Le Camus

by Eddie Gibson

In the spring of 2045, the restaurant Le Camus was awarded its first Michelin star. Less than two hundred establishments in all of Paris were bestowed with such an honor. At the well-seasoned age of 60, after half a lifetime of blood, sweat, and tears, my restaurant—my pride and joy—had finally made it big.

With the newfound recognition came newfound problems. My little restaurant found itself bursting at the seams with the influx of customers. Reservations filled up for months in advance. People were arriving hours before we opened just to get a table.

So, we adapted. Adapt or die, I say.

We received approval to add tables in the park adjacent to the restaurant. I hired a Chef de Tournant, two Commis Chefs, and promoted Louis to Entremetier Chef de Partie. Of course, we also doubled the number of wait staff. The restaurant opened two hours earlier and stayed open two hours later. When that still wasn’t enough, I begrudgingly decided that we add lunchtime hours, stretching our already hectic days into something nightmarish.

It was in the midst of all this chaos, in the fall of '45—Wednesday, 20 September at 21h03 to be exact—when my head waiter Jacques Gagnon erupted through the kitchen door to give me some terrible news.

"Marc-Henri!" Jacques yelled from across the room. His voice cut like a knife through my kitchen. All eyes darted to him as he raced toward me with his index finger waggling through the air. “It’s a reviewer! A Michelin reviewer! He says he’s going to remove our star if he doesn’t see you right away!”

I passed off a perfectly presented confit de canard into the expectant hand of a server. I made eye contact with my Sous Chef and then addressed everyone, “Simone has the kitchen.”

My second-in-command nodded to me, swiveled on her heel, and started barking orders to rebalance the workload and control the chaos as best she could.

Jacques was already waiting for me with his hand on the door. “Alright, let’s go,” I said.

My eyes needed a moment to adjust from the kitchen’s fluorescent lights, shiny stainless steel, and bright, white tile flooring to the dining room’s dimmer mood lighting with dark wood furniture. I often forgot how much quieter it was out here.

While my vision returned, I thought to myself that this didn’t make sense. Michelin reviewers were anonymous and showed up unannounced. The company itself even recommended they don’t tell their families what they did for a living so as to not influence their work or bias their ratings. This was highly irregular.

I'm only three paces back when I heard Jacques say, "Je vous présente le propriétaire de Le Camus, le Chef de Cuisine, Monsieur Marc-Henri Durand." In one graceful, fluid motion, he bowed slightly, gestured to me with his outstretched arm, and then turned and walked away.

“Bonsoir Monsieur. Je suis Marc-Henri. Que puis-je faire pour vous?”

I looked down at a pudgy boy in a man’s body, a late adolescent of maybe twenty years. His only dining guest: a large tablet emitting an offensive glow tainting the ambiance. It highlighted the champagne color of his hair and cast ghastly shadows across his glasses and crude features. As he rose, I noticed he was wearing a gray hoodie with block letters filled red as the wine still in his glass: MIT.

“Gil Ridley, pleasure to meet ya,” he said in English. Even before the country twang in his drawl infiltrated my ears, I knew he was américain.

“Bonsoir Monsieur. Je suis Gil Ridley. Enchanté,” a different male voice spoke in perfect French. My eyes searched for the source, finally settling on the watch on his wrist.

“Oh, ya like that? The Google ain't translate southern-speak right, so I whipped this up a couple years back. Now I ain’t gotta talk different.” Gil said and the watch translated. “Even helped get me into MIT, but I eventually dropped out.”

Even though I’m also fluent in English, I decided to continue to speak to the impudent foreigner in French. “C'est intéressant,” I replied. I was intrigued by the tech, but still very annoyed.

“I’mma cut straight to it, I’m not a reviewer. Now I’m mighty sorry I had to lie to Jack ‘bout that, but you didn’t come out when I asked to speak to the head honcho, so I had to make somethin’ up.”

