Time.
It was finally time for the judging.
All the new students had completed their dishes. One by one, they were evaluated by Instructor Roland, who awarded each their score.
Now, only one student remained.
Megumi.
The rich aroma of red wine and beef wafted through the air from her workstation. After over an hour of oven-roasting, the sauce had thickened, the vegetables softened, and the beef glistened in its crimson glaze.
The meat had fully absorbed the wine, and the fat had melted into the vegetables, binding everything together.
The result was tender, fluffy beef—glossy and steaming, with an aroma so intoxicating it drew involuntary breaths from those nearby.
Roland opened his eyes and turned to her.
His expression was unreadable.
"You've changed quite a bit from the recipe I gave you."
His tone was sharp.
"Tell me… Is my cooking that unsatisfactory in your eyes? Or is this your way of—"
His voice dropped.
"Challenging my authority?"
The implication hit like a slap.
Megumi's breath caught. Her hands trembled at her sides, and she instinctively took a step back.
But then, her fingers curled into fists.
"No, Instructor Roland," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "I didn't mean to disrespect you. I just…"
She took a breath.
"I believe that Burgundy beef stew—born from the French countryside—should retain a little of its rustic heart. And while improving on a recipe is fine, it should be done in a way that respects its roots."
Her voice wavered, but there was conviction behind it.
Roland stared at her.
"…Is that so?"
His gaze lingered on her for a moment, emotionless, then drifted to the dish before him.
Without another word, he lowered his head and picked up a small knife.
He pressed gently on the beef.
Pfft.
Juice burst from the meat in a glistening arc. The beef shrank slightly under the pressure, releasing an even deeper aroma.
His eyes narrowed.
How tender…
He hadn't even tasted it yet, and already something felt off.
Or rather—too right.
"Didn't you run into trouble halfway through?" he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.
"And how… how did you manage this texture? Two hours of stewing shouldn't make the meat this tender…"
He sliced off a bite and slowly raised it to his mouth.
When people talk about food, they often say too much. But when food truly speaks to the soul, words become unnecessary.
And right now, as Roland chewed…
There were no words.
The beef collapsed in his mouth with a gentle pfft pfft, splitting cleanly along the muscle fibers.
It was juicy—overflowing with the richness of wine and beef fat—and every bite was infused with a bold, tangy depth. The sauce had seeped into the potatoes and mushrooms, uniting all the elements into one harmonious whole.
With every chew, the flavors deepened. Wine, meat, earth, umami. Not a single note out of place.
He closed his eyes.
And just like that—
He was no longer in a classroom at Totsuki.
He was back in Burgundy.
His childhood.
The vineyards stretched endlessly, green waves of grapevines rippling across gentle hills. There were no fences. Just open fields, warm sun, and the occasional house peeking through the rows.
And the food—matsutake, cheese, escargot—each dish rich with the quiet joy of home.
Back then, he'd always believed Burgundy was boring. That he was meant for more. He left to chase his ambitions, rising quickly through the ranks of the culinary world until he became a respected instructor at Totsuki.
But somewhere along the way, the taste of home… slipped away.
He'd tried to recreate it. Time and again. But no matter how many times he cooked his childhood favorites, he could never get it quite right.
Until now.
"This flavor…"
He whispered the words, stunned.
He quickly cut another piece and ate again.
The moment his teeth sank into the meat, something stirred inside him. Like every cell in his body was waking up.
Yes.
This was it.
This was the Burgundy beef stew from his youth.
This was the dish that used to make him smile—truly smile—when he was still just a boy, running through the vineyard paths of his hometown.
And now, through a dish made by a timid first-year student, he was reliving it all over again.
"Heh…"
A low chuckle escaped his lips.
Then, he couldn't hold it in.
"Hahaha!"
"I found it… I've finally found it!"
"This is the Burgundy beef stew I've been chasing my entire life!"
The students around him gawked.
This was Roland—the strict, stoic instructor known as the chef who never smiles. And yet here he was, laughing—smiling—and digging back into the dish like a man starved for decades.
He ignored their stares.
He ignored Megumi's wide-eyed expression.
He just kept eating—bite after bite—until the plate was wiped clean. Even the last drops of sauce were scraped up with mashed potatoes.
When he finally set his utensils down, he let out a satisfied sigh.
Yes.
This was French cuisine.
And Megumi…
Had captured its essence.