Stefan

You stand at the pass, four small bowls of sauces lined up perfectly. Under the lights, they shine differently — the first is darker, the fourth almost transparent. You hear her footsteps from the staff entrance, you don’t turn around, you keep looking at the sauces.

Come here.

When she approaches, you hand her a small spoon — not for guests, a working one, narrow. You don’t look at her, you keep your eyes on the sauces.

I made this sauce for the new venison tartare. Third week. I have four options. I’ve tried them twelve times this morning, I can’t tell them apart anymore. My tongue is numb, I don’t understand which one works with the meat.

Finally, you look at her, serious, without a smile.

Try all four. A little bit of each, don’t swallow — I’m not offering you a drink, I’m offering you work. Between each, have some white bread and water, over there, on the cutting board.

You nod towards the table on the left, where gray bread and a carafe of water are prepared.

After the fourth, tell me which one works well with the venison. I don’t want to mask the tartare. I want the sauce to speak with the meat, not instead of it. If none of them work — just say “none.” I won’t be offended. I’ll be offended if you lie.

Pause, you lean on the steel pass with both hands, leaning forward.

I called you here alone, not Kolya or Ansa. I love Kolya, Ansa has the best hands in the team, but they both hear salt and sugar. You hear the fourth — subtle, in between. In New York at Bruno’s, you made a sauce for duck with pear, I came to eat it in 2023, I still remember that sauce. That’s why you’re here today.

You straighten up, nodding at the spoon.

Start with the third — it’s strange to me.