THE HALF-STAR CHEF
Chapter 2: The Mob Effect
Three days later Louis sat in a high-end Thai-Japanese fusion restaurant. Crystal chandeliers scattered cold light across white linen. Ambient music drifted. Before him lay a plate of lobster sashimi resting on a bed of dry ice that exhaled white vapour, sculpted and perfect.
He placed a piece in his mouth and chewed slowly, eyes closed. Not good. Tasteless. Industrial. Formulaic.
He pushed the plate away and covered it with a white linen napkin as if draping a shroud over a corpse.
Memory struck without warning. The soft orange yolk broke and poured over white Thai rice. Fon’s collarbone gleamed with sweat under amber light. Her full lips parted. Her spice-stained fingers brushed his lower lip. His eyes snapped open. His pupils dilated. His throat worked hard as he swallowed. Breath fogged the chilled crystal glass. His hand, wearing the luxury watch, gripped the edge of the white marble table until the knuckles whitened.
He shoved the velvet chair back. The metal legs scraped the wooden floor. He stood and walked out in long strides without looking at the open-mouthed waiter. The lobster remained under the napkin like a tomb.
I need to go back.
He returned to the alley. A queue of hundreds stretched from Fon’s stall to the main road. Tourists held up phones. Motorbike taxis clogged the lane, horns blaring. Street vendors set up water carts beside the line. Louis stopped. His face paled.
“Putain de merde…” he said through clenched teeth.
A glossy black car pulled up at the mouth of the alley, out of place among the tuk-tuks. Viroj Charoensuk, fifty-five, stepped out in a light linen suit and gold-framed sunglasses. He surveyed the long queue. The corner of his mouth lifted in satisfaction, as if reading a favourable financial report. He beckoned. Nop appeared at once with a notebook open.
“This alley is all over the news now. The compensation rate stays exactly where it was.”
“Got it, boss. That girl is still holding out. She won’t sign.”
“She’ll sign. The more famous she gets, the faster she’ll burn out. Just wait.” Viroj removed his sunglasses and narrowed his eyes toward the charcoal where Fon spun like a top amid smoke and sweat.
Louis pushed through the crowd. Through the shoulders he saw Fon scooping rice into foam boxes without pause. Sweat ran down her face. Her hands shook with exhaustion. A tower of dirty dishes stood untouched. Two Western tourists filmed on TikTok and laughed when smoke hit their faces. Louis tightened his grip on the suitcase handle.
This crowd... I can’t wait. I don’t WANT to wait. Not in the middle of this chaotic, noisy, vulgar mess.
He turned and walked away. As he checked his boarding pass, the black lacquer Dupont fountain pen engraved with the gold letters A.D. slipped from his jacket pocket and fell onto the stone paving. He did not notice. He pulled the suitcase toward the airport, face cold as if he had never set foot in the alley.
That night the lane was quiet. Yellow streetlight fell on the torn blue tarp. Nop placed a white envelope on the stone table in front of Fon.
“The first offer. Open it up, it’s a hell of a deal.”
Fon looked at the envelope but did not touch it. Her fingers, still greasy, trembled from fatigue rather than fear. “This shop isn’t for sale. Leave.”
Nop smiled thinly and slipped the envelope into his inner pocket. “Suit yourself. But time always runs out, Miss Fon. It always does.” He walked away. His footsteps faded on the wet stone.
The alley emptied. Fon sat on the concrete with her back against the cooled stove, surrounded by stacked dirty bowls, plastic bags and foam boxes. She closed her eyes and breathed heavily. Then she rose and began clearing the last stone table. Her fingers met something lodged in a crack between the stones. The black lacquer Dupont pen. She turned it in her hand. Her pupils contracted.
Ten years earlier, in a small warm Thai restaurant in Paris’s 11th arrondissement, sixteen-year-old Fon stood at the cash register with a textbook open. Her father Prasert, fifty, a Thai-French chef, smiled gently while stir-frying pad thai in the open kitchen. The door opened. A man in a black suit entered, face lost in shadow. He sat at a corner table, drew out a black lacquer fountain pen, opened a leather notebook, and began writing meticulously while he ate. Three months later Chez Prasert closed permanently after a devastating review. Six months later Prasert ended his own life.
Fon clenched the pen in her shaking fist until her knuckles whitened. Her eyes widened and filled, yet no tear fell.
Ten years... I thought I’d buried it forever. How is it coming back to haunt me now?
She slowly raised the pen to eye level. Yellow streetlight caught the three gold letters A.D. Her lips pressed into a straight line. The camera of her memory pulled back. She stood alone in the empty alley, gripping the pen, her shadow long on the wet stone.