The Hidden Recipe

The blaring hum of the restaurant’s neon sign outside the window was the only splash of color against the gray evening drizzle. “Golden Dynasty” it read in bold, flickering red letters, promising diners the finest authentic Asian cuisine in the city. Eddie Tan adjusted his stiff borrowed tie, his throat tightening like a noose. His reflection in the glass—a wiry man in an ill-fitting blazer with jet-black hair slicked back—stared at him like a stranger. “Confidence, Eddie,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re not broke. You’re not desperate. You’re just…creative.” He clutched the résumé in his hand, damp from his clammy grip. Two pages of blatant fiction. Culinary school in Singapore. Sous-chef experience at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Seoul. A made-up internship under Chef Hwan Lee. Every line was a lie, but it was meticulously crafted, like a good dumpling—on the surface, seamless and appetizing, but packed with a chaos he prayed wouldn’t spill out. The restaurant door jingled as he pushed it open. The air inside was warm and fragrant with soy, ginger, and the faint smokiness of a hot wok. The polished mahogany floors gleamed, and the soft murmur of diners filled the space. It was nothing like the greasy takeout joints Eddie was used to frequenting. A sharp voice sliced through his thoughts. “You’re late.” Eddie turned to see a woman standing at the hostess podium. She was petite but intimidating, her short bob framing a pair of piercing eyes. Mei Wong, the restaurant manager, had a reputation as a no-nonsense perfectionist who ruled the kitchen with an iron wok. “Sorry, traffic,” Eddie lied, his stomach churning. Mei’s eyes scanned him, lingering a moment too long on his scuffed shoes. “Follow me,” she said briskly, turning on her heel. Eddie trailed her through the bustling kitchen, his senses assaulted by the cacophony of knives chopping, woks hissing, and chefs barking orders in a symphony of controlled chaos. Every station was manned by someone who clearly knew what they were doing. Eddie swallowed hard. Mei stopped in front of an older man wielding a cleaver with the precision of a surgeon. His chef’s coat was immaculate despite the flurry of activity around him. This was Chef Zhang, the heart and soul of Golden Dynasty, revered for his artistry and feared for his temper. “This is Eddie Tan, our new chef,” Mei said curtly. Chef Zhang looked up, his sharp eyes boring into Eddie. “Singapore, huh?” he said in Mandarin, his tone skeptical. “What’s your specialty?” Eddie’s brain scrambled. Mandarin wasn’t his strongest suit, but he’d rehearsed this moment. “Xiao long bao,” he replied confidently, naming soup dumplings he’d only ever eaten, not made. Chef Zhang’s eyebrows twitched upward. “Impressive. We’ll see if you live up to your résumé.” He gestured to a workstation. “Show me.” Eddie’s heart dropped to his stomach. Now? Mei handed him an apron. “Welcome to the team,” she said, but her tone suggested this was anything but a warm embrace. Eddie took his place at the workstation, his palms sweating. The ingredients were laid out: pork, ginger, green onions, and a neatly rolled ball of dough. He stared at them like they were alien artifacts. He’d watched a dozen YouTube videos the night before, but his hands felt clumsy, foreign. He pinched the dough, shaping a rough circle, and spooned the filling in the center. The edges wobbled as he tried to fold the pleats. A shadow loomed over him. Chef Zhang watched, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The first dumpling split open on the counter. The second collapsed in his hands. By the third, Eddie’s fingers were trembling. “Enough,” Chef Zhang barked. He grabbed the dough from Eddie’s hands and folded a perfect dumpling in seconds, his movements fluid and precise. “This is not a joke,” Zhang said, his voice low and cutting. “We serve excellence here, not mediocrity.” Eddie nodded, his face burning. He was sure they could all hear the pounding of his heart. “Clean up,” Mei ordered. “You’re on prep duty tonight.” Eddie spent the rest of the shift peeling garlic, chopping onions, and praying he wouldn’t be discovered. Each moment felt like walking a tightrope over a canyon, and he had no safety net. When the clock struck midnight, the kitchen finally began to wind down. Eddie stood in the alley behind the restaurant, his hands red and raw from scrubbing pots. As he leaned against the cold brick wall, exhaustion weighing on him, one thought consumed his mind. “I have to make this work. Somehow.”