Chapter 118: The Land of Chef Idols
Marron nodded. "Marron Louvel. Traveling chef, Meadowbrook Guild. I was told to report here by Guildmaster Halloway."
The woman’s lips curved. "Halloway. Old-fashioned taste, that one." She flipped through a glowing tablet, her nails clicking softly. "Your evaluation’s scheduled for dawn tomorrow. You’ll need to prepare a dish that represents your philosophy. The Guild provides ingredients, tools, and an audience."
Mokko raised a brow. "Audience?"
"It’s all recorded, of course. For sponsorships."
Lucy whispered from her jar, "I think I’m scared of this place."
Marron glanced around—at the chandeliers shaped like wineglasses, the golden trays floating midair, the chefs posing more than stirring. "Don’t be. It’s just another kitchen with better lighting."
Still, as she looked up at the tiers of balconies filled with critics and sponsors, she felt a familiar tightness in her chest. The same one she’d felt before descending into that mimic dungeon. Except here, the predators didn’t have claws—they had perfect smiles and gold-plated forks.
That night, Marron stayed in the Guild’s shared dormitory. The walls shimmered faintly with enchantments that kept the temperature perfect and the air scented with lemon balm. Outside the window, neon lights painted the city in stripes of pink and blue.
Mokko had already claimed a corner of the floor, snoring loudly. Lucy floated lazily in her jar beside the bed, occasionally forming a heart shape in her surface.
Marron sat by the window, notebook open, sketching her recipe for tomorrow. A dish that could survive this city of gloss and glamour. Something simple. Real.
The Grand Culinary Arena of Lumeria wasn’t a kitchen—it was a stage.
Marron stood at her assigned counter beneath a halo of golden light. Around her, the other competitors moved like dancers, knives flashing, ingredients levitating in ribbons of colored flame. The audience above murmured and applauded each display, and the judges—five in immaculate white and gold uniforms—watched from a curved dais as if overseeing an art exhibit.
Mokko had found a spot near the back of the gallery, arms crossed. Lucy floated in her jar on the counter beside Marron, whispering, "They all look like they’re about to summon angels with their spatulas."
"Maybe they are," Marron muttered, tying her apron.
The gong sounded.
She didn’t rush. She didn’t need fireworks or glowing reductions. She wanted warmth, depth, comfort—something that didn’t need to shout.
She began by slicing onions, slow and steady, the blade’s rhythm grounding her. The air filled with the soft sweetness of caramelizing onion, the sizzle gentle and honest. She deglazed the pan with broth, added thyme and a little wine, then layered everything into earthen bowls. Cream, cheese, and the final touch—bread cubes toasted golden and set at the bottom, so each bite drew broth and texture together.
When she lifted the ladle, the smell was pure comfort. The kind of scent that settled behind the ribs like a promise.
Lucy hummed in approval. "It smells like home."
"That’s the idea," Marron said softly.
She plated simply—a shallow bowl, a neat garnish of parsley, nothing more. No glitter, no glowing sauces. Just the food. When she carried it to the judges’ table, the audience’s chatter dulled, as if they didn’t quite know what to make of something so plain.
The first judge dipped his spoon, tasted, and paused. A flicker of something—surprise, maybe admiration—crossed his face before he schooled it back to neutrality.
The head judge, a woman with hair the color of polished steel, set down her spoon after a single taste. She folded her hands, and the gesture felt final. "Miss Louvel, your soup is technically sound. The flavor is balanced, even nuanced. But this Guild values more than taste alone." She gestured to the arena around them. "A dish must speak before it touches the tongue. It must tell us not only who you are, but why we should listen."
Marron swallowed. "It’s a dish for comfort. For people who need to feel safe."
"Then make safety look like something worth reaching for," the head judge replied. Her tone wasn’t cruel, just matter-of-fact. "We will give you another chance tomorrow morning. Same foundation, new presentation. Show us that warmth can be beautiful."
Her dismissal was polite, final, devastating.
Marron bowed, collected her tray, and walked off the stage with her stomach heavy as stone. Mokko followed in silence until they reached the marble hallway lined with glittering trophies.
Finally, he said, "They barely touched it."
"I know."
"You could’ve—"
"Don’t." Marron’s voice was sharper than she intended. She softened it. "It’s not supposed to need decorating, Mokko. It’s soup."
Lucy’s voice was gentle. "I think they wanted the soup to tell them a story before they tasted it."
Marron didn’t answer. The air here tasted of sugar and polish. Even her own broth’s warmth couldn’t chase off the chill that crept into her chest.
By sunset, she found herself wandering the Lumerian market. The streets glowed with perpetual twilight—floating lanterns shifting hue from pink to gold to azure. Chefs performed over open flames, tossing pans high, catching droplets of oil that flared like fireworks.
Crowds cheered with every dramatic movement. Dishes were plated in crystal bowls shaped like stars; sauces poured from miniature fountains; even ice cream was sculpted into roses.
Marron tried one stall’s signature dish: Aurora Pasta, a swirl of shimmering noodles that changed color as she twirled them on her fork. It looked like bottled sunlight. But the first bite was lukewarm and faintly sweet—empty under the glamour.
She sighed. "All sparkle, nothing to hold onto."
A man at the counter—a local chef with a neatly trimmed beard and an earring shaped like a spoon—chuckled. "That’s Lumeria. We cook for the crowd first, the tongue second." He studied her for a moment. "You’re not from here."
"Meadowbrook," she said.
He nodded slowly. "You cook like someone who’s working for ghosts, not cameras."
The observation landed oddly in her chest—uncomfortable but not untrue. "Maybe."
"Then maybe you need a stove that doesn’t care about spotlights." He gestured behind the counter. "Help yourself, traveler. It’s a slow night."
That evening, Marron stood at the borrowed stove, stirring a pot of her onion soup again—slower this time, watching the flames lick the bottom of the pan. The market noise faded into a soft hum around her. When she lifted the ladle, the smell of broth and cheese rose like a quiet rebellion against all that glitter.
She didn’t know if she could ever make her food pretty enough for Lumeria.
But she knew she could make it true.
And sometimes, that had to be enough.