Chapter 561: Cogwheels (8)
Chapter 561: Cogwheels (8)
But what about Gwen?
“You have to love cooking more than money, success, or happiness. Only then will you truly have a chance to win this competition.”
Minjoon knew his words sounded a little melodious, even soft, but he pressed on, unconcerned.
“I’m rooting for you—not just because I want you to win, but because I hope you come to love cooking…”
He wanted to say that cooking should be the reason one lives, but he feared it sounded too cheesy, so he held back.
Did she understand?
Gwen looked at him, puzzled. He was the most approachable judge to her, yet she reflected on what he’d said with unease.
Does he hate me?
The thought stung, but she sensed he didn’t. If he hated her, he wouldn’t say he was cheering for her.
His criticism was mild compared to the harsh words he’d given other chefs. He hadn’t said things like, “I can’t trust someone selfish as you to be a chef,” or, “Your excuse about time doesn’t make sense,” or, “Did you even want to be a chef, or was that just self-promotion?”
Minjoon targeted Gwen’s attitude toward cooking—he advised her to love it. This stung her because it felt like he pierced her innermost feelings. Though she claimed to like cooking, she really saw it as her last refuge.
She cared more about what cooking could give her than the cooking itself. She dreamed of changing her life through cooking but never seriously considered what kind of cuisine she’d create or how to impress diners.
Minjoon was right. She was a failure as a chef. How could she imagine success? Like Tom Brady hating football—would he have become a legend?
At first she resented his words, but soon she understood. She felt drained and discouraged; finally, she felt determined.
As Minjoon turned to leave, she spoke softly, “Can I just like cooking?”
“Pardon?”
“I mean, if I just like cooking, can I win?”
She blushed, knowing it was a childish question. He didn’t blame her and looked serious, making her blush more.
Quietly, he replied, “At least I can help you.”
“Will you help me?”
“But I won’t help anyone who doesn’t even like cooking. Come to me when you’re sure you do—when you feel it naturally.”
Cold but kind, he said, “Then I’ll help you.”
She didn’t know how he’d help but stared blankly. She felt greatly encouraged, though she didn’t know why exactly. He only said he could help—that was enough. She felt empowered.
She later understood why.
Yeah, this is the first time someone reached out to help me...
Before, people sympathized but never helped. In this country, addicts weren’t subjects of sympathy—there were too many. Mostly, people passed by holding negative prejudices.
Her suffering was a minor tragedy nobody cared about. No one had to care, given so many like her.
But Minjoon was different. He cared.
Oh my God…
She nearly cried but restrained herself. She felt shallow compared with others and didn’t want to show weakness.
As Minjoon said, she went quietly back to her seat. No other judge called her.
“Peter, your turn.”
Kaya called him with interest—not hostility. She knew harboring ill will was a loser’s trait. She was the one who had handed Peter a crushing defeat.
Peter was ready to surprise her.
You seem to hate me...
She glanced at his mackerel, soaking in red spices. She quickly understood his approach.
Minjoon checked the system beside the fish:
[Tandoori Mackerel]
Freshness: 95%
Origin: Hidden (due to multiple ingredients)
Quality: High
Cooking Score: 7/10
He chose fresh mackerel.
Most participants picked fresh fish but failed in quality checks. Some mis-trimmed mackerel, unaware of differences. Peter’s system stats showed flawless selection, handling, and cooking.
Alright. Let’s see how you did.
Did Minjoon like Peter? Probably not. Peter wasn’t easy to like. Minjoon wasn’t a hippie who said everyone deserves love.
But had he disliked Peter? No. He felt sorry for him. He thought Peter was blunt, unskilled, and in need of sympathy.
More accurately, he usually ignored him.
Peter chose tandoori.
“It’s provocative,” Hugo muttered low.
Season 3’s viewers and judges knew the meaning—Peter once messed up tandoori chicken breast badly in a team mission, earning major criticism.
“Trying to fix past tandoori mistakes with the same dish?”
Kaya’s tone was rough but typical.
Peter quietly replied, “I wasn’t good enough then.”
“I know.”
“But not being good then doesn’t mean I won’t be good now or in the future.”
His gaze surprised Kaya. She had expected resentment or hatred, but instead saw yearning she couldn’t name.
“You don’t have to say much. Just cook. We’ll judge.”
“Okay.”
Kaya tried first. She felt responsible for Peter’s second chance after their past.
Peter’s tandoori mackerel kept only peeled flesh; head and tail removed. A thin cut in the centre allowed fish oil to release. Skin appeared slightly burnt from baking.
A burnt flavour is vital.
As a cook, Kaya found this stage confusing—not easy to tell if skin, sauce, or burnt bits created colour. Tandoori mackerel was harder than chicken breast.
Could Peter, who once failed at chicken tandoori, nail this?
Let’s find out.
In disbelief, Kaya cut the mackerel. Skin was crispy; flesh tender and elastic, like well-roasted pork.
Even the touch soothed her.
She took a bite.
Wow!