We both waited for a moment for the watch to finish speaking.

The confession started my blood boiling, but I knew I had to keep a level head, especially in front of a packed dining room. I repeated, “Que puis-je faire pour vous?”

Just as I realized the watch didn't translate French to English, Gil brushed back the blonde locks from over his ear to point at an electronic earbud there.

“What can ya do for me—right. Look, this is some of the best darn food I’ve ever had. I’m workin’ on an autonomous food processin,’ meal preppin’ device—a robot chef, if you will. I want yer help with the finishin’ touches.”

I scoffed involuntarily—a momentary lapse in composure. “Merci pour les compliments sur la nourriture.”

He whispered whatever his earbuds must be telling him: “Thank you…compliments…food.”

“Ma réponse est non. Au revoir,” I said and turned away.

“Wait, why? Please!”

I didn’t want to cause a scene, so I turned back. "Vous êtes arrogant de penser qu'un robot peut faire le travail d'un chef."

“I'm arrogant to think a robot can do a chef's job? Well, yer arrogant to think one can't!" He paused. I was taken aback, partly because he was right. "Look, I'm mighty sorry 'bout that li'l outburst. Maybe yer right. Maybe I'm un'erestimatin' it. See, yer already learnin' me somethin.' I have a workin' prototype, just need someone like you to help wit' the finishin' touches. What'd'ya say?"

"Toujours pas," I replied.

"Still no? M'kay. Well, what would change yer mind?"

Despite his insolence, he was very persistent. And if I'm being honest with myself, the thought of seeing a prototype robotic chef did sound compelling.

"Pourquoi moi? Pourquoi mon restaurant?"

"Why you? Well, yer food is the best I've ever had! I've been comin' here every day for a week, and I wait damn near three hours each time to get a seat. Why yer restaurant? The name. Le Cam-us, it means 'the snub.' I kinda feel like I've been snubbed my whole life, ya know?"

"Le Ka-moo!" I corrected him and his stupid watch. It doesn't even mean ‘snub,’ but I didn’t want to waste my breath correcting more. If he couldn’t figure out the pronunciation or meaning of the restaurant's name, there was no way he'd be able to make a robot that could replace a chef.

"Le Camus," he stated correctly. "I'm mighty sorry, mister Durand. I deeply apologize for everything. I mean no offense, honest to God. You don't wanna help, I get'cha. How 'bout this: would you do me the honor of walkin' through yer kitchen? Just a li'l tour—twenty minutes, then I'll be outta yer hair?"

I contemplated his proposition. On the one hand, I've tolerated a lot of offense from this buffoon. On the other hand, he had become a regular customer. I felt the growing number of eyes on us from fellow patrons, so I decided to oblige to be rid of him. “Dix, et rester à l'écart.”

“Alright, ten minutes it is. Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of the way.”

Gil followed me into the kitchen. As we walked through the door, the fluorescent lights attacked our eyes. The kitchen was bustling with the usual evening activities. We sauntered through the hive as I described its operations.

By the entrance, the dishwashers were scraping off plates. The clinks, clanks, and shings of glasses, dishes, and utensils initiated a non-stop auditory assault.

Just beyond that was the Entremetier station, the engine of the kitchen. The Legumier was adding sliced hard-boiled eggs to a salade Niçoise. Two Commis Chefs were chopping garlic, onions, potatoes, parsnips, leeks, tomatoes, and all of the other vegetables we needed for every dish. The Potager was tasting her consommé—a luxurious, flavorful, clear broth soup.

Adjacent to her was the Poissonnier fileting an eel to add to the carp in our matelote fish stew. The Rotisseur was turning a châteaubriand, nearly halfway there to medium-rare.

Gil seemed to be studying everything, hopefully realizing how impossible it would be to replicate all this with a machine.

“What’s that?” Gil asked, pointing to a large wooden mask, seemingly out of place. It was hung prominently in the center of the back wall of the kitchen.

