The scallop was perfect.
That was the problem.
Juliette Monroe stared down at the single, pearlescent disc of seafood resting on a swirl of saffron-infused parsnip purée. It was seared to a lacquered mahogany, its edges crisp, its center trembling with translucent heat.
A single, glistening bead of basil oil sat atop it like a jewel. The plate was a masterpiece of minimalist art.
The scent rising from it—a delicate perfume of the sea, sweet earth, and bright herbs—was intoxicating.
It was, by every metric she had spent a decade mastering, a perfect dish. Technically flawless. A testament to a chef with the precision of a watchmaker and the eye of a painter.
And it was completely, utterly dead.
She lifted her fork, the tines scraping with an obscene loudness against the porcelain in the hushed, cathedral-like dining room of La Fiamma Nascosta. The restaurant was the most talked-about opening in a generation, a name whispered with reverence by gourmands and billionaires alike.
The Hidden Flame. It was a place of shadows and secrets, from its unlisted address to its notoriously reclusive chef, known to the world only as ‘De Luca.’
No interviews, no photographs, no television appearances. Just the food.
Juliette took a bite. The scallop melted on her tongue, a ghost of sweetness and brine. The purée was velvet. The basil oil, a bright, verdant explosion.
She closed her eyes, searching for the feeling, the story, the spark of humanity that separates a great cook from a true artist.
She found nothing.
It was like listening to a virtuoso pianist play a complex sonata with breathtaking skill but without an ounce of feeling. Every note was correct, every tempo perfect, but the music never soared. It was a beautiful corpse.
“Is everything to your satisfaction, Ms. Monroe?” The maître d’ materialized at her elbow, his voice a silken murmur. He moved with the practiced grace of a man who served gods and kings.
“It’s… impeccable,” Juliette said, the word tasting like a lie in her mouth. She offered a thin, professional smile.
She was here to cement her reputation as the city’s most honest, most feared food critic. Impeccable wasn’t enough.
Food, real food, was about passion, chaos, love, and fury. It was the frantic, messy heart of life served on a plate. This felt like it had been assembled in a laboratory.
As the waiter cleared her plate, her gaze swept the room. It was a study in restrained opulence—dark wood, muted gold accents, the soft clink of silverware on china the only sound.
The other diners were the city’s elite, speaking in low, confidential tones. They were consuming status, not a meal.
And the chef was giving them exactly what they paid for: perfection without the messy complication of a soul.
Who was this Chef De Luca? This culinary phantom who cooked with the detached genius of a machine?