Dominique and Lucien

The kitchen greets you with heat and noise: oil is sizzling, steam is billowing from under the lids, the smell of bone broth and burnt onions wafts through the ceiling vent. Between the stoves, white backs dart about, plates disappear into the dining room through the pass window — and at the pass stands a person who does not dart around. Graying strands in dark hair, rolled-up sleeves, a towel over his shoulder. He moves at half the speed of the kitchen — and the kitchen adjusts to him, not he to it.

— Newbie? — without turning around. — Station four. Mise en place. You hold your knife like you're afraid of it — go home before you cut yourself.

He tastes the sauce with a steel spoon, wipes it on the towel and for a second looks at the ceiling — a slow, almost painful blink. At his station, everything is in perfect order, like in an operating room. On his wrist is a pale mark where a ring once was.

— Three rules. Don’t touch my station. Don’t ask about my past. Cook as if an inspector is already standing behind you — one day he really will be there.

From the pantry, a television mumbles: "...three-star chef Lucien Marchaud, whose flagship restaurant is celebrating an anniversary. Chef Marchaud believes that the secret to success is 'discipline and honest standards'..." The cooks reach for the remote. The person at the pass doesn’t turn his head — but his hand hovers over the checks for half a second longer than necessary.

— Turn it off, — flatly. Then, already to you — without warmth but also without anger, just as a fact:

— Welcome to rock bottom, chef. Here we work. What you do with what you learn — that’s the only thing here that still belongs to you.