The Perfect Flavor

“He who drinks this shall die; he who drinks this shall live forever”.  Nicolas toasts the man in the mirror, and a man with gray hair, his face lined with age and time, raises a glass back.  He closes his eyes, and drains the glass.  The flavor dances over his tongue, tarragon swirls around cinnamon and is chased by a bouquet of ginger and mint.  They recede and are replaced by some flavor that is wholly new, something deep and achingly sweet, primal and repulsive and perfect.

Nicolas opens his eyes, and watches the room’s walls melt away into the floor, leaving a spreading pile of browns, beiges, and reds.  He sees the kitchen behind them, all the haste and the shouting, the stainless steel and fires, but then that too melts away.  He sees his mother cooking breakfast for him at age 9, sunshine pouring in through the open windows, but then it too disappears.  Everything melts, and behind it is something already dissolving, until he is left alone, surrounded only by distant stars, planets, and galaxies.  A night sky without borders surrounds him; he marvels at the cold expanse.

He turns slowly around in this new world, in awe.  He realizes what he’s finally accomplished, what he’s finally found after years of searching, and he is at peace.  Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the sky starts to swirl.  Lines blur across everywhere he can see, and when he looks down he sees that they’re funneling into his stomach.  Everything swirls around him faster, gaining speed.  When he tries to hold out his hand and touch the lines, he sees that his arm is curved fully around, and his hand is dissolving into himself.  He watches his hand dissolve, and then his arm.

In an instant, everything becomes singular.  Nicolas is aware of all things because he has become all things.  He is aware of the start and finish of all matter, the paths it took, and where it will go from this instant.  In an instant, Nicolas is no longer aware of his own existence as separate from any other matter; there are no longer borders to demarc where he ends and the outside begins.  In an instant, he disappears.

Earlier

Nicolas was 19 when he moved to Paris.  He had worked in kitchens during secondary school, and afterwards studied for nearly a year at a culinary institute, but he was more interested in his own flavor theory than in making pre-defined dishes.  He’d spend nights studying The Flavor Bible, dreaming up combinations that brought new life to the old.  After adding a touch of aged balsamic to a flan in a class focused on recreating classic recipes, he’d been berated by the instructor for obscuring the purity of the flavor.  That was the end of his formal training.

For the first year, he drifted through Parisian kitchens.  He would do food prep in the morning at a corner Brasserie, and then would spend the night as a dishwasher in a pub a few streets over.  He spent an entire month as the grocery getter for a market fresh bistro that catered to tourists, but their menu was awful so he quit.  Life was messy, fast, and full of a richness that only comes in your twenties.  

From a few connections he made over the year he was finally allowed an interview at Restaurant Guy Savoy.  He arrived in his flatmate’s best suit, the legs pinned to length, before the prep work had started for the day.  The restaurant was gorgeous; each of the separate dining rooms was a tasteful curation of modern art with a dark oak table in the center, a pristine white tablecloth draped over the top.  He marveled at the stacked chairs in the corner, the new linens at the door, and the incredible rich scent of fresh produce drifting from the kitchen; it was like a painting waiting for the artist.  Guy Savoy himself sat at the nearest dining table, relaxed against the seatback.

They talked for two hours.  Others came in and started on the work for the day, the din slowly growing around them.  They talked about food, and wine; they exchanged kitchen stories like war heroes and laughed at their victories.  As they talked about the hidden things, about flavors and textures, they spoke in hushed tones and moved closer to one another.  This was their religion, and they prayed at the temple together.

At the end of their discussion, Guy leaned back in his chair.

You’re hired, but I need you to understand one thing.  This restaurant exists so that I can study flavor; I am concerned with its output only in that it allows me to continue this journey.  I am convinced, as are many others, that the perfection of our universe necessitates the existence of a perfect flavor.  Some combination of ingredients that will enable the taster to understand this perfection, and in doing so to also understand all the truth, beauty, and life that stems from it.  To work here is to join me on this journey and dedicate yourself to this cause.

This was how Nicolas was indoctrinated to the Alchemists of Flavor, at the time a burgeoning young society.  Through the years, he would say this same quote to every person that he hired at his restaurants.  

Later

A sound of crashing came from Nicolas’ office, loud enough to be heard above the commotion of the kitchen.  In an instant, all work stopped.  Everyone looked at each other in turn, their gaze drawn magnetically to his door.  A question played behind each of their eyes; had he done it? The head chef set down his knife and brushed his apron; he signaled to the line cooks to turn off their burners, and like a choreographed dance they all moved together towards his door.  Their movements were slow and measured; you do not hurry when the awe of the universe is filling you.

The door swung inwards, away from the head chef’s hand.  Nicolas lay perfectly on the ground as if sleeping, his legs straight and his hands rested behind his head.  His chest rose and fell rhythmically.  Around him, nothing remained of the room.  The drywall and framing had turned to dust, the desk, mirror, chairs, all the hanging art and plants had evaporated.  The entire room was covered in small, pristine white tiles perfectly aligned to the space.  Even the back of the door was covered. 

The staff crowded into the room, moving slowly and with great respect.  As the last person entered they habitually closed the door behind them.  It shut with a soft click and disappeared, leaving a completely smooth tiled wall.  There was no interior lighting, but the entire room was filled with a soft, white light.  Slowly, Nicolas crossed his legs and sat up.  His eyes moved to each of them in turn, a smile played at his lips.

Sit with me, my friends.  I have such stories to tell, and I want to tell you a story.  A story of life, and beauty, and time; a story of what perfection looks like behind the scenes.  Yesterday we stared at shadows of objects on our cave walls; let me take you outside of the cave.