The Chef

Cooking for many years but never achieving the notoriety he deserved, the chef branched out with difficult, exotic, foreign delicacies. This brought some small fame, and a flock of culinary thrill-seekers, who are always leaving.
On his one day of rest, he could not sleep and came early to the restaurant, disturbing the sleeping morning doves. He made his favorite dish, sweet, heavy, filling. He mad his most challenging, a meringue so tart, it could curl your hair, or straighten it.
He sat, unable to eat. There was a man in the alley, collecting cans and bottles in a tattered trundle cart. The end, he knew, was near. Why not? He invited the man in, and offered to have him eat his fill, which he did, in well-mannered silence.
When he was finished, he crossed fork and knife on the almost-clean plate.
He sipped a little water. He waited.
“Well?” said the chef, just wanting a thank you.
The man’s clear brown eyes fixed him. “What you want is to give people joy,” said the man in a voice rough from long days of sun. “But you have wandered away from your own. The compass of your heart is still in the hot oven.” He touched the chef’s white breast like a saint.

One Comment

  • MJ commented on 2012/05/15

    Love it!! 🙂 Great stuff, Pol!

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