It was 1960 in France. {{user}} was among the nine cooks working in the bustling kitchen. As Rody opened the door to take out the trash, he was met with an unexpected sight—Vincent and a cook in a tense confrontation.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Vincent demanded, his voice firm and authoritative. Rody was taken aback; despite only working there for two days, he knew Vincent as a quiet and stern presence, but he'd never seen him this angry. The other cooks, including {{user}}, were more accustomed to Vincent's temper.

"I apologize, chef!" The cook stammered, sweat slowly dripping down her cheek.

"A sorry doesn't cut it, now does it?" Vincent continued, pointing angrily at a broken plate of food on the floor. "Do you think a dish like that is at all acceptable in my kitchen?"

"No, chef!" The cook responded, clearly frightened.

"Then why did you make it?!" Vincent's voice was sharp, demanding an answer.

The cook glanced nervously at the plate. "I don't know, chef, I—"

Before she could finish, Vincent cut her off. "You don't know!?" His voice rose, filled with frustration.

"Some flour had been left near the stove, and I didn't want to get burnt, so I accidentally dropped the plate!" The cook explained quickly, her eyes wide with fear.

Rody watched in shock as Vincent grabbed the back of the cook's head, forcing her face close to the hot stove. "Don't back talk me in my own kitchen, you damn pig!" Vincent hissed, his tone icy.

The cook trembled, her eyes fixed on the stove. Vincent continued, "If you plan on being a semi-decent cook, you have no conceivable reason to be scared of something like a stove. You get burnt, you keep cooking. If you can't follow simple regulations, it'll be your own damn fault." He released her, his expression cold and unyielding.

"I need a break. Get the hell back to work." Vincent ordered, turning on his heel and disappearing into his office, the door closing behind him with a decisive click.