As he studied the mask, I explained that it hailed from Mali. My ancestors would wear it during a funeral to ensure safe passage of the dead to the afterlife. It was made of African blackwood, representing death, and the white-painted markings represented the next life. I loved the absurdity of a symbol of death in a place of so much vibrancy.

By now, we were stopped in front of the Patissier's assortment of desserts in various stages of completion. Apple tarte Tatin, crème au caramel, mousses, and canelés. I picked up a completed babas au rhum, a yeast cake coated with apricot preserves cooked in a decadent rum syrup.

"Ah, mon préféré," I told Gil.

The aromas wafting throughout la cuisine were delectable.

"Y'all are impressive, like a well-oiled machine," Gil said.

At this end of the kitchen, tuxedo-clad servers expertly balanced meals up their arms, carrying them with the skill of acrobatic circus performers through the door and onto the tables before hungry customers. I handed the babas au rhum to the nearest server.

"Compliments du chef," I said to Gil. "Escorte Gil à sa table," I tasked the server. I held the door open for both of them. "Au revoir, Gil Ridley. Enchanté."

"That's mighty kind of ya. Thank you so much. I really 'preciate it."

I allowed the door to close between us and let out a sigh of relief. After washing my hands, I donned my apron and retook control of the kitchen from Simone.

Due to the tragic accident, I would see Gil Ridley only once more in my lifetime.

Several days later, Gil arrived very late for dinner and lingered at his table until around midnight. He told the staff that he wanted to speak to me again but was willing to wait until closing, so I made him do just that.

When I came out to see him, he told me he had done it—his robot chef prototype was finished and he eagerly wanted me to see it. Of course, I resisted, but Gil isn't the type to take no for an answer. Eventually, I agreed to check it out after I closed up the restaurant.

It was a short walk to the Airbnb where Gil was staying. He opened the door to a modern penthouse so spacious it could comfortably fit my entire team. The first thing I noticed was through the windows of the back terrace: a breathtaking view of la tour Eiffel, the Iron Lady resplendent in her dress of lights. From floor, to furniture, to ceiling, everything in the apartment was various shades of white or gray. Sterile with a view.

In the center of the open space that was meant for the living and dining area stood a contrasting companion to la dame de fer. “I call him KITCH: the Kitchen Integrated Technological Chef Helper.”

As I oogled its sleek, sophisticated exterior, Gil described it in detail. He still wore the watch and earbud that translated everything into French.

"It's stainless steel, same as the surfaces in a commercial kitchen. The plastic parts in black were 3D printed but will be porcelain or ceramic in the next iteration. These work areas are where the vegetables are chopped and meat and seafood prepared.” Gil droned on about the different areas and functions of KITCH, but he didn’t need to. I immediately recognized that they resembled smaller versions of the workspace stations in my restaurant.

By this point, I was no longer listening to Gil. I was too busy studying dozens of pictures displayed in little rectangular boxes on a screen that stretched the length of the wall.

“What are those pictures?” I pressed him, in English.

“Well, look who speaks English!” he genuinely looked surprised. "Guess I don't need these anymore," he said as he took off his translator watch and earbud.

“I am just as surprised that you can speak it properly. Now, where did you get those pictures?”

"I came to your restaurant every day and ordered a different item off the menu. I took pictures of every dish from multiple angles as data points for KITCH. I programmed him to compare his work with the pictures of your finished dishes. The AI algorithms learned quickly."

I was flabbergasted. He stole my entire menu.

"These pictures here in the blue boxes are the data points from your restaurant. The images in the green boxes are the dishes KITCH made. You'll find there's a 90% correlation between them. I could have programmed it for 100%, but it slowed him down too much. Perfection tends to do that. Great is good enough, you know?"

That explained most of them, but not all. "What about these pictures from inside my kitchen?"

