THE HALF-STAR CHEF
Chapter 3: The Hunger
Cold green-grey light filled the VIP room of a three-Michelin-star restaurant in Paris. Crystal chandeliers scattered pale illumination across white tablecloths. Twelve elegant guests sat upright, murmuring in French. Chef Arnaud, fifty-five, silver beard perfectly trimmed, personally presented the signature dish: glossy black Beluga caviar on pure white crème fraîche, finished with paper-thin 24-karat gold leaf.
“Pour notre ami critique... le meilleur de la maison,” Arnaud said.
Louis lifted a silver chopstick, placed a gleaming black pearl of caviar on his tongue, and chewed slowly. His face did not change.
Tasteless. Everything feels completely tasteless to me now.
The cold silver chopsticks and white porcelain blurred into memory. The soft orange yolk of a street egg broke and poured over white rice. Fon’s collarbone shone with sweat under amber Bangkok light. Her full lips parted. Her spice-stained fingers brushed his lower lip. Louis’s eyes opened wide. His pupils dilated. His throat moved with difficulty as he swallowed. His breath fogged the chilled crystal glass. His hand, the luxury watch visible, gripped the edge of the white marble table until the knuckles whitened.
He pushed the velvet chair back sharply. The metal legs scraped the wooden floor. He stood and walked out without looking back at the stunned waiter. Eleven remaining guests stared at one another in confusion.
“Louis? Quelque chose ne va pas?” Arnaud asked, shocked.
“Tout va mal, Arnaud. Tout,” Louis said without turning.
At Charles de Gaulle airport late at night he stood at the ticket counter, suitcase beside him. His eyes were red from lack of sleep but sharp.
“The next flight to Bangkok. Any class. Any airline.”
“The earliest is at six-fifteen in the morning, sir. Business class on Thai Air…”
“Book it.”
The next day, before he arrived, black smoke rose thick from the charcoal stove at Khao Fon, unlike the fragrant golden smoke of previous days. Fon shook the wok with trembling hands, hair falling over half her face, eyes sunken from sleeplessness. Nop leaned against a concrete pillar at the mouth of the alley, arms crossed, watching her like a product about to spoil.
“The food these days looks like something you’d feed to a dog. Look out there, the customers are turning their noses up at everything.”
Fon did not look up. She clenched her teeth and kept shaking the wok.
“Just sell the damn place and get it over with, Fon. Take the money and go home to rest. Anything is better than rotting away in this hellhole.”
She gripped the wok handle until her knuckles whitened but said nothing. Nop shrugged and left her alone in the acrid smoke.
When Louis returned he was not surprised by the crowd, but by the black smoke pouring from the overheated wok and staining the alley grey. It’s burnt! It’s all burnt to a crisp!
He pushed closer. The plates looked different. Clumped minced pork, wilted basil, overcooked eggs. Tourists wrinkled their noses, photographed the half-eaten plates, and walked away. Fon stood exhausted behind the stove, sweat streaming, eyes hollow, hands shaking as she worked the wok alone and overwhelmed.
Louis stood at the edge of the crowd. He looked at a plate a customer had abandoned. Meat burnt black on one side, egg broken. This was not the dish he had tasted. His throat tightened.
“What have I done to you…” he whispered.
I can’t let a talent that should be at the absolute peak get swallowed whole by this chaos.
He pushed through the coarse cloth curtain into the narrow street kitchen barely two metres square. Black smoke and heat hit his face. His expensive shirt was open at the collar, revealing his collarbones. Fon turned, exhausted, both hands trembling as she lifted the heavy iron wok full of burnt oil, sweat running down her throat. Louis stepped in and caged her smaller body against the bamboo wall. His large rough palm covered the back of her sweaty hand and gripped the wok handle firmly so it would not tip. In the cramped space his chest pressed against her bare, sweat-damp shoulder from behind. She froze. The seasoning spoon nearly slipped from her left hand. She turned her head. The tip of her nose brushed the sharp line of his jaw, damp with sweat. Their mouths were only centimetres apart. Hot breath mixed with the smell of scorched garlic. Her eyes widened as she took in his profile and the expensive cologne cutting through the street smoke. The silver chain at her throat jumped with her rapid breathing against her wet brown skin. Louis did not look at her. His eyes were fixed on the flame in the wok, jaw clenched. Still holding her hand on the handle, he reached past her hip with his free hand and twisted the gas valve shut. The flame died with a soft hiss. He leaned closer, mouth almost touching her ear, voice low and rough. “Let me.” Fon held her breath, throat moving as she swallowed. In the tiny kitchen every measure of control had been taken from her by this stranger.