Chapter 85
“Ah, I forgot about this.”
Once the competition began and the contestants started cooking, I placed a blindfold on the judges’ table.
It was a simple thing made of black cloth.
But the moment he saw it, Count Kleber’s eyes gleamed strangely.
“Baronet Kyle, what is this?”
“I’m not a baronet yet… I mean, it’s a blindfold.”
“I know that too. Why is there a blindfold on the judges’ table?”
“So we can eat blindfolded.”
Count Kleber paused for a moment.
Albert Lanang looked at me too.
“You intend to judge without looking at the food?”
“That’s what I intend to do for Round One.”
Chef Olgren picked up the blindfold with interest.
“To reduce bias?”
“Yes. Some contestants are famous, while others are completely unknown. Some are chefs with noble-house crests on their uniforms, while others made a living with a single pot at a market. Once you’ve seen their faces, clothes, attitudes, and even their cooking methods, something will remain in your mind no matter how fair you try to be.”
It was a method I had seen on a television program in my previous life.
Of course, on television, blindfolds were often used for entertainment as well.
People tasted food differently depending on whether they thought it had been made by a famous chef or an unknown one.
I had laughed at scenes like that before.
But now that I was sitting among the judges, that seemingly childish method looked quite practical.
Blindfolding ourselves would at least distance us somewhat from appearances and the chef’s name.
It wouldn’t make us completely fair.
The human tongue has a memory too, and even a single explanation creates expectations.
Still, it was better than not doing it at all.
Albert touched the blindfold with his fingertips and said,
“A dish’s appearance is part of its taste.”
“That’s true. That’s why we’re doing this only for Round One. In the first round, we’ll look at fundamentals and flavor first. We can examine the beauty of the plates more closely in the later rounds.”
“What about the explanations?”
“We’ll only hear brief explanations—just the ingredients used and how they were cooked. No lengthy stories. You can’t create flavor with words.”
Albert snorted.
“I like that.”
Chef Olgren nodded as well.
“I agree. Famous chefs will try to show who they are from their very first dish. Unknown chefs, on the other hand, may be so nervous that they fall apart while trying to explain their food. Allowing only brief explanations gives everyone the same footing.”
Count Kleber was already composing promotional copy in his head.
“Blindfolded judges evaluating food in the middle of an amphitheater. Very striking. It shows fairness while creating tension for the audience.”
“We’re not doing this for the spectacle.”
“Of course. A fair spectacle.”
I gave up replying.
That man turned everything into a spectacle anyway.
The problem was the schedule.
Count Kleber had initially asked whether we could finish Round One in a single day.
The moment I heard that, I nearly brought the potion bottle down on his head.
“No.”
“Why not? There are enough workstations, and the audience…”
“We’ll die if we eat a hundred people’s food.”
I said firmly,
“Even with three judges, that’s fifty one-on-one matches. Two plates per match. Even if we take only one bite of each, that’s a hundred plates. I’m not a garbage disposal.”
Albert immediately agreed.
“That’s right. Anyone who tells us to eat a hundred plates in one day doesn’t know the first thing about cooking.”
Count Kleber immediately bowed his head.
“Then let’s divide it up.”
In the end, we decided to hold Round One with twenty contestants each day.
Ten matches a day, over five days in total.
That would give the judges’ tongues and stomachs a chance to hold out, while giving the audience a different contest to watch each day.
Count Kleber initially calculated what the extended schedule would cost, then his expression soon brightened.
He had realized that he could sell tickets for five days.
Then I made one more declaration.
“Maison Montbel will be closed for the duration of the competition.”
Marie nodded as though she had expected it, while Elysia glanced at me briefly and closed her ledger.
Count Kleber’s eyes widened.
“Are you really going to close it? Reservation inquiries are flooding in because of the Flame Course.”
“I know.”
“If you close Maison Montbel for that long, the money that’ll fly out the door… agh!”
“I know that too.”
“But you’re still closing it?”
“No guest will appreciate the head chef swaggering around outside while they’re paying to eat here.”
I pointed toward the center of the amphitheater.
“Maison Montbel’s guests pay a great deal of money to eat my food. But if I judge here during the day and stand in the kitchen at night with an exhausted palate, I’ll be deceiving them. We might make money, but we’d be cutting into their trust.”
Elysia said quietly,
“That’s right. This competition is being held under Maison Montbel’s name too. There’s no need to run the restaurant at the same time if it means lowering its quality.”
Count Kleber looked disappointed for a moment.
“Then I’ll spin Maison Montbel’s closure during the competition as a special announcement. Something like, ‘We’re closing our doors temporarily for the sake of the Empire’s table.’”
“So you’re dressing it up after all.”
“If it makes money, we should.”
He really was consistent.
When the cooking time ended and it was time for judging, the other judges and I put on our blindfolds.
The audience stirred.
Once everything before my eyes went black, the sounds of the amphitheater grew louder.
The sound of knives striking work surfaces, water boiling, oil spitting in pans, and the audience swallowing nervously all came through more clearly than usual.
