Chapter 620 A Flower on the Cliff (8)
Chapter 620 A Flower on the Cliff (8)
“Ugh?”
Minjoon dipped a chicken stick into the sauce in the plate’s centre and took a bite, his face registering mild surprise. He tasted something unexpected. Peter had explained the sauce was made from cinnamon, cilantro, and soy sauce, but Minjoon detected additional flavours—oregano, basil, garam masala, turmeric, cumin, and paprika—all subtly revived in his mouth. More precisely, these weren’t sudden bursts; they had been building.
He turned to Kaya. “Did you notice this already?”
“Yep.”
“How long?”
“I caught on a couple of dishes ago,” she replied with a mischievous smile.
Minjoon clasped his forehead with both hands, utterly humbled.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed the dish combinations before. Peter had deliberately crafted each dish to lead to this moment—infusing each plate with the spices composing masala so the aftertaste would reveal why he paired the ingredients as he did, perfectly blending with masala.
The lingering flavours in Minjoon’s mouth—once a source of discomfort—exploded like a fuse triggering all the gunpowder at once. While chewing chicken, he experienced the perfect chicken tikka masala.
As Minjoon realised Peter’s secret, other chefs reacted similarly. According to Peter’s plan, this revelation was expected now. Kaya was nearly miraculous, having noticed it before everyone else caught on.
Minjoon recalled his earlier thoughts: the uninhibited creativity of amateur cooks lacking professional expertise. Peter’s cooking confirmed this once more.
“Do you know how Jewish lawyers became powerhouses in mergers and acquisitions?” Minjoon murmured.
Joseph smiled. “They faced discrimination in traditional law firms, so they united, accepted all cases—including M&A, which traditional lawyers scorned. When M&A boomed, they dominated because no one else dared enter.”
“So disadvantages became advantages.”
Joseph understood. He glanced at Peter, who showed no nervousness despite the judges and chefs murmuring about his unconventional cooking, as if expecting this outcome.
Perhaps Peter’s difficult path forged his calmness. He couldn’t afford to stumble with every step—though painful, his struggles pushed him toward victory. His disadvantages created favourable conditions. Keeping a low profile let him stand out now.
Having been in darkness, he shone—like a flower blooming on a bare cliff, its petals even more beautiful.
Peter’s final dish was masala ice cream, preserving the unique spice blend without dilution.
“Good job, Peter,” Minjoon said, sincerely appreciating the dish and all the thought Peter invested.
Peter replied, “I’ve been planning this for a long time, not just this week.”
Only then did Minjoon see how remarkable this was. Peter hadn’t conjured this full course in just a week. Had he expected to reach the finals? Or dreamed of this full course beyond the competition?
Peter had long imagined his own full course but questioned if such fantasies were futile—a defense mechanism against the relentless online accusations.
He needed to believe he wasn’t a dumb chef.
So he envisioned countless dishes to convince himself, sometimes wishing to rival Jo Reggiano’s acclaim and proudly present his full course now.
But his imagination was like a child’s dream of flying—if it were true, he wouldn’t be nursing mere delusions.
He constantly created dishes satisfying his imagination—not out of love for cooking, but to rebuild his shattered self-esteem.
Finally, it was restored. Though judges and chefs hadn’t adored him as much as he hoped, they were freshly shocked by his work.
I think I’ve shown them enough, Peter thought.
Despite many racist, malicious online comments targeting him as Indian, he infused Indian essence in his dishes wherever possible—to challenge those who belittled him with the very thing they despised.
His persistence mirrored the Jewish lawyers’ rise in the 1950s.
“What do you think?”
Joseph asked Minjoon about Peter’s cooking.
Minjoon paused. Peter’s dishes were never poor—rather fresh and creative—but could he confidently say he liked them? Peter’s cooking felt unfinished.
Some might say it wasn’t unfinished, only different—an experience of tasting masala’s flavours emerging one-by-one.
Minjoon couldn’t answer Joseph’s question yet.
It was nearly the first time he’d encountered this approach. Chefs usually ensured harmony between courses so flavours complemented or at least didn’t overlap.
Peter, however, gradually intensified ingredient flavours, reviving familiar tastes throughout the full course. Though flawed, it could reflect limitations, not failure. Peter's gradual unfolding of masala’s essence might be unmatched.
If so, Peter’s full course was great as it stood.
Kaya murmured, “Man, he served a perfect chicken.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember when Peter slipped up?”
“Ah…”
She recalled their heated quarrel over tandoori chicken breast. Now, Peter had grown, presenting tandoori mackerel earlier and now perfecting chicken breast.
“He’s impressive,” Minjoon smiled.
Kaya didn’t deny it. She thought Peter was admirable. Constantly hated by those around him, could she have held on as firmly?
I thought he wasn’t that kind of guy.
She finished the masala ice cream bite, finding it delicious yet feeling sorry for Peter. She believed she’d played a part in his journey here.
“Peter,” she called.