Chương 90: A Mother's Flavor, and Technique

After Vane drank that mouthful of broth, his movements stopped. He didn't speak, and didn't swallow—he let the broth sit in his mouth for a few seconds, feeling the layers of the flavor. The whole place was dead silent. Standing behind his station, Chris felt his own heartbeat pounding in his ears like a drum. Vane slowly swallowed that mouthful of broth. He still said nothing. He set down the spoon and picked up the chopsticks. He lifted a slice of char siu and bit into it.

Then he picked up the soft-boiled egg cut in half and put it, flowing yolk and all, into his mouth. Last, he lifted a clump of noodles on his chopsticks and slurped them in. Every element in this bowl, he tasted carefully, one by one. Then he set down the chopsticks. He looked at Chris, his brows locked tight together.

"This bowl of noodles confuses me," Vane said at last, an emotion in his voice that was hard to name. Chris's heart dropped hard. Confused? That was absolutely not a good word.

"As a dish, its appearance is plain to the absolute extreme. If you put it in a ramen shop on the street, no one would give it a second look." Vane stared into Chris's eyes.

"But…" He suddenly raised his voice.

"But when I drank that mouthful of broth, I thought I was drinking a top-tier consommé in a three-Michelin-star French restaurant. Crystal-clear to the bottom, yet so rich it was like a bomb going off in my mouth."

"This char siu—the caramelization of the outer skin is flawless, and the meat inside is tender and juicy. That's a combination of top-tier French searing and slow-braising technique."

"This soft-boiled egg—145 degrees, exact to the point. The texture of the yolk is as thick as the finest caviar."

"And these noodles—the lye-water ratio, the force of the kneading—they keep an astonishing bite and wheaten fragrance even in the hot broth." Vane's words came faster and faster, the confusion in his eyes turning, bit by bit, into excitement. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"You stuffed all of these top-tier techniques—techniques that demand the highest precision—into a bowl of the most ordinary-looking chicken-broth noodles. A goddamn bowl of chicken-broth noodles!" Vane slammed the table all at once, making everyone jump.

"And that is exactly where its genius lies." Vane looked at Chris, his eyes full of admiration.

"You didn't use expensive ingredients to show off your technique. You used fine-dining technique to make food that anyone—hungry, cold, alone in the dead of night—would crave like mad."

"This isn't simple, Chris. This is a return to what's real." Vane turned to look at the other contestants, and at the spectators on the second floor.

"Do you know what the true spirit of a chef is?" Vane asked loudly.

"It's not how expensive the truffle you used was, and it's not how many kinds of molecular-cuisine foam you can make. It's whether you can take the humblest food and bring it to its limit. Whether you can use your technique to touch the soul of the person eating the dish." He turned back and looked at Chris.

"Chris—from your potato in the revival round, to your chicken in the market challenge, to this bowl of noodles today. You've been telling the same story the whole time. A lonely man, in a kitchen, taking every meal to its limit, because food is his only company."

"This dish is you. You've found yourself." Vane delivered his final verdict. Chris stood there, feeling a heat behind his eyes. He didn't speak; he only bowed, deeply. The loneliness of countless late nights in his past life, the desperate struggle in the kitchen in this one—in this moment, finally, were completely accepted by this bowl of noodles, by the harsh mentor standing before him. Vane walked back to the center of the judges' table, his expression turning serious again.

"Now, it's time to make the decision." He glanced at Ethan, then at Chris and Sarah.

"Ethan, your duck breast proves you don't just have flawless, machine-like technique—you've started to have the warmth of emotion too. You advance to the final." Ethan closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

"Chris." Vane turned to him.

"Your chicken-broth noodles are the most stunning simple food I've eaten on this show. You advance to the final too." Chris clenched his fists. He'd done it. Last, Vane looked at Sarah. Sarah's face was already streaked with tears, but she still fought to keep her smile.

"Sarah." Vane's voice turned gentle.

"Your dish has soul, has love. That's something many technically top-tier chefs never learn in their whole lives. But on this stage, you need more technique to carry your emotion. You're eliminated today." Sarah nodded, tears sliding down her cheeks.

"I know, Chef. Thank you."

"You're so much stronger than when you first got here. Never lose that love you have when you cook." Vane nodded at her. Sarah untied the white apron and set it on the station. She walked over to Ethan and held out her hand.

"Congratulations, Ethan. Good luck in the final." Ethan took her hand and, rarely, showed a genuine smile.

"Thank you, Sarah. You're a great competitor." Then Sarah turned and walked to Chris. She didn't shake his hand—she gave Chris a tight hug instead.

"Win for me too," she whispered in his ear, a sob caught in her voice.

"I will." Chris hugged her back hard, his own eyes going wet. Sarah let go, wiped her tears, waved with a smile, and turned to walk out the studio's big doors.