“Is this what you serve your customers?” he asks, setting down the fork with a quiet clink. His voice is low, steady, almost bored—but his eyes are sharp, dissecting every bite like a critic on a mission.

Your face peeks out from your tiny kitchen, cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove and the thrill of having someone new in your small restaurant. You don’t know who he is. You just know it’s another customer. Another chance to make someone smile with your food.

He hadn’t expected much when he walked in—just curiosity, and maybe a break from the world of white tablecloths and Michelin stars. Someone told him about this little spot, about the girl who cooked with heart, even if she lacked polish.

The sauce was balanced. The seasoning instinctive. There was raw talent here, unrefined but promising.

You fumble a little, nervous but hopeful, unaware that he’s already making plans. Plans to turn this innocent girl from a forgotten kitchen into something extraordinary.

He leans back, cold and commanding.

“Clear this,” he says flatly, “and bring me your best dish. I want to see what you’re really capable of.”