Jollof Love

6 - Toxic Flavourings

Folarin jogged into the massive structure that was The Rouge Effect once he parked his car. The bright white walls still didn't sit right with him as he walked down the passage way, something he had mentioned about with Chef Rouge as sharing similarities to a mental facility. Needless to say, the Chef didn't take kindly to that statement, and had him punished by cooking for eight hours straight.

Folarin tilted his cap in greeting to the female students that walked past him, and he smiled when he heard the not-so-hushed compliments that followed after. He was Folarin Ade-Cole, the known mentee of the Chef Rouge himself, there was a certain pride that came with that.

Chef Rouge prided himself on the Institute's pristine symphony of elegance and efficiency. As Folarin peeked into different classes, he could see the gleaming stainless steel appliances and countertops. The aroma of spices lingered in the air as the clinking of utensils accompanies the sizzling of pans, creating an atmosphere alive with culinary creativity. Modern light fixtures hung from high ceilings, casting a warm glow on the meticulously organized kitchens.

Rows of pictures added colours to the walls, and the more Folarin walked, the more he passed by pictures of past students of the institute, the successes of the institute, and many of the likes. He knew where to find Chef Rouge at that time of the day, and as he opened the black double doors to one of the largest classes, he met Chef Rouge alone there, several papers before him as he wrote.

Chef Rouge looked up, the strictness of his persona carved into the impassiveness of his face. His beard and hair were peppered with flecks of grey, and a face that showed he spent good money on skincare as well as food. He would have been a catch if he wasn't looking perpetually like he wanted to murder someone, and those eyes were currently trained on Folarin.

"What's up, Chef?" Folarin said as a greeting.

"Do me a favour Folarin, would you?" Came the Chef's accented voice. It was not quite foreign, yet not quite Nigerian, but in the middle of the two accents. "Help me check today's date."

"February 31st." Folarin answered. He took the stool directly opposite the Chef, and the Chef didn't stop in his writing.

"Answer the question, Fola," the Chef ordered.

"It's March 3, Chef." Folarin answered correctly.

"You could have fooled me into thinking it was April 1st," Chef Rouge said. "Because that cast on your hand must be a joke."

"This?" Folarin raised the cast hand. "Give it a few days, it's nothing."

Chef Rouge's pen screeched on his notepad. Steely eyes met Folarin's.

"Your hands are not 'nothing'", he said. "And I expect more carefulness from you most especially. Tell me how you got that."

"We went climbing..."

"Climbing?" Chef Rouge scoffed. "You are unserious, Fola. When between you making the decision to do that and actually going through with it did you stop and realize it was an idiotic move?"

"When I remembered the video I watched of a lady using her legs to cook," Folarin said. "Are you telling me right now that I only need my hands when that cute young lady online is making waves and cooking exquisite dishes using her feet? Is that it, Chef?"

Chef's Rouge's left eye twitched. Folarin dared to give a satisfied grin.

"Did you see the article the food critic wrote about you?" Chef Rouge asked instead and resumed writing.

"No," Folarin pulled out his phone. He browsed out his name, and sure enough, there was a new article on him. Quietly, he read through it.

"Well?" Chef Rouge said after some time.