BOOK TWO CHAPTER SIX: The Taste of Truth
809 Words
The critic arrived without ceremony.
No entourage. No announcement. Just a quiet man in a crisp shirt who took a corner table like he belonged there. Nnenna noticed him the way chefs always notice things before they happen. A shift in the air. A pause in the room’s rhythm. The way the staff suddenly stood a little straighter without knowing why.
She didn’t panic.
That surprised her.
A year ago, her hands would have shaken. Her thoughts would have raced. Today, she felt something steadier. Not confidence exactly. More like acceptance. She had cooked this food a hundred times. She knew its soul.
“Table four,” she told Uche quietly. “Treat it like a first date. Respectful. No overcompensating.”
He grinned. “Yes, Chef.”
From the kitchen pass, she watched as the orders came in. Starter first. A small plate, simple, clean. Grilled prawns with citrus oil and a hint of heat that crept up slowly, the way good stories do.
She plated it herself.
As the dish left the kitchen, her chest tightened just a little. Not fear. Anticipation. She leaned back against the counter and let herself breathe.
In between orders, her phone buzzed again.
She ignored it.
There were moments in life where multitasking was a lie you told yourself. This wasn’t one of them.
The main course followed. Smoked turkey, slow-cooked until it fell apart under a fork, paired with her signature pepper sauce and yam puree so smooth it almost felt indulgent. The smell alone made one of the waiters pause mid-step.
“Chef,” he whispered, “this one is serious.”
She smiled faintly. “It’s honest.”
Dessert was last. And that one mattered more than she let on.
She plated it carefully. Coconut panna cotta with a mango glaze, light enough to forgive a heavy meal, comforting enough to linger. When it left the kitchen, she closed her eyes for a brief second and said a silent prayer.
Not for praise.
For fairness.
Time stretched. The critic ate slowly. Methodically. He didn’t rush. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He just observed, wrote notes, took sips of water between bites like he was cleansing his palate and his judgment.
Finally, he stood.
Nnenna felt it in her bones before Uche even whispered, “Chef, he’s coming.”
The man approached the kitchen entrance and cleared his throat.
“Chef Nnenna?”
She stepped forward, hands calm, posture straight.
“Yes.”
“I’m Kunle Adebayo,” he said. “I write for The Lagos Palate.”
She nodded. She already knew.
“I won’t take much of your time,” he continued. “I just wanted to say… your food doesn’t try to impress. It tries to connect.”
Her heart thudded once. Hard.
“That’s rare.”
She swallowed. “Thank you.”
He smiled then. A small one, but real. “I’ll be writing about you. Kindly expect the piece within the week.”
Just like that, he shook her hand and left.
No fireworks.
No dramatic speech.
But when the door closed behind him, Nnenna leaned against the counter and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding all day.
Uche raised both hands silently in celebration.
She laughed softly. Not loud. Not giddy. Just relieved.
The rest of the service passed smoothly. When the last table cleared and the lights dimmed, she stayed behind to wipe down the counters herself. She liked ending days this way. It reminded her that no matter how big things got, the work still mattered.
As she was about to leave, her phone buzzed again.
This time, she checked it.
A message from Chef Somto.
I heard about the critic.
Congratulations.
You handled it the way you handle everything else. With truth.
She stared at the screen longer than necessary.
Not because of the compliment.
Because of how precisely he saw her.
She typed back slowly.
Thank you.
Today was a lot.
A few seconds passed.
I know.
If you ever want to talk… not as a chef, just as yourself, I’m around.
She didn’t respond immediately.
She turned off the kitchen lights, locked up, and stepped into the warm night air. The city buzzed around her, alive and impatient as ever.
She thought about her children waiting at home.
About the man who had reappeared too late.
About the article that could change everything.
About Chef Somto’s message sitting quietly on her phone.
Life was offering her multiple doors at once.
For now, she chose the one she always did.
Home.
But as she walked, she couldn’t ignore the feeling that something else was brewing beneath the surface.
Something honest.
Something dangerous.
Something that might ask more of her than she was used to giving.
And she wasn’t sure yet whether she was ready.
- Writer
