HUNGER

Present Day

My name is Laura Watson, and I'm the head chef at Riverside Restaurant in Ohio. But this story isn't mine to tell—it belongs to the man who taught me that food is more than just taste. It belongs to Thomas Keller, a famous chef, a Michelin star holder, and a genuinely good person whom people don't call the "King of Taste" without reason.

Eight Years Ago

Thomas was working as a chef at a famous restaurant. To anyone watching, his life seemed perfect—a master of culinary arts, a five-star chef living a tension-free life. But the man who appeared so composed in the restaurant was perhaps not quite what he seemed.

Every night when his shift ended around 11 p.m., Thomas would remain in the restaurant and prepare a different and unique dish. His recipes were always innovative, never repetitive. He would develop the recipe meticulously, plate it beautifully, but when it came time to taste it, he would merely smell it, clench his hands tightly, and with a heavy heart, throw it into the dustbin—as if he despised the very food he had created.

The clatter of the plate hitting the bin echoed through the empty kitchen. Every. Single. Night.

When a chef prepares a unique dish during his personal dinner time only to smell it and discard it, something is clearly wrong.

Six Years Later

"Hey everyone, this is Laura. Starting today, she'll be working at our restaurant as a chef assistant," the restaurant manager announced.

Everyone clapped for me.

"Congratulations, Laura!"

"Nice to meet you!"

But one man stood quietly in the kitchen, preparing his food without any distraction, seemingly oblivious to the commotion. His knife moved with precision, his focus absolute.

Curious, I asked a nearby worker who he was. The worker laughed heartily.

"Ma'am, that's our head chef, Thomas Keller. There's no one in this city who doesn't know him. He's a five-star chef whose unique and innovative recipes are famous throughout Ohio. He's even added some of his innovative recipes to our restaurant's menu. Would you like to see the list? Oh, sorry, I haven't even introduced myself. My name is Emily. I work here as a kitchen helper."

"Of course," I replied immediately.

Emily showed me the entire menu, but something struck me as odd. At the very end was a dish called "Hodgepodge."

I had some idea what it was, but out of curiosity, I asked Emily about it. She looked at me with a strange expression and said, "Oh, that's just added at the bottom. Nobody ever orders it."

I asked why—didn't it taste good?

Emily explained, "I don't know. To this day, no one has prepared it, and no one has ordered it. But here's the thing—our head chef had it added to the menu five years ago after discussing it with the restaurant owner. Yet he's never made it himself, and he's never presented the recipe to any customer. God knows what the story is. Anyway, it's your first day. Will you join us for dinner tonight?"

After hearing all this, I wanted to join them for dinner to relax my mind, but instead, I said no. I don't know why, but I felt a burning curiosity about our head chef.

My day shift ended at 11:15 p.m. I changed my clothes and was just about to leave the restaurant when I spotted my head chef preparing something in the kitchen. I hadn't had a chance to meet him all day because I'd spent it with the manager going through paperwork and learning restaurant rules and regulations. But now I could talk to him. I walked quietly toward the kitchen, and when I reached the kitchen door, I said softly, "Hello, sir. My name is Laura, and I've joined here as your assistant."

As soon as he saw me, he greeted me in a joyful manner and extended his hand for a handshake. I paused. The man who had seemed so mysterious all morning had surprised me with this warm gesture, forcing me to reconsider my first impression.

He said, "Hello, Laura. It's nice to meet you. The restaurant is closed now, and my shift is over too. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

His words made me feel a bit awkward, but I gently asked, "Mr. Keller, can I join you for food preparation?"

I expected him to refuse, but he said, "Why not? Come on in."

I quickly put on a chef's apron and watched him prepare the food. It truly looked like a five-star chef creating something special. His hands moved with practiced grace, each motion deliberate, almost meditative.

I asked him what he was preparing, and he gently replied, "Coffee-Cocoa Chicken Glaze."

