Chapter 3
Chapter 3
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 3
Chapter Title: Casting the Grand Chef
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The flower of broadcasting is casting.
No matter how brilliant the concept, if the lineup falls flat, it's doomed to fail.
This is especially true for survival programs, and even more so for cooking competitions where the judges hold absolute authority.
The participants need a reason worth risking their lives to cook.
And viewers need that compelling weight that draws them in completely. That's what these figures provide.
Even the greatest cooking contest, judged by the local village head, would barely rise above a neighborhood festival.
But if the royal Grand Chef steps in and lavishes praise? That becomes legendary.
So, to make Royal Chef Survival a success, I've targeted the three most "impressive" figures in this kingdom as judges.
First, Sir James—the living legend of the culinary world and current Grand Chef—must appear to showcase true expertise.
Second, the great mage and renowned gourmet, Marquis Frederick, to handle mass appeal and showmanship...
And finally, enlisting a royal family member would elevate the event's prestige.
I'm not dreaming of the king himself, but snagging even one prince or princess would be a massive hit.
Oh, and as a special judge, I've got my father in mind.
You need at least one reliable ally who'll follow the script like a loyal puppet... er, trusted comrade.
Imagining Father as a judge, hurling a plate and bellowing, "Apologize to the pig slaughtered for this travesty!!" brought a grin to my face unbidden.
I could already picture the ratings exploding (assuming we can even measure them).
A son running himself ragged to turn his dad into a national star.
Truly, there's no filial piety like this in the world.
"Father, have you secured the meeting with Sir James?"
"Yes. He has time this afternoon, conveniently. But..."
Father—Count Del BlackStone—couldn't hide his unease.
"Sir James is a craftsman who's spent his life by the fire. No flexibility in him at all. I'm not sure he'll accept your... unconventional proposal."
I chuckled and slipped on my coat.
"Don't worry. I'll make him an offer he can't refuse."
**
The meeting with Sir James wasn't in a reception room but in the royal kitchen.
'If you want to show me something, step into my world first.' That was the message, no doubt.
A fittingly stubborn approach from a master artisan.
The kitchen we entered following Father was quieter than expected.
Not because it was empty.
Even with a few cooks moving about, there were no unnecessary noises.
No bellowing head chef's outbursts—just the occasional chop of knives on boards and the bubbling of sauces in pots.
It made the atmosphere feel all the more solemn.
'...This place is definitely too weighty to just toss into a show.'
At that moment, the man standing in the kitchen's center turned around.
Sir James.
The royal Grand Chef.
He didn't look as old as I'd imagined.
His face was lined with wrinkles, but his eyes were sharp and clear like a young man's, perhaps accounting for that.
Indeed, the gaze of a master who'd wielded fire and blade for decades in unwavering pursuit of cuisine.
Sir James glanced between Father and me, then gave a curt nod.
"I didn't expect the Court Count to come in person."
"No need for formalities. Today, I'm here not as the king's proxy, but as one boy's father."
Father's voice was a tone lower than usual.
The master of this kitchen stood before us, so even the head of House BlackStone acknowledged and respected his authority.
**
Sir James served us each a cup of tea, then sat ramrod straight across from us.
His eyes, sharp as a blade fresh off the whetstone, bored into my face.
That piercing gaze felt a bit intimidating.
"...So, you're proposing to gather chefs from across the nation for a competition and broadcast the whole process publicly."
"Yes, Sir James."
He shook his head before I'd even finished my pitch.
"Young Master BlackStone. Forgive my bluntness, but I'll speak plainly."
His voice was low, but it carried the unyielding conviction of a master who'd walked a single path his entire life.
"I don't fully grasp the grand vision you're painting. Frankly, it's hard to understand. But..."
His gaze drifted momentarily to the kitchen behind him.
"Cuisine is sacred."
One sentence, laden with a master's life, made the kitchen air grow heavy in an instant.
"A noble act—wielding fire, water, and life itself to create the strength that sustains someone's day."
"......"
"Especially the royal kitchen. Selecting who will prepare meals for this nation's most esteemed figures... turning that into a clownish spectacle? Food must not become a sideshow for others' entertainment."
Father's face beside me turned ashen.
He fidgeted, opening his mouth.
"Sir James, Leban doesn't mean it that way..."
"Father. Let me handle this."
But I didn't back down. Instead, I smiled and met Sir James's eyes directly.
"A show? That's a misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding?"
"What I'm envisioning isn't mere eye candy. It's a 'proving ground'—presenting real kitchen crises as missions, closely observing the participants' responses, and directly judging if they have the qualities to become Grand Chef."