I walked slowly.
Marie lightly took my arm and guided me.
“Two steps to the left. A workstation ahead.”
“Thanks.”
The dishes from the first match arrived.
The chef gave a brief explanation.
“This is a grilled dish made with chicken and onions. It’s seasoned with salt and herbs.”
I knew immediately after taking one bite.
‘The fundamentals aren’t there.’
The chicken was burnt on the outside and undercooked inside.
The onions had been burned before they could develop any sweetness, and all the salt was concentrated on the surface.
It was a dish too embarrassing to serve even as staff food.
Albert said briefly,
“Undercooked.”
Chef Olgren calmly added,
“The seasoning is uneven. There’s only flavor on the surface; there’s nothing inside.”
I drank a little potion and tasted the second plate.
This time, it was different.
The chicken was ordinary, but it had been cooked evenly.
The onions had been slowly sautéed to draw out their sweetness, and the salt wasn’t excessive.
It wasn’t an amazing dish, but it was quite palatable.
That was extremely important in Round One.
“The second one.”
The other two agreed with me.
The first winner emerged.
Applause erupted from the audience.
Since I was wearing a blindfold, I couldn’t see anyone’s expression.
But I could hear the first contestant’s breathing falter.
The competition was cruel.
But the kitchen was cruel too.
Guests paid to eat food, not a chef’s circumstances.
A chef had to give their absolute best, no matter what.
After several matches, the difference became clearer.
Some people didn’t understand their ingredients.
The potatoes were crisp only on the outside and hard inside, and even after slicing the meat, they hadn’t understood its grain.
Some people buried their ingredients beneath seasoning.
A strong flavor remained in the mouth, but it was impossible to tell what that flavor was meant to accomplish.
On the other hand, there were also some quite capable people.
A grilled-fish artisan from a port city produced an astonishingly clean flavor from simple ingredients.
A contestant who had worked as a military mess cook was rough around the edges, but had the steadiness of someone who had fed large numbers of people.
The old woman who ran a small restaurant in the capital produced a deep flavor that needed no pretty words the moment I took a bite.
Chef Olgren ate from that plate and said,
“This dish is steeped in experience.”
Albert acknowledged it as well.
“You can taste the years in this dish.”
I nodded too.
Cooking has things like that.
Not a flavor that flashes once, but one left in the body after making a dish hundreds of times.
A flavor that doesn’t waver even when guests come every day.
Food that doesn’t easily fall apart even when it isn’t flashy.
People like that are strong.
But something else was even more painful.
Those who had done well but faced someone even better.
The seventh match was like that.
The first chef wasn’t bad.
The meat was cooked well, and the sauce was steady.
By my standards, it was good enough to advance to the next round.
But the second plate was too good.
The same ingredients had been used, but the aroma was clearer, and the chef had read the grain of the meat more precisely.
The sauce was light, but it had strength that lingered on the palate.
The match was decided the moment I tasted it.
I said nothing.
Albert said in a low voice,
“The first one was good too.”
Chef Olgren answered quietly,
“The opponent was better.”
That was the nature of competition.
You could be good and still be eliminated.
Eliminating someone who made bad food was easy.
Eliminating someone who lacked the fundamentals didn’t trouble me much.
But seeing a good chef eliminated by an even better one was different.
I swallowed a sigh in the darkness beyond my blindfold.
I could already see, from the first day, why a last-chance round was necessary.
When I took off my blindfold after judging, the light of the amphitheater stabbed my eyes.
The audience was already fired up.
People shouted the names of the chefs they supported and applauded those who had been eliminated.
The atmosphere wasn’t as bad as I’d expected.
I checked the names of the ten contestants who had advanced today.
There was an unknown inn cook and a renowned noble-house chef.
There was a famous contestant who had fallen unexpectedly, and someone who had done well but bowed their head after being matched with the wrong opponent.
Marie held out a water bottle.
“Are you all right?”
“My stomach is fine. Mentally, not so much.”
“Is it harder than you expected?”
“It’s harder to eliminate someone who was good than to eat bad food.”
Albert said beside me,
“That’s why being a judge is painful.”
Albert was looking toward the passage where the contestants were leaving.
“Eliminating someone who makes bad food is more like cleaning. You’re just removing what was bound to be removed anyway. But choosing one of two good ones is like being forced to cut away a good part.”
Chef Olgren said quietly as well,
“It would be good to mark separate last-chance candidates today. Those who lost not because they were bad, but because their opponent was too strong, are worth seeing again.”
“I think so too.”
I marked it in my notebook.
Three last-chance candidates among the first day’s eliminated contestants.
The competition had begun.
We had only seen twenty contestants so far, but stories were already taking shape inside the amphitheater.
An unknown chef had earned the audience’s applause, a famous chef had collapsed on the first day, and someone had done well but lost because they drew the wrong opponent.
For the next four days, this would happen four more times.
I took a sip of the potion and prepared for the next judging session.