My dream as a passionate cook has been to go to Le Cordon Bleu.

Host: The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of a small Parisian kitchen, painting the copper pans in tones of amber and rose gold. The air shimmered with heat and the scent of butter melting in a pan — that sacred smell that makes every memory softer, every moment eternal. Outside, the city hummed — a faint chorus of bicycles, voices, and the occasional church bell.

Host: Jack stood by the counter, his sleeves rolled, a knife in hand. His movements were precise, almost surgical — slices of shallot falling like whispered confessions. Across the room, Jeeny stirred a pot of velouté, her brow furrowed in careful focus. Steam curled around her face like a halo, and her eyes shone with something that wasn’t just concentration — it was devotion.

Host: The radio played faintly — an old French ballad, the kind that lingers like the taste of wine long after the glass is empty.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How one place can make you feel like you’re touching something sacred. I read what Blake Lively said about Le Cordon Bleu — ‘My dream as a passionate cook has been to go to Le Cordon Bleu. Never could my most incredible dream have lived up to the experience.’ She was right. It’s not just cooking. It’s… worship.”

Jack: (smirks, slicing another shallot) “Worship? You talk like this is a cathedral.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “It is, in a way. Look around you — the precision, the discipline, the respect for every grain of salt. It’s not just food, Jack. It’s the art of care made visible.”

Jack: “Art? Or performance? Every perfect soufflé, every elegant plating — it’s all a show. You think chefs at Le Cordon Bleu are chasing purity? They’re chasing perfection. And perfection is just ego with better lighting.”

Host: The pan hissed suddenly, the butter browning to a nutty perfume that filled the room. Jeeny lifted her spoon, stirred once, and exhaled slowly. Her eyes darkened with emotion.

Jeeny: “No. It’s not ego. It’s love. It’s devotion to something bigger than yourself. When you cook — really cook — you stop being the center. It’s the ingredient that matters, the transformation. The way an onion goes from sharp to sweet — that’s not ego, Jack. That’s grace.”

Jack: (sets the knife down, voice steady) “Grace doesn’t feed the world. Precision does. Technique does. You talk about love, but this school — this institution — was built on hierarchy, control, and discipline. You follow the recipe. You don’t dream. That’s not passion — it’s obedience.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And yet, out of that obedience comes beauty.”

Host: The light from the window shifted, turning the steam into ribbons of gold. The room felt suspended in time — the clatter of utensils fading into a kind of reverent silence.

Jack: “You know what I see when I look at this place? A temple for the privileged. The best ingredients, the best tools, the best teachers. Of course it’s easy to talk about beauty here. But what about the kitchens where the oil burns, the hands ache, the cooks don’t have time to taste? There’s passion there too — but no Le Cordon Bleu to sanctify it.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fair. Excellence doesn’t exclude humility. Le Cordon Bleu doesn’t just teach recipes — it teaches respect. For the craft, for the food, for the people who make it. Even in the humblest kitchens, that respect is what binds us.”

Jack: “Respect doesn’t need white aprons and French accents. My mother used to cook with a broken stove and half-empty cupboards, and she still made something sacred. But no one called her a chef. No one applauded her for it.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe she was the truest chef of all.”

Host: Jack’s knife stopped halfway through another cut. For a moment, he didn’t move. The sunlight caught his hands, rough and scarred — hands that had known work, not applause. He looked at Jeeny, and his voice dropped.

Jack: “You really believe cooking can be sacred?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it’s about giving. You take raw things — simple, flawed — and make them into something that nourishes. Isn’t that what life is supposed to be?”

Host: The clock ticked softly above them. Somewhere, a train passed in the distance. The smell of the velouté deepened — butter, thyme, and the faint sweetness of onion.

Jack: “You talk like a poet, Jeeny. But what about when that devotion eats you alive? The chefs who burn out, the students who lose their minds chasing stars — you call it passion, I call it punishment.”

Jeeny: “Every dream costs something. But would you rather never dream at all?”

Jack: (sighs) “I used to dream. About being the best — like those chefs. But when I saw what it took — the hours, the silence, the pain — I realized maybe perfection wasn’t worth the price.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you were chasing the wrong thing.”

Host: The words struck like a soft knife. Jack looked down at his cutting board — the shallots now translucent, shining like pearls in the fading light. He exhaled slowly, as if the weight of years pressed against his chest.

Jack: “What were you chasing, then?”

Jeeny: “Meaning. Not fame. Not stars. Just… the moment when someone tastes what you made and their eyes close — because for one second, the world makes sense again.”

Host: The rain began, gentle at first, a thin veil against the glass. The city blurred, lights becoming streaks of motion and memory. Inside, the two cooks stood surrounded by scent and silence — their conversation simmering like the sauce between them.

Jack: (after a pause) “You know… when I was a kid, I used to watch the old chefs on TV. The way they spoke about food — like it was poetry. I didn’t understand it then. But now… maybe I do.”

Jeeny: “Because food is memory, Jack. It’s the only art that disappears as soon as it’s made — and still leaves something behind.”

Host: The storm outside grew heavier, but the kitchen remained warm, golden, alive. The sauce on the stove thickened, its surface catching the light like silk. Jeeny smiled, lifting her spoon to taste.

Jeeny: “You see? It’s not about perfection. It’s about the care you put into it. That’s what makes Le Cordon Bleu special — not the fame, but the faith in care itself.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Faith in care. That’s a strange kind of religion.”

Jeeny: “The best kind. The one you can taste.”

Host: Jack laughed softly, a sound rare and unguarded. The steam fogged the window, blurring the line between the world outside and the warmth within. He picked up a spoon, dipped it into the velouté, and tasted. His eyes closed.

Jack: “Damn. That’s… perfect.”

Jeeny: “Not perfect. Just honest.”

Host: The rain eased. The sun, slipping through the clouds, cast a faint, forgiving light across the kitchen. Two figures stood in its glow — not master and student, not skeptic and believer — but two souls sharing the quiet grace of creation.

Host: The world beyond their window went on — restless, noisy, hungry — but in that moment, inside that kitchen, there was only warmth, truth, and the gentle sound of something simmering — like a dream finally living, and a heart finally tasting what it means to be alive.