Claude had made a living from his nose. Literally. A bit hooked like an eagle's -- or a Jew's, his mother sometimes lamented -- Claude's nose had guided him through the finest culinary schools in all of Paris. He could identify any spice from just one whiff. He could tell you how a dish would taste -- too spicy, too sour, just sweet enough, not quite finished -- before taking a single bite. All because of his remarkable nose.
But after the accident, the scents had become muddied, his nose confused. Was that saffron, or sage? Pepper, or parsimmon? He could no longer distinguish one from the other, and he feared what this would mean for his career. No longer a head chef but a critic, how could his opinion be trusted? He was like Monet, painting even as he was going blind, or Beethoven, composing despite his deafness. But could he pull it off, as those gentleman had? Would he go down in the history books, or just go down?
These are the things he tried not to think about as he walked up the path to his daughter's house for dinner.
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