Then came the puff pastry. This is where most people make a mistake. Wellington requires a crispy dough, not one soaked in meat juices. Elena rolled the dough with a delicate, motherly hand. She wrapped the sirloin – previously perfectly fried, beautifully golden brown, as if painted with oil – into a mixture of ham and mushrooms.
The seal was surgical. Not a single airbag.
"She needs to be lubricated twice with an egg," Miguel noted, trying to regain self-control, feeling threatened by the woman's rival attitude.
“I know,” she replied. “And a pinch of sea salt after the second layer of varnish for an additional texture.”
Miguel blinked. It was an old European trick, something that only very experienced chefs had mastered. He watched, fascinated against himself, as Elena takes a small knife and starts cutting the dough. He doesn't make straight, oblique incisions, like Miguel. Elena created an intricate grille pattern, a geometric work of art that allowed the couple to evenly evaporate while decorating the dish.
Daniel, the chef's assistant, walked over to Miguel and whispered, "The chef... who is she? This technique of grilling...I only saw it in French textbooks.”
Miguel didn't answer. He discreetly reached for his phone and began to write. The chef. Training in French. It's gone.
Elena put Wellington in the oven. "Set the timer for 40 minutes," Miguel said mechanically.
“No,” Elena corrected him. “It will be ready in 37 minutes. The cake is thin, and the meat was 18 degrees Celsius before it put it in the oven.” 40 minutes is enough for it to dry.
“It’s my kitchen and I say it takes 40 minutes!” exclaimed Miguel, and his insecurity turned into anger.
"If you want to serve the skin, warm it up to 40 degrees," she said icy. “I heat it up to 37 degrees to make it perfect.”
The challenge was huge. No one ever said that to him. There are three minutes of Elena's appointed time. Miguel looked at the phone and then at her. His face has failed. On the screen appeared a photo of the blonde woman in a flawless navy, receiving the third Michelin star. The woman in front of him had dyed hair and wore cheap clothes, but the appearance... the attitude... was identical.
"37 minutes," Elena said.
He opened the oven. The aroma filling the kitchen was almost tangible: brown butter, juicy meat, aromatic herbs. He took out the vessel. Wellington was a gold work of art. He was shining in the spotlight. Without a doubt, it was the most beautiful dish that came out of this kitchen in years.
Elena put them on a marble table to rest. "His body's temperature will reach 13 degrees Celsius in the next seven minutes of rest," she said, looking Miguel in the eye. “Perfectly, just right.”
Miguel slowly hung up the phone. His arrogance disappeared, replaced by a mixture of fear and respect. "Elena Navarro," he muttered.
The name shocked the kitchen like electrocution. The cooks were impressed. Daniel hid his face in his hands. “The one from L’Étoile?” someone said.
“Yes,” Elena said, taking off her dirty apron. “And your Wellington, Miguel, is ready to serve.” »
Miguel looked at the plate and then at her. He felt naked. He tried to humiliate one of the best chefs in the world. He criticized the way she cut vegetables. He was trying to teach her how to cook. “Why?” he asked in a broken voice. “You came here to make fun of me? To expose my deception?”
Elena sighed. The hardness in her gaze softened. “I didn’t come for you, Miguel. I came to find what I lost. Joy. And you lost it too.” She pointed to the kitchen, now in complete silence. “Look at them. They're scared. You're scared. You’re cooking with the ego to protect your status, not your heart.” “This Wellington,” she pointed to the gold plate, “it’s technically better than yours, not because I’m better at cutting onions, but because I respect the ingredients, and you just wanted to dominate them.”
The manager fell inside. “Table 4 is ready! Are you ready?”
Miguel was staring at Wellington. He was perfect. He knew that if this dish had been served, he would have been met with undeserved praise. But he also knew that if not, it would be the end of the story. He looked at Elena, hoping to take all the responsibility, enter the dining room and publicly destroy the food.
Meanwhile, Elena reached for a serrated knife. “The chef?” She said, handing the handle to Miguel. “It’s your kitchen. It's your menu.'
Miguel was staring at him.
