He sighs a second time. Then, as if deciding that ignoring my bullshit is the best way to deal with it—not necessarily a bad instinct on his part, though a decidedly unfun one—he turns away.
"Taste this," he commands one of the younger chefs, holding out a spoon.
The kid—he can't be more than twenty-two—takes it nervously, his face cycling through concentration, consideration, and finally confusion.
"It's… good, Chef?"
"'Good.'" Andrew's voice is low but taut. "Is that all?"
"No, Chef. I meant—"
"You meant nothing. Because you tasted nothing. You're going through the motions without engaging your senses." He turns to another chef.
"Riggs.Same dish. Tell me what's wrong with it."
Riggs, older and more experienced, tastes carefully. "The balance is off.Not enough sweetness."
"Better. But still not complete."Andrew takes the spoon himself and tastes with his eyes closed.