Hearing this, I thought, Chicken with coffee and chocolate flavor? It seemed strange, but this was exactly why people appreciated him and his cooking style so much.

I couldn't help but ask, "Sir, is the recipe you're using inspired by something, or are you just experimenting on your own?"

His response was something I still remember to this day.

He said, "Look, in this world, whatever it may be—any design, any art, or even any recipe—everything is created by taking inspiration from something or someone. So yes, this is inspired."

"Oh," was all I could manage to say.

Before long, the food was ready. The aroma filled the kitchen—rich, complex, inviting. I suggested we have dinner together since it was quite late, and rather than going out, we could eat what he had just prepared.

He didn't respond.

I went outside and began setting a plate on a table. I called out, "Mr. Keller, the table is ready. Please come, let's have dinner."

But there was no response from inside. I went back into the kitchen and saw him plating the food on a single dish. I thought perhaps he hadn't paid attention to my suggestion about eating together. I decided to call out once more.

"Mr. Keller, the table is ready. Let's have dinner together."

As soon as I finished speaking, he picked up a knife and fork, cut a small bite from the side of the chicken, brought it close to his nose, and smelled it. I assumed he was tasting it the way chefs do—smelling to understand the food deeply.

But then he did something I never could have imagined.

After smelling it, he placed the chicken bite back on the plate. When I looked at his face, I saw a tension there that I had never seen before—a tightness around his eyes, a tremor in his jaw. His hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white.

He picked up the plate, walked to the dustbin, and threw it away.

The sound of ceramic hitting metal rang through the silence. The beautiful dish—the one he'd spent an hour preparing—lay discarded among coffee grounds and vegetable scraps.

It felt as if the ground had been pulled from under my feet. I was angry and surprised at the same time. A chef who loved food so much, who had innovated so many wonderful recipes—how could he do this?

I couldn't speak. With a heavy heart, I took off my chef's apron, grabbed my handbag, and left the restaurant.

Once outside, it felt as if I had been imprisoned there all day.

I took a taxi and went back to my apartment.

Next Day at the Restaurant

The next day, I left for the restaurant, and throughout the journey, I wondered whether what I had witnessed last night was real or just a dream.

I entered the restaurant and checked in. Before going to the kitchen, I met Emily. I asked her, "Emily, is there something wrong with our head chef?"

Emily looked at me with a strange expression and said, "What are you talking about? What problem could he have? I'll tell you what—work with him for a full day first, and then you'll never ask me this question again."

I was shocked. The staff who had been working with him all this time didn't know about the subtle, strange behavior he displayed at night.

I steadied my mind and thought, Let me just focus on my work today.

With that thought, I entered the kitchen, put on my assistant chef's apron, wished the chef good morning, and got to work.

Looking at him today, it didn't seem like anything had happened last night. His face, behavior, and actions were completely different from the night before. He smiled, joked with the staff, moved through the kitchen with effortless confidence.

Ten minutes before lunchtime, the chef came to me and apologized for last night. He said he'd been stressed about something personal in his mind. He wanted to make it up to me by offering to treat me to today's lunch.

What could I do? He was my senior. I said yes.

We had lunch together. When lunch was over, I remembered the menu list from yesterday. I couldn't contain myself and asked, "Sir, I saw the menu list yesterday. Emily was telling me that you had some of your unique dishes added to the menu, especially the dish called 'Hodgepodge.' But why have you never made it or presented it? Can you tell me why?"

He looked at me with a very strange expression, as if I had reopened an old wound.

But he said to me very calmly, "That was a very special recipe for me, close to my heart. I started innovating new recipes, but I could never recapture that feeling."

I was shocked and asked in a subdued voice, "Whose recipe was it?"

With a faint smile, he said, "My mother's."

I asked, "Can you tell me what happened?"

He paused for a few moments, drank a glass of water, and then spoke.

