Chapter 2: The (Not So) Grand Entrance
Leo spent the entire next day in a state of nervous energy, glancing between the business card and his own reflection in the mirror. He tried on the three collared shirts he owned, only to realize that none of them made him look remotely like a chef. Or a “legendary” anything, for that matter.
Still, by 6:30 that evening, he was standing outside the venue written on the card: a gleaming, modern building that looked more like the headquarters of a high-tech company than a place for a banquet. The sign outside read The Courtyard Hotel, known in town for its upscale clientele. Leo hadn’t set foot in a place this fancy since his cousin’s wedding, where he’d nearly been thrown out for sneezing on the hors d’oeuvres.
He took a deep breath, adjusted the collar of his least wrinkled shirt, and made his way inside.
The lobby was bustling with people in formalwear, waitstaff gliding by with trays of sparkling drinks, and guests mingling as if this was the social event of the season. Leo felt like he’d stepped into an entirely different world, one where everyone had the poise of a movie star and the confidence of someone who’d never accidentally set off their fire alarm.
“Mr. Caden!” A voice called out. Leo’s heart leapt, and he turned to see the same man from the diner—sunglasses removed but still exuding an aura of relentless professionalism—striding toward him.
“Uh…hi,” Leo said, offering what he hoped was a winning smile.
“You’re late.” The man raised an eyebrow. “I expected you to be in the kitchen an hour ago. The executive chef has been briefed, and they’re expecting you to lead tonight’s presentation.”
Leo’s mind scrambled. Presentation? The only presentations he’d ever given were at the post office’s “Customer Service Improvement” meetings, where he’d mostly just nodded and tried not to fall asleep.
“Right…presentation,” Leo echoed, trying to buy himself a few precious seconds. “Of course.”
The man gave him a long, measuring look before gesturing him toward a set of doors marked KITCHEN. “Don’t worry, we’ve arranged everything. Just be yourself and showcase that…flair of yours.”
“Flair?” Leo gulped. “Yeah. Flair. Lots of that.”
As they stepped into the kitchen, Leo was greeted by a flurry of activity. Cooks and assistants moved in a symphony of chopping, stirring, and plating, with the executive chef—a stern-looking woman with her hair in a tight bun—shouting orders in rapid succession.
“There he is,” she said with a curt nod as she spotted Leo. “Chef Caden, we’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Have you?” Leo asked, a little weakly.
“Yes,” she replied, eyeing him with a mixture of skepticism and expectation. “Now, I’ve prepared the main course. All you need to do is handle the dessert demonstration. We’re expecting a big finish. They say you’re known for your creativity and unpredictability.”
Leo opened his mouth, closed it, and then managed a weak, “Right. The…dessert.”
As if on cue, a young assistant rushed over with a cart filled with various dessert ingredients—flour, sugar, chocolate, cream, and an assortment of fruits he could only vaguely identify. Leo stared at the cart, wondering if it was too late to fake a sudden, unavoidable illness. His plan had been to tell them about the misunderstanding, not to start whipping up a dessert he had no clue how to make.
But just as he opened his mouth to speak, a waiter rushed in and announced, “We’re ready for the dessert course. It’s showtime.”
Before Leo could protest, he was being ushered out of the kitchen and into the banquet hall, where rows of tables were filled with elegantly dressed guests. The stage at the front held a demonstration table, complete with a camera to project his every move onto a giant screen behind him. Leo’s pulse quickened as he took his place, his mind going completely blank.
He forced a smile, glancing at the ingredients on the table and hoping some inspiration would strike.
“Good evening, everyone,” he began, his voice cracking slightly. “Tonight, we’ll be creating a dessert that’s, um…a unique expression of flavor and…improvisation.”
A murmur of anticipation rippled through the audience. Leo gulped, grabbing a bowl and dumping flour into it, hoping no one would notice his hands shaking.
“Now, as I always say…” he faltered, trying to channel whatever nonsense he’d seen on cooking shows. “Cooking is an art, not a science. So…we’ll just let the ingredients guide us!”
To his surprise, a few people clapped.
Leo took a breath, grabbing a whisk. He poured some cream into a bowl, then a generous amount of sugar, hoping he was heading in the right direction. How hard could it be? He thought, trying to ignore the dozens of eyes watching him.
He reached for the chocolate, breaking it into pieces and dropping it into a pot on the portable stove to melt. To his relief, the chocolate started to melt beautifully, creating a rich, glossy sauce.
As he stirred, he dared a glance at the audience, who seemed to be leaning forward in interest. Maybe he was pulling this off? Encouraged, he reached for a banana, sliced it dramatically, and added it to the bowl.
“Now, we combine the elegance of chocolate with the zest of fresh fruits,” he declared, feeling a rush of confidence. “A little surprise in each bite!”
He tossed a handful of strawberries into the bowl with a flourish, which earned him an appreciative “ooooh” from the audience. This was…kind of fun, he realized. Even if he had no idea what he was doing.
But his streak of luck ended abruptly when he reached for the whipped cream canister and shook it, only to discover it wasn’t properly attached. As he squeezed the nozzle, a stream of whipped cream shot out, covering his shirt, the table, and—unfortunately—the nearby cameraman.
The audience gasped, and Leo’s cheeks went hot. But before he could stammer an apology, a voice in the crowd called out, “Bravo!”
Taking the cue, Leo grinned, raising his whipped-cream-covered hands in mock triumph. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I call avant-garde cuisine!”
The room erupted in laughter and applause, and Leo felt a strange thrill of satisfaction. Somehow, he’d turned a disaster into entertainment.
As the applause died down, he finished plating the “dessert”—a chaotic mound of chocolate, whipped cream, and fruit—and waved as he made his way offstage, adrenaline still coursing through him.
Back in the kitchen, the executive chef was shaking her head but smiling slightly. “Unpredictable, indeed. They loved it.”
Leo chuckled, still a bit dazed. He’d made it through the evening by sheer luck and the kindness of a forgiving audience. But as he left the venue that night, clutching a takeout container of the “dessert” as a consolation prize, he couldn’t help but wonder…
Had he just gotten himself into something much bigger than he realized?
