown. This was the sort of competition where they could hardly avoid doing so. They had to cook constantly within short time limits while pouring everything they had into it. They had to work together with people they had barely spoken to before, and sometimes they had to make dishes they were attempting for the first time. If they could not grow under circumstances that extreme, that would have been stranger.
Everyone steadied themselves and headed for the kitchen. Someone might ask why they needed to be nervous when this was not even their own competition, but they could not help it. Famous chefs from all over the country would be watching them. If even one of those chefs took notice of them, it meant that all of America might eventually be watching them as well.
More than anything, they wanted to make Kaya the winner. Whatever else might happen, right now they were a team. None of them harboured resentment simply because Kaya was doing better than they were. At least, that was true among them.
When they entered the kitchen, one thing was different from before. The curtain that had separated the dining hall from the kitchen was gone. That meant the chefs outside would be able to watch how they cooked. Chloe clenched her fists. Her palms were not sweaty, but her heart felt as though it was. It pounded so hard that every breath made her chest ache.
Even so, it was a good kind of nervousness. Perhaps an adrenaline rush was the right way to describe it. And Chloe was not the only one feeling that way. The whole setup naturally created that tension. This was not merely an ordinary open kitchen. They would be showing some of the finest nationally recognised chefs not only their skill, but also their efforts and the results of everything they had worked for.
Jo Minjoon drew in a long breath. Inside his expanded chest, countless emotions swirled together—nervousness, anticipation, excitement. Yet when he exhaled, all of them seemed to leave with his breath. Only one thing remained: resolve.
It was not the resolve to win, nor even the resolve to make Kaya the winner. It was something far simpler.
Let’s make something delicious.
Simple, yet extremely difficult.
Whether it was Korean, Chinese, or Western cuisine, what he ultimately had to pursue was always the same. Into a mouth so small that even a fist could not fit inside it, he had to put his life.
No. What I have to put into it this time isn’t my life.
It was Kaya’s recipe, Kaya’s thoughts, and Kaya’s philosophy. In that case, what he would be putting into the dish would mostly be Kaya’s colour.
So what was he supposed to do now? Was he merely meant to reproduce the recipe like a machine?
That was what Jo Minjoon had been thinking about for the past six days. What could he do to make the dish even better? When preparing food that was not his own but someone else’s, what attitude should he take towards it?
The answer came from music. More precisely, classical music. While listening to Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 3, inspiration struck him like Edison’s light bulb.
(Translator’s Note: Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 3 — A violin concerto in G major composed in 1775, when Mozart was nineteen. The passage uses different performances of the same written score as an analogy for how individual cooks can express the same recipe differently)
The trigger was simple. It came from a brief thought.
For Mozart, Hilary’s performance is definitely the best.
(Translator’s Note: Hilary Hahn — An American classical violinist, born 27 November 1979 in Lexington, Virginia. She began violin lessons at age three and later studied at the Curtis Institute of Music under Jascha Brodsky. Hahn is particularly known for her interpretations of Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Sibelius, and other major violin repertoire. She has recorded and performed several of Mozart’s violin concertos, including Violin Concerto No. 3 in G major, K. 216 and Violin Concerto No. 5 in A major, K. 219.)
With classical music, even the same piece could sound completely different depending on the conductor and performers. And he was not talking merely about interpretation in some vague emotional sense. The movement of the bow, the force of the bowing, the sharpness of each note, and the spacing between beats—all those tiny differences absorbed the personality of the performer, and the result could be dramatically different.
Yet because of that, no one would say it was no longer Mozart.
The melody remained the same.
To Jo Minjoon, Kaya’s recipe was a score. What he needed to do, fundamentally, was understand both the score and the composer.
That was why he kept asking himself: what was Kaya trying to express through this langoustine? What did she want to convey? What kind of flavour was she trying to create?
