Abby

My heart pounds as the room goes quiet. What on earth is happening right now?

We’re all looking at each other—me, Karl, John, and the homeless man. His eyes meet mine, full of a sort

of knowing energy that leaves me speechless. Is this a joke? He really has experience cooking with black

truffles, some of the rarest and most expensive in the world?

“You look confused, so I’ll explain,” he says, smiling through his beard. “I was once a chef in France and

Italy. Emphasis on was. But I’ve still got my skills.”

Karl scoffs, breaking the silence. “You’ve got to be kidding me. A chef? You expect us to believe that?”

The man just shrugs, a tiny smile on his lips. “Believe what you want. I know how to cook with black

truffles, and you, my friends, are missing a crucial ingredient. That’s all I’m saying.”

Enter title…

“Yeah, right. What’s next?

Karl a glance. His skepticism is understandable, but there’s

the sincerity in his eyes, or maybe it’s the unexpected way that

there’s even the tiniest chance that he knows something, then

in hearing him out?” I

it conveys how genuinely curious I am. “I mean, we’re stumped, aren’t

idea, but nods. “Fine, whatever. It’s not like

this

finally speaks. “I say let’s

have to lose?”

hands in the air. “My last shred of sanity, probably. But go on, enlighten us, Chef…

should we call you?”

just call me Anton,” the man replies, seemingly unperturbed by

arms crossed, intrigued. “So, Anton, you were a chef in

with black truffles often?”

if he’s back in a different

few Michelin-starred restaurants in France and Italy.

times than I

the room changes. My eyes meet Karl’s for a moment;

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