I put on a deliberately serious expression as I spoke.
"I've just added a touch of competition and evaluation to it."
Sir James furrowed his brow.
"I understand the method. A tournament to find the best. But the essence remains unchanged. You're still turning the sacred kitchen into a performers' stage."
Father's face went pale.
At this rate, the negotiations would collapse, and the plan would crumble.
But... when it came to verbal sparring, I was confident I wouldn't lose to anyone.
As Father squirmed in the ensuing silence, about to speak, I cut in first with a loud declaration.
"A performance? Yes! But why is that bad?"
"...What?"
"Think of the knights' jousts."
I modulated my voice to be as earnest and polite as possible, speaking with fervor.
"Knights level lances at each other. They fight covered in dust, sometimes spilling blood. The crowds cheer and go wild. Sir James, would anyone mock those knights as clowns?"
"That's..."
"People show respect to the victor and applaud the loser. Because amid that intensity lies chivalry and honor. Why can't chefs do the same?"
Sir James faltered momentarily. He seemed about to counter, then pivoted.
"Even so... the kitchen demands respect. And respect doesn't arise from the roar of crowds."
"No. Preserving respect and spreading it widely are entirely different matters."
I leaned forward, closing the distance with Sir James.
"I've heard you hold the royals in utmost reverence, Sir James."
"...Of course. The late king took in a starving nine-year-old orphan on the brink of death. Thanks to him, a lowly soul like me earned this undeserved honor."
I didn't treat those words lightly.
Instead, I charged straight ahead.
"Would you not want to instill that reverence and loyalty in every citizen of this nation?"
Sir James's eyebrow twitched.
"What do you mean?"
"This cooking contest will undoubtedly succeed. I stake the BlackStone name on it."
My firm conviction left Sir James speechless.
The momentum had fully shifted to me.
"Hundreds of participants will flock here—regardless of status, age, or origin, competing purely on skill. They'll face countless trials, falter, rise again, and show their passion for cuisine. This isn't just a cooking contest, Sir James. This is..."
I paused for effect, then delivered the heavy line.
"...a grand epic saga."
Sir James's tightly pressed lips parted slightly.
"A saga..."
"Exactly. And with all that attention focused... people will inevitably root for specific contestants. Maybe they're from the same region, strikingly handsome, or their backstory tugs at the heart. Even the smallest reason is enough to cheer for someone."
I heard Father swallow dryly beside me.
Sir James, too, seemed engrossed, forgetting to breathe.
I timed the finishing blow.
"As the number of contestants dwindles... and national interest peaks at its height!"
I stopped deliberately.
Silence fell, both men's eyes fixed on my lips.
"That's when, alongside your retirement announcement, Sir James... we reveal that this contest's winner becomes the new Grand Chef."
Sir James's eyes widened.
"One victor who overcomes a competition of hundreds, thousands to one, enduring every hardship and trial. What will people call them? Just a 'lucky chef'?"
I shrugged once, then declared confidently.
"No. They'll call them the 'world's greatest chef.' The world's greatest chef, cooking for our royals as Grand Chef. Could there be a better way to exalt the royal dignity?"
Sir James stared blankly into space.
I could easily imagine the dazzling finale I'd painted unfolding in his mind.
"...The world's greatest? How can you claim that so boldly? The world is vast, and master chefs abound."
He mustered his last shred of reason for a retort.
But his eyes wavered. Proof that cracks were forming in his steadfast convictions.
"Whether it's true or not doesn't matter, Sir James."
Recalling countless audition shows from my past life, I smiled like a capitalist monster.
"What matters is making people believe it. And that's... what I do best."
Sir James closed his eyes, lost in thought.
Memories of the past, loyalty to the royals, and the future this young man envisioned clashed in his mind, no doubt.
After a long silence, Sir James exhaled deeply.
But that sigh held no more heavy refusal.
"...I've heard rumors that the second son of House BlackStone lives holed up like a turtle in its shell."
He slowly opened his eyes and looked at me.
That gaze held no wariness now, but a strange acknowledgment.
"Yet you're no turtle, but a sleeping dragon. I never imagined a young man thinking so deeply for the nation."
I scratched the back of my head sheepishly.
"You're too kind."
Sir James extended his hand. A rough, callused chef's hand.
"Very well. Let's burn my final chapter on your stage."
"You won't regret it."
I clasped it firmly.
It was warm. No—scorching.
My speech had ignited a fierce fire in the old chef's heart.
'It's really just for fun... but hey, not entirely a lie.'
Anyway, all's well that ends well.