Chapter 8 The World on One Plate

The kitchen held its breath the moment I stepped in.

No one said it out loud, but they knew.

This wasn't breakfast.

This was the test.

I tied on my apron like armor, pulling my curls tighter beneath the wrap. The sous-chefs moved out of the way without a word. Kiki gave me a look from across the room-not worried. Just watchful.

I closed my eyes for ten seconds.

Africa.

Asia.

America.

Three voices.

Three histories.

One story.

I breathed deep. Let the ingredients speak first.

Then I moved.

Base: Yam Pancakes – West African roots.

I grabbed the white yams and peeled fast, grate by grate. I added chopped scallions, minced pepper, and just a touch of dried fish-subtle, smoky, grounding. A sprinkle of ginger powder and cracked black pepper to wake it up.

I folded everything into a seasoned batter and dropped scoops into the hot pan. The sizzle was instant. Each pancake curled golden at the edges like crisp lace. My fingers itched with muscle memory.

Protein: Soy-Ginger Glazed Beef Strips – Korean heat, softened by restraint.

Thin-cut beef. I massaged it with a mix of sesame oil, soy sauce, grated ginger, and a touch of brown sugar. I let it sear fast and dark in a hot skillet, then deglazed with a splash of rice vinegar and reduced it until the sauce kissed the edges of every piece.

Sweet, savory, with a ghost of fire.

Side: Cornbread Waffles with Maple-Sriracha Butter – American South.

The batter was quick-cornmeal, buttermilk, honey, eggs. I poured it into the waffle press and let it steam until golden and firm. While it cooked, I made a compound butter: softened with maple syrup and a line of sriracha. It needed to surprise without slapping.

The waffle popped open with steam. I broke it clean in half and stacked it, soft side out.

---

Plating.

I placed the yam pancake just off-center. Draped the beef strips diagonally across. Cut the waffle into a half-moon and leaned it beside the stack like a warm pillow. A whisper of glaze across the rim. A few microgreens.

Not for flair.

But to prove a point.

At the end that was able to achieve what these three continents cuisines were about, Sweet-American, Spiced-Africa and savoury-Asia

On one plate.

The walk back to the dining room felt longer than the flight to Korea.

I kept the plate level, fingers steady, face blank. When I reached the table, he was still there-tablet off, coffee gone, hands folded loosely on the wood.

He looked up.

Then down at the plate.

Then up again.

I said nothing.

He didn't, either.

He picked up his fork and knife, cut through the yam pancake and glazed beef in one bite. Clean, deliberate.

He chewed slowly.

No reaction.

Next-he sliced into the waffle. The butter had started to melt. He let it coat the edge and took a bite.

Again-silent.

I stood perfectly still.

My heart was racing, but my arms stayed at my sides like I wasn't waiting for this man to approve of the very thing I'd built my life around.

He wiped the corner of his mouth.

Then set the fork down.

"You've never been to culinary school?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"This was instinct?"

"Yes."

He looked at the plate again. Then at me.

His voice didn't change. Still calm. Still dry.

"Get comfortable."

I blinked. "Sorry?"

"You're hired. Permanently," he said, like it was the end of a memo.

I blinked again, but I didn't react outwardly. Not yet.

"Unpack your things," he added. "Kiki will show you the staff quarters."

I nodded once. "Yes, sir. Thank you."

I turned to leave.

But something in me refused to end this moment without saying one more thing.

I paused.

"I made something else for you," I said, carefully reaching into the tray and placing a glass beside his plate.

Pale orange. Frosted glass. A mint leaf floating on top.

He looked at it. Then at me.

"What is it?"

"The juice," I said. "The one I spilled on you. But made the right way this time."

He raised an eyebrow. "Ingredients?"

"Mango, sweet lime, roasted pineapple, ginger. Cold-pressed. Strained. Served chilled."

He took the glass and brought it to his lips.

One sip.

He didn't comment. Didn't nod. But he finished the entire thing in three long pulls, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.

But when he set the glass down, his voice was quieter.

I turned to go again.

And I didn't rush.

Back in the hallway, I finally exhaled.

Not a dramatic sigh. Just enough breath to stop my lungs from aching.

I passed through the same glass corridor, but now the floor didn't feel like it might vanish beneath me.

In the kitchen, Kiki was waiting.

She didn't ask. She just saw my face and grinned.

"Well," she said, "guess I can tell them to stop prepping the Plan B chef."

I let out the laugh I'd been holding since sunrise. "Please do."

"You okay?"

"I think," I said, "I'm better than okay."

Kiki reached into a cabinet and pulled out a sealed kitchen coat. "Then said get changed., time for lunch prep, I consciously uttered what!! after that Cookathon.