[Short Story] The Solitary Chef (Revised Edition)

People call me the "solitary chef."
I currently work as the head chef of a high-end restaurant that holds stars in the Michelin Guide.
I hold high ideals, manage the restaurant with a detached attitude, and provide strict guidance.
That is only natural if one is to provide supreme cuisine.
To provide the best hospitality to our customers, I allow no compromises.

"Solitary" means lonely.
I am aware of that, and I feel a little lonely. I wonder if I am misunderstood in some way.
I believe that one day my feelings will reach all the staff, but I rarely feel any sign of that. It is a source of worry, but I am trusted by the president, and the restaurant is thriving.
No one argues, and I do not let them. The results speak for everything.

I once scolded one of the staff members.
They were grinning. I asked them, "Aren't you frustrated?"
I was asking myself.
Do you think it's fine to stay as you are? If you are frustrated, show it in your attitude and express it through your actions. Everyone makes mistakes. What matters is how you utilize those mistakes. What is necessary to continue growing every day is just one mindset.

The reason I became a chef is my mother's cooking.
I was raised in a single-parent household, and I was her only child. From a young age, I felt my mother's hardships. Even so, she never stopped smiling and raised me. In particular, my mother's home cooking was made with a good balance of limited ingredients, and above all, it was delicious. I began to want to make delicious food like my mother. I wanted to study cooking and reduce my mother's burden as well.

"Why is this so delicious?"
I once asked my mother the reason. One of her part-time jobs was at a set-meal restaurant run by a childhood friend, and she had learned to cook from that couple, improving her skills. She was originally good at cooking, and the fact that she was appreciated by that couple could be gathered from my conversations with my mother.

By the time I became a restaurant manager, she had quit her part-time jobs other than this set-meal restaurant, and even at the set-meal restaurant, her working hours were cut in half. My income was enough for us to live on, and my mother had been working for so long that her body was screaming.

At some point, I began to feel a growing sense of dissatisfaction with my mother's cooking.
My mother's cooking did not go beyond the taste of home. Rather, I would sometimes see flaws. I was someone who thought, "If you did this, it would be more delicious," or "It would be better if you did that." As a chef, my palate had become refined, and I could no longer purely enjoy my mother's taste. That is the only thing I regret about becoming a chef.

One day, there was a big argument over the "nikujaga" (meat and potato stew) my mother made. I interfered with what my mother had made and tried to teach her a way to make it more delicious, but my mother argued back. Since then, she stopped making nikujaga. It reminds me of that argument. That night, I couldn't sleep, with thoughts running through my head like, "If I hadn't become a chef, this might not have happened," or "Was this the right thing to do?"

I had visited the set-meal restaurant where my mother worked and had eaten there, but they served very ordinary home cooking. It was the kind of food you could find anywhere, and while I felt the love in it, I didn't feel it was worth going out of my way to eat as a meal out.

When I was working at the restaurant, I received a phone call. It was from the manager of the apartment building where I lived.
According to the story, the wife of the set-meal restaurant where my mother worked had called because my mother hadn't arrived at her shift time, but she couldn't get in touch with her. This had never happened before. There was no answer when she rang the doorbell. Since the door was locked, she was worried and had rushed to the manager to ask for help. She was asking for consent to open the door, which is why they contacted me. Of course, I agreed, and they went inside to check. There, my mother was found collapsed in the kitchen. It was already too late.

After my mother's funeral, when I was given a few days of bereavement leave from the restaurant, I went to the set-meal restaurant where my mother worked to pay my respects.
When I entered the shop, I expressed my gratitude once again, just as I had at the funeral.

Inside the shop, I ordered several dishes.
"It's more delicious than before, isn't it?"
"It really is delicious. Did you change something?"
"Your mother taught me. That with a little ingenuity, it becomes this delicious."
"So that's what happened."
"Your mother was always so happy that you became a chef."
"Did my mother say things like that?"
"It's nothing special, but did it suit your palate?"
"It's very delicious. Everything, every single dish."
"I often studied cooking together with your mother."
"It's like, home cooking, a nostalgic taste."
"Well, it is your mother's taste, after all. Especially the nikujaga."
"I never thought nikujaga could be this delicious. Somehow... I miss my mother..."

"Excuse me for a moment. I'm going outside."
"Go ahead."

When I left the shop, I thought from the bottom of my heart that I was glad I had brought a handkerchief.
My wailing would not stop.

(End) 1990 characters in the main text

I am participating in the "Everything Lost Literary Award" hosted by Kaoru Hanazawa.