The plate sat on the pass in Julian's kitchen, and it had sat there for seven years, growing more perfect and more inedible with every iteration.
It was a dish that consisted of fourteen elements. Fourteen. Not thirteen. Not fifteen. Fourteen, each one placed with a precision that bordered on the inhuman: a quenelle of parsnip puree, positioned at precisely a forty-five degree angle. Seven translucent slices of line-caught halibut, arranged in a fan pattern with exactly two millimeters of separation between each slice. A garnish of micro...
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