He studied it and analysed it until, eventually, he understood. He understood the flavour Kaya wanted to show but had difficulty putting into words. He knew exactly what kind of impression she was aiming for.
Now all that remained was to recreate it as perfectly as he could.
The evaluation that followed would be Kaya’s responsibility. The result would also depend on how well she executed the dish. Jo Minjoon trusted Kaya’s recipe, but not because the system had given it a high score.
He trusted it because he had watched her until now.
Because he had eaten her food until now.
The judges stood in front of the counter. Joseph spoke in a calm voice. “Tonight, this room will be filled with chefs from all over the country. Are you ready to satisfy every one of them?”
“Yes, I am.” Kaya answered without the slightest hesitation.
Joseph looked at her as though surprised. “You seem more confident than usual. Even for you, I thought you’d be more nervous on a stage like this.”
“I don’t want to become an idiot in the kitchen just because I’m nervous.”
“Good. Keep that composure. Anderson, are you all right?”
“I’m certain I’m calmer than Kaya.”
Perhaps unwilling to lose even in that regard, Anderson answered stiffly. But compared with Kaya, his face was clearly tense. Alan spoke with his usual casual expression.
“Remember, you aren’t alone right now. You have teammates, and you have to lead them. Don’t think about anything related to the competition. The customers will be arriving soon. I trust that you’ll show them what you can do.”
Anderson closed his mouth. He did not want to make a stupid mistake at such a decisive moment.
And right now, this was one of the most important moments of his life.
The mission began.
Three chairs had been placed at each table. Some might say an even number of chairs was better, but arranging three seats in a triangle was actually ideal for concentrating on the food while still holding a conversation. It made it easy to focus on the meal while also comfortably looking at the people seated beside you.
However, there was only one table that fit that arrangement imperfectly: the table for New York and California. There were fifty states in America, plus Washington, D.C. If they divided everyone into groups of three, the numbers should have worked out neatly, but only two people were seated at their table.
New York rubbed his beard-covered chin arrogantly and grumbled.
“How does the guy who lives in Illinois—and in Chicago, at that—manage to arrive the latest?”
“The people hosting guests are usually the last to arrive. Something like that.”
“Being late is only the second problem. I came all the way to Chicago and still couldn’t even eat Chicago pizza. What kind of ridiculous situation is this?”
At New York’s grumbling, California gave a faint laugh. Her teacher, whom she had not seen in quite some time, still had the same inelegant tastes.
“Even if it tastes that good, in the end it’s just a slab of cheese. Do you really want to put something like that in your mouth?”
“Keep eating dignified food in New York long enough and there are times when you start craving flavours that explode in your mouth. You can talk like that because you live like some resident of heaven in California.”
“You’re the one making those dignified dishes yourself.”
“Food you make yourself generally doesn’t taste as good. Things are delicious when someone else makes them, or when you steal them from someone else.”
“……I’m not letting you steal mine.”
At California’s wary response, New York wrinkled his nose with a hmph and slowly turned his gaze towards the kitchen.
“He’s Fabio and Amelia’s son, right?”
“Yes.”
“He looks irritating enough. He’s definitely Fabio’s son.”
“Even so, he’s rather handsome, isn’t he? He looks strong, and quite manly.”
“……He’s practically a son to you. Don’t look at him like that.”
“A son is going too far! A nephew, maybe. There can’t even be twenty years between us. And I wasn’t looking at him that way in the first place! My own son is already in primary school. I’m not that old!”
“He looks irritating enough. He’s definitely Fabio’s son.” California spoke with an air of offended dignity.
New York ignored her and looked towards the other side instead. “Right, that’s Maya.”
“………You don’t mean Kaya, do you?”
“Ah, right. Kaya. You’ll understand when you get to my age. Names start sounding alike.”
“Why don’t you just call her Inka…… Never mind. More importantly, what do you think of how she’s running the kitchen?”
“Sloppy.”
“In what way?”
“First of all, she’s serving gazpacho to that ugly Texan before me.”
