Chương 34: Pittsburgh, and Absolute Heat

"Jack, move aside." Chris's voice wasn't loud — rough, even — but in a kitchen filled with smoke, clanging metal, and panicked shouts, it cut through all the noise like a precise command. Everyone stopped and looked at him. Sarah stood with her mouth open, her bun tongs nearly dropping into the fryer. Jessica braced against the counter, terror and a faint thread of hope mixed in her eyes. Owen stood like a robot hit with pause, holding a basket of freshly cut fries, motionless.

And the man being ordered, Jack, stood before the scalding grill, his face uglier than the trash can at his feet. Sweat had soaked the blond hair at his forehead, strands plastered to his skin, leaving him a wreck. His hands shook — the hand on the long-handled tongs shook as if it would cramp the next second.

"What did you say?" Jack's voice ground out through his teeth, edged with disbelieving humiliation.

"You want me to move aside? Do you know what this is? Pittsburgh Rare! VIP guests! Do you know this damned grill only maxes at 570 degrees? Who do you think you are? God?" He was nearly roaring, trying to mask the fear and incompetence inside him with volume. He knew that if this ticket went wrong, his captain's role would become a joke, and his whole career might carry a stain it could never wash off. Chris ignored the roar. He only repeated it, his tone calm but carrying an unquestionable weight.

"I'll say it once more. Move aside." As he spoke, he strode toward the grill. He untied the apron at his waist — dirtied with sauce and sweat — and tossed it offhand onto the pass counter. The motion was like a general shedding a heavy cloak before battle, ready to fight hand to hand himself. Jack, struck by the force radiating off him, instinctively stepped back. That one step yielded the most central, most dangerous position in the kitchen. Chris took his place at the grill, scorching air rushing at his face.

He didn't move at once — first he closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. He could smell the tallow in the air, the dry heat of the coals, and… the panic of failure. In his mind, the half-transparent blue panel flashed the last line of the quest reward. [One-time skill: Absolute Heat Control (Short Duration). Perfect heat command over a chosen target within thirty seconds, ignoring all external interference.] Thirty seconds. That was his entire hand.

It wasn't just a skill — it was his one chance to turn the battle and win the war. He could not fail.

"Owen!" He snapped his eyes open, his voice gone unusually loud and clear.

"Clarified butter! Now! I need it in front of me in ten seconds!"

"And you, Jack!" He didn't even look back at the soul-shattered captain.

"Bring me the four best strip steaks, blot every drop of moisture from the surface — not a single drop left!"

"Sarah! Get four heated plates, hot enough to melt butter! Mia, you can start preheating dessert!" His orders ran like a string of precisely calculated code, instantly reactivating the kitchen system on the verge of crashing. The panicked team, in that moment, seemed to find their anchor. They stopped thinking, stopped questioning, only executed his commands on instinct, frantically. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

Owen practically lunged at the cooler for the butter. Jack snapped out of his shock as if electrocuted and rushed to the prep area. Sarah immediately began rinsing plates in hot water. For the first time, the kitchen showed a kind of chaos that could be called efficient. Chris's eyes locked on the grill. He could see with his own eyes that the cast-iron grates, heated long, had taken on a dull red. He reached out and felt the temperature ten centimeters above the surface. Not enough. Still not enough.

A standard Pittsburgh Rare needed grill temperatures of 750 to 930 degrees to lock the surface in an instant and form a char. And this commercial grill was at its limit right here. He'd have to rely on the thirty seconds.

"Butter!" he shouted. Owen was already rushing over with a small bowl of melted, skimmed clarified butter. Chris took it without the slightest hesitation and poured the scalding butter straight onto the grill. Sizzle. A violent roar of sound and a column of white smoke; the whole kitchen's temperature seemed to spike a few degrees at once. The butter broke down fast under extreme heat, releasing a nutty aroma rich enough to choke on.

"Steaks!" Jack handed over the four prepped strip steaks. Thick, deep red, surfaces dry, with beautiful marbling like a marble slab. Chris took the plate, and in the instant before the steaks touched the grill, he said it inwardly. System, activate Absolute Heat Control! [Skill "Absolute Heat Control (Short Duration)" activated! Countdown: 30 seconds.] In that instant, the world in Chris's eyes changed. The scalding grill, the dancing flames, the rising smoke — all of it seemed to slow.

He could clearly see how the heat traveled from the cast-iron grates to the surface of the steak, how the proteins charred in an instant, how the Maillard reaction occurred at a microsecond scale. He was no longer a chef. He was a god commanding the flow of heat.

"29… 28…" He set the four steaks steadily on the four hottest points of the grill. Sssss— The sound was no longer a simple sear, but a crack like metal being quenched. The steak surfaces blackened at a visible speed, forming a beautiful char like obsidian. He picked up a heavy cast-iron press and bore down hard on the steaks, ensuring every inch of surface took heat evenly.

"20…" He even had a spare moment to say to Jack beside him, "Watch closely. The core of Pittsburgh Rare isn't grilling — it's branding. You use an extreme temperature gap to brand the char onto the surface of the meat."

"15…" He flipped them sharply. The other side met the scalding grill and cracked. Char, meat, the nutty butter — in that moment they fused perfectly, a violent and ultimate temptation.

"5… 4… 3…" He cut the grill's flame.

"2… 1…" In the last second before the skill expired, he lifted the four steaks precisely with the tongs and set them on the scalding plates Sarah had ready. [Skill ended.] The whole process was seamless, fast enough to steal the breath. From the steaks hitting the grill to coming off, barely twenty-some seconds. The kitchen was dead silent. Everyone stared wide-eyed at the four steaks on the plates. Their shells showed an unbelievable, even char-black, as if wrapped in a thin layer of volcanic rock.

And at the cut on the side, still the irresistible, near-raw deep red. Ice and fire, raw and cooked, achieved their most perfect opposition and unity in that small space.

"This… this is impossible…" Jack murmured. He reached out, as if to touch the miraculous creation, then stopped his hand in midair, as if afraid to disturb something. The manager's roar came through the radio again, only this time with an imperceptible tremor.

"Blue Team! The VIPs at table seven are out of patience! Are your steaks ready or not!" Chris didn't answer. He picked up a single parsley leaf and set it gently on the char of one steak, and that touch of green lit up the whole dish at once. He raised his head, looked at the runner, his voice returned to its earlier calm.

"Tell the manager. The food's ready." The runner, as if waking from a dream, carefully lifted the tray and all but fled the kitchen. The crisis was lifted, for now. Chris turned and faced the whole Blue Team again. He saw the shock, the admiration, and a thread of awe on their faces. He knew that from this moment, command of this kitchen was firmly in his hands. He looked at Jack, still standing dumbstruck, and said word by word, "The grill's still yours.

But from now on — what to cook, how long, when to send — you take it from me." His gaze swept over every one of them.

"We've got two hours of service left and over a hundred tickets. Want to win, follow me. Want to lose, take off your apron and go home now."

"Any objections?" No one spoke. The whole kitchen held only the whoosh of burning flame and the tireless click of the ticket printer. [Ding! Sub-quest 2: Crisis intervention complete. Team morale +10, service success rate projection revised to 83%.] The chime sounded in his head, but Chris no longer cared. He picked up the apron he'd thrown on the pass counter and tied it back at his waist. The real fight was only now beginning.