"Six years ago, when I joined this restaurant as an assistant chef, my mother used to make this Hodgepodge for me every morning. But on the last day she made it for me, I left for work without eating it because I wasn't in the mood that day. The next morning, my mother had a fever. I took her to the hospital, but the fever weakened her so much that she left me forever. I never tasted that last meal she had prepared for me with so much love."

As he said this, tears rolled down his cheeks. It seemed as if words buried for years had finally come out, and the burden on his heart had lightened.

I became a little emotional too, but I composed myself and, to ease the atmosphere, said, "Why don't we prepare that food together?"

Before I could finish, he said, "No, that won't happen. I'm sorry. How can I make that food when my emotions and feelings are so attached to it? This isn't about taste. It's about the feeling and the experience I can never get back."

I was about to say something more when the manager called me.

One Year Later

A year had passed, and everything had returned to normal. I received a promotion and became a chef myself—not like Mr. Keller, but at least the "assistant" tag was removed. Our head chef had decided to leave the restaurant. He wanted to open his own restaurant.

"Welcome, our master chef, Mr. Thomas Keller," the manager announced.

Everyone clapped. All the staff, waiters, myself, and even the customers appreciated him. He had given six years to this restaurant.

It was then that an idea struck me. Why not throw a goodbye party for our chef right here at the restaurant? As soon as the thought entered my mind, I announced the party.

Next Day

Preparations for the party began. The restaurant was closed, and everyone got busy with decorations. I took charge of the food and drinks. A plan was running through my mind—something I was going to execute today.

At 11:30 p.m., the party was in full swing. I announced that anyone who wanted to give gifts to the chef could do so. Everyone gave their gifts. Thomas came up to me and said, "You didn't give me anything," with a slight smile.

Before I could respond, the manager called everyone for dinner. Everyone sat at their tables. The food was brought out, and Emily asked, "What's the main course today?"

I gave a faint smile and said, "Hodgepodge."

Everyone's ears perked up. People stared at me as if I had said something wrong. Our manager was about to say something, but then Thomas smiled broadly. Everyone paused for a moment, but then they followed his lead.

And then it happened—Hodgepodge was served.

People started trying it. I tried it too. It was well-made. As soon as Emily tasted it, she whispered to me, "This is just a normal dish. Why did you include it as the main course? There are so many great chefs here. You should have prepared something special."

"Special?" I let out a soft sigh and was about to respond when I heard it.

A sob. Quiet at first, then deeper.

Mr. Keller began to cry. His tears soaked the tissue paper beside his plate. His shoulders shook as he brought his fork down, then picked it up again, taking another bite. And another. He ate slowly, deliberately, as if savoring not just the food, but the memory of the hands that first made it.

Everyone was shocked. People wanted to ask what was wrong, why he was crying, but no one had the courage to speak.

But I knew. That single bite had erased all the pain and old, bitter memories he had kept locked in his mind.

I looked at his plate.

Empty.

Completely empty.

For the first time in six years, Mr. Keller had finished a meal—not because he had thrown the food in the trash, but because the hunger born of pain had finally been satisfied.

Present Day

"Thank you, Laura, for this interview."

"Thank you? This is a matter of pride for me—that I got to share that person's story with everyone. Alright, I should get going. My husband just texted. He's waiting for me outside."

Laura stood up and started to leave, but the interviewer stopped her and asked, "Please introduce us to your husband sometime."

Laura paused at the door, her wedding ring catching the afternoon light. She smiled—the same gentle smile Thomas had given her that first night in the kitchen.

"I just introduced you to him."

With that, she got into her car and drove away.

"It's not enough for a recipe to simply taste good. Sometimes, who made it and how much love they put into it matters just as much. Everyone needs at least one recipe in their life—one that lingers on their tongue.

Not just for its taste, but for the feelings and emotions it carries. So never disrespect anyone when they lovingly prepare something for you, or do anything for you in any form."

~ V.M. Grey