“……Fine. What’s the second?”
“Second, nobody’s shouting loudly enough to hurt your ears. How are they supposed to hear anything once they start concentrating?”
In the first place, that was exactly the kind of concentration skilled people could display. California looked unconvinced and turned her attention back towards the kitchen.
“Is there anyone you want to recruit?”
“Anderson. For now, if I took him in, he could at least handle the role of sous-chef. And if I taught him for a few more years, he’d probably be able to run a large restaurant as head chef without much trouble. And……” New York trailed off.
Kaya was pushing a trolley towards them, serving gazpacho onto their plates. Ignoring the chefs’ gazes, she calmly explained the dish.
New York stared at her for a moment before asking, “You said you’re from New York, right? Which market?”
“The Southern Free Market.”
“Ah. Prices there are decent, but the hygiene is terrible.”
“Then go somewhere with good hygiene and terrible prices.”
“Can I trust the hygiene of this gazpacho?”
“It might’ve gotten a little dirty from you spitting all over it.” Kaya finished serving the gazpacho and smirked at New York, who was staring at her blankly. “Enjoy your meal.”
She moved on to another table.
New York muttered in a dejected voice. “Young people these days have no respect for their elders.”
“That’s part of it, but the bigger problem is that you never became a respectable elder. You became an irritating one. Before, you weren’t…… No, actually, you were like this back then too.”
New York did not answer. He took a spoonful of gazpacho and put it into his mouth.
His eyes immediately sharpened.
“It’s a clean flavour.”
“Mm, yes. It’s good. Although it’s difficult for gazpacho to taste bad, this is still well made. The watermelon flavour is stronger than in ordinary gazpacho……”
“If this is only the beginning, then it’s not bad at all.”
Anderson’s team had yet to serve their dishes.
There were fifty customers. Even with a five-person team and assistants, producing high-quality food for that many people was difficult. The same would have been true even for the chefs seated outside. Ordinary kitchens could usually preserve both quality and service for around thirty people at most. Anything beyond that depended on repetitive labour, teamwork, and familiarity with the recipes.
That was why the chefs had been divided into two groups and were eating dishes from different teams. In their case, they would eat Kaya’s dishes first.
A moment later, the chef from Illinois finally arrived. The white-haired man smiled as he took his seat.
“I’m a little late.”
“There’s nothing left for you.”
“That’s a bit cruel.”
Illinois smirked and picked up his spoon.
New York frowned at him. “It’s almost too good to waste on someone who arrived late.”
“Judging from the way you’re talking, it must have turned out well.”
“The ingredients are good. They didn’t use anything limp or carelessly handled. From what I can tell, the fermentation was done properly too.”
“They had time to ferment something during a mission?”
“I heard that in some cases, they were allowed to prepare anything requiring fermentation yesterday. The bread dough was the same. Good for us. It means we get to eat better food.”
Before long, the bowls of gazpacho were empty.
Kaya approached, cleared the dishes, and then served the langoustine Jo Minjoon had prepared. Under the watching eyes of the chefs, she calmly explained the dish.
“It’s served with buttermilk purée and carrot purée. The foam on top is buttermilk foam. The langoustine was sautéed first, then one side was roasted again. It tastes better if you pay attention to the difference between the seared side and the other side.”
“It’s beautiful.” Illinois spoke with genuine admiration.
In fact, the plating itself was nearly perfect, but that was not the only thing he meant. He was referring to the combination of purées and the precise state of the langoustine.
Illinois dragged a piece of langoustine through the purée, took a bite, and smiled brightly.
“Your recipe is excellent, and so is the teammate who reproduced it without a single flaw.”
“Thank you. And Jo Minjoon was the one who made this langoustine.”
“Oh…… He’s the one with the absolute sense of taste, right?”
“Yes. And……” Kaya smiled, looking slightly embarrassed. “He’s the chef I admire most.”