Arthur had grown tired of personalities influencing internal tasting sessions.
Warren’s dishes always scored high when everyone knew Warren had created them.
The pastry chef’s dishes scored lower when Warren was in the room criticizing them before anyone tasted.
Two days earlier, Arthur changed the process.
Every development dish would be assigned a number.
No names.
No station.
No hierarchy.
Taste first.
Politics later.
That afternoon, Elena had walked through the kitchen collecting possible entries.
She found Nia near the dish area, portioning her soup into deli containers.
“What’s that?”
“Staff meal.”
“You made it?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I have some?”
Nia assumed Elena was hungry.
She filled a small container.
Elena took it upstairs.
She had not told Nia it went into the tasting.
Seven bowls.
Arthur.
Two outside culinary consultants.
The beverage director.
Elena.
A visiting chef from New York.
Six tasters.
Scorecards.
Appearance.
Aroma.
Depth.
Balance.
Originality.
Finish.
Versatility.
Bowl seven had won.
Not narrowly.
It beat the second-place dish by eleven points.
Arthur looked at Warren.
“It was the highest-scoring item.”
Warren’s expression flattened.
Arthur continued:
“Every person in the room ranked it first or second.”
He turned toward Nia.
“Did you make it?”
Nia still held her apron.
“Yes.”
“From what?”
She hesitated.
Warren answered for her.
“Trash.”
Arthur turned.
“Stop talking.”
Warren stared.
Arthur looked toward Nia again.
“What did you use?”
Nia swallowed.
“Beef trim bones.”
“Roasted.”
“Onion skins.”
“Leek greens.”
“Mushroom stems.”
“Celery leaves.”
“Parsley stems.”
“Yesterday’s sourdough.”
“A little tomato water.”
“Charred carrot.”
“Black garlic.”
“Cider vinegar.”
“Rendered beef fat.”
“Some coffee.”
Arthur blinked.
“Coffee?”
“Half a teaspoon per quart.”
“Why?”
“To make the roasted bitterness feel longer without tasting like coffee.”
Arthur stared.
The visiting chef upstairs had spent three minutes trying to identify that note.
He had guessed chicory.
Arthur smiled faintly.
“And the bread?”
“Blended into the broth.”
“Not enough to thicken it like puree.”
“Just enough to give body.”
Arthur looked toward Elena.
She was trying not to smile.
Warren interrupted.
“Arthur, come on.”
Arthur turned.
Warren spread his hands.
“It’s clever.”
“I’ll give her that.”
“But you know what these tastings are like.”
“People respond to novelty.”
“This is kitchen-sink food.”
“Not restaurant food.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“You didn’t know it was hers when you tasted it upstairs.”
Warren froze.
Nia looked toward him.
Elena looked down at her clipboard.