Chapter 3: The Hero’s Reputation
The next morning, Leo tried to shake off the lingering embarrassment from his “performance” as he walked through town. He told himself it was a one-time thing, that he’d simply laugh about it one day. But he didn’t get far before he noticed the odd glances people were giving him. Not just curious, polite glances either—some people were pointing, whispering, and even waving.
He stopped at the corner to check his reflection in a shop window. Did he have whipped cream in his hair? Leftover chocolate sauce on his shirt? But he looked normal enough. Or as normal as someone who’d accidentally made a spectacle of himself at a high-profile banquet could look.
“Oh, there he is!” a voice shouted, pulling Leo out of his thoughts. He turned to see none other than Mrs. Haggerty, the town’s premier conspiracy theorist and a frequent customer at the post office, waving energetically. She hurried over, clutching her purse like she was about to share some state secret.
“Leo! You sly devil,” she said, beaming. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you were a famous chef? Here I thought you were just our humble post office clerk, but you’re practically a celebrity!”
“Celebrity?” Leo blinked, barely able to process the word. “Mrs. Haggerty, I think you’re mistaken—”
“Oh, don’t be modest,” she cut him off, clucking her tongue. “The whole town’s talking about how you dazzled everyone last night. My cousin’s neighbor was there and said your dessert was an absolute spectacle.”
Leo was speechless. Word had spread faster than he’d ever imagined, and it sounded like his impromptu dessert demonstration had somehow won people over.
Mrs. Haggerty leaned in close. “Now tell me, Leo—are you really taking a break from your international tours to, you know, get in touch with your roots? You’re not…a spy or anything, are you?”
Leo chuckled, half relieved that at least she hadn’t uncovered the real truth. “No, no spy business here, Mrs. Haggerty,” he said, hands up in mock surrender. “Just a simple mix-up, really. I think I surprised myself as much as anyone.”
But Mrs. Haggerty was undeterred. She leaned in, eyes twinkling. “Well, if you ever do need someone to help keep your cover, you just let me know. I’ve watched every spy movie ever made, and I can do one mean British accent.”
He managed a polite nod, edging away slowly as she continued sharing her “tips” on staying undercover. But as he turned to head down the street, he nearly collided with Tom, the owner of Moe’s Diner, where Leo had lunch every Tuesday.
“Leo, my man!” Tom greeted him, giving him a hearty clap on the back. “The whole town’s buzzing about you! And to think you’ve been keeping all that talent under wraps, eh?”
“Buzzing?” Leo asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. “Look, it was just a one-time thing. Really. I’m not actually a—”
But Tom shook his head, dismissing Leo’s protests with a grin. “No need to be humble, buddy. You’ve got people talking! In fact…” He paused, eyeing Leo thoughtfully. “I was wondering if you’d be up for something. Nothing too fancy—just a quick demo at the diner next weekend?”
Leo felt his stomach drop. He opened his mouth to decline politely, but Tom was already going on about “supporting local talent” and “putting the diner on the map.” Before he knew it, Leo had somehow agreed to a cooking demo at Moe’s.
“Great! I’ll start spreading the word,” Tom said, clapping Leo on the back one last time. “See you there, Chef!”
As Leo walked away, he found himself laughing a little at the absurdity of it all. He, Leo Caden, was about to do a cooking demo at a diner. Maybe he’d even show them his “avant-garde” whipped cream technique.
But before he could fully appreciate the comedy in his situation, a sleek black car pulled up beside him, the window rolling down to reveal the same man from the banquet. He was as impeccably dressed as ever, looking at Leo with an unreadable expression.
“Mr. Caden,” he greeted. “Just the man I was looking for.”
Leo swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. “Oh…hello. Did you, uh, want some feedback on the dessert?”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Actually, no. I came to tell you that the clients were impressed by your, shall we say, unorthodox approach last night. They’re interested in having you cater a private event this Saturday.”
Leo’s stomach did a little flip. Another event? Cater? He barely knew the difference between a soufflé and a casserole. But before he could decline, the man was already pulling a card from his pocket and pressing it into Leo’s hand.
“Here’s the address,” he said with a finality that suggested Leo had no choice in the matter. “The client is expecting something…memorable. I trust you’ll deliver.”
With that, the man rolled up his window and drove off, leaving Leo standing on the curb with the card in his hand and a sense of impending doom. Saturday? That was only three days away! And he’d already agreed to a cooking demo at Moe’s next weekend.
Realizing he was standing in the middle of the street, Leo moved to the sidewalk and took a deep breath. He’d have to find a way to get through this, starting with some serious cooking research. Maybe he’d borrow a few cookbooks from the library. And wasn’t there a cooking channel on TV?
That evening, Leo settled in front of his ancient television, flipping through the channels until he found Chef’s Paradise. The host, a flamboyant chef with a French accent, was demonstrating how to make a “simple” chocolate soufflé—a recipe with about fifty steps and ingredients he’d never even heard of.
“Ah, soufflé,” the chef on TV said, twirling his whisk with flair. “It is not just a dessert; it is an experience. You must treat it like a lover—gentle, but firm!”
Leo felt a sense of dread creeping in. Gentle but firm? He barely managed to cook scrambled eggs without breaking a sweat. But he’d promised Tom a demo and had been roped into catering another mysterious event. It was time to roll up his sleeves and give this culinary business his best shot.
He spent the next few hours jotting down notes, trying to memorize phrases like “caramelize” and “flambé,” and watching as many “simple” recipes as he could. By midnight, he’d made it through a dozen instructional videos and had a notebook filled with haphazard drawings of soufflés, sauces, and what he hoped were edible garnishes.
In his final act of desperation, he sent a quick text to his cousin Marla, who was the closest thing his family had to a food expert. She once catered a family reunion without burning a single dish, which, to Leo, seemed like an act of pure sorcery.
Leo: “Hey, Marla, need some tips on, uh, making dessert. Have a gig coming up. You around?”
Within seconds, she replied.
Marla: “Leo, since when do you need cooking tips?? Are you doing a food show or something?”
Leo: “Not exactly. Long story. Just…any tips on making a soufflé?”
Marla: “Start with something easier. Soufflé is, like, level ten. Go for mousse or panna cotta. Much harder to mess up.”
With Marla’s encouragement, Leo scribbled down “mousse” and “panna cotta” in his notebook, feeling slightly more hopeful. He’d start practicing with those and pray the catering clients didn’t expect him to whip up anything too fancy.
As he finally went to bed, he couldn’t help but feel a weird mix of dread and excitement. Maybe this wasn’t just a disaster waiting to happen. Maybe it was an opportunity—however unlikely—that could lead to something great. Or at least something slightly edible.