“The glasses I wore that night,” he said, pointing to them charging on a countertop by the front door. “They house eight 100-gigapixel lenses with multi-depth autofocus. I could generate a perfect three-dimensional virtual replica of your kitchen. I mapped some of your workers' movements to his articulating parts using a best fit algorithm…and…I got…this."

He pushed a couple of buttons on one of the touchscreens. KITCH dispensed an onion and started chopping away. A video popped up on the large screen on the wall with Julienne's hands superimposed on KITCH's blade.

“Of course, there’s a lot of assumptions and extrapolations due to the limited amount of data I could collect. The same pair of glasses are integrated into KITCH, right there,” he pointed to the head.

Limited? He’s taken everything from me. Some of my dishes literally took decades to perfect. Muscle memory that took a lifetime to hone he stole in seconds.

“Oh, here. Let me show you something.” He pulled up a menu on a touchscreen and pushed a button.

The machine whirred to life. Various ingredients came scuttling out of different compartments. Eggs, flour, yeast, sugar, and more. An assortment of bowls, whisks, spatulas appeared and disappeared quickly. Despite that, I easily knew what it was preparing. In less than thirty minutes, Gil handed me something that takes nearly three hours to bake.

“Babas au rhum,” Gil said with a wide smile. “Your favorite.”

I took a bite. It had slightly less structure, but overall it was good. Put-me-out-of-business good. I had to do something about this.

“Gil, this is excellent. You’re going to do very well for yourself with KITCH—”

“Damn right, I am. My li'l tech company completed Series A as a unicorn. That's a billion dollars, post-money valuation. There's a whole lotta VC's back home who think I can do this."

“—But, this isn’t right. You stole all of this. You even appropriated my heritage, designing its face to look like the blackwood mask in my kitchen.”

“Oh, right. I know that’ll never make it past the marketing team, but I thought it a nice homage to you and your restaurant, The Snub.”

“I named my restaurant Le Camus after the great French writer and philosopher Albert Camus.” I walked over to KITCH. “He wrote that existence is absurd, that life lacks meaning or a higher purpose.”

“Wait, you named your restaurant after some guy who said life is meaningless?”

“I did. When I was about your age, I worked as a butcher. I hacked up countless animals and seafood.” I unscrewed a wing nut and plucked the chef knife from its mooring. “That’s where I developed an understanding of the absurdity of life and also some of the skills necessary on my journey of becoming a chef.” I held the knife up to the light, then set it down on a platform on the machine. “The chef knife is my favorite knife. Strong. Versatile. It looks a bit dull so you probably want to sharpen it before using it again.”

“Ok, thanks,” Gil said, but kept his distance.

I walked around to the side of the machine. “You want to know the hardest, but most satisfying animal to prepare? They’re all over the world, I’m sure you have them in the states. In France, we call them le voleur.”

“What’s that, like a vole mouse?”

“Exactly. Like a rat. It is a delicacy even better than escargot.”

Gil looked visibly disgusted.

“I think we can teach KITCH to make it,” I said as I powered off the machine. The small, red LED by its ‘eyes’ faded to black. “The tricky part about le voleur is that they’re really oily and slippery, like an otter.” I walk around to the front of the machine. “But, if you can get KITCH to drop it right here,” I point to the Rotisseur station. “I think it’ll work.”

Gil walked over to see where I was pointing.

“You see that small crevice there,” I point even closer with my left hand.

Gil inches his head nearer. “You mean—”

I drove the chef knife into his neck with my right hand. Cervical bones crunched and tendons popped. His limp body hit the Rotisseur station with a thud. “Le voleur means thief.” I removed the knife, thoroughly cleaned it, and reattached it to KITCH. As a butcher turned chef, I knew my way around a bloody workspace. I took expert care to remove all traces that I was here.

I walked around to the side of the machine and flipped the switch back on. When the touchscreens powered on, I punched in an order for steak tartare and walked away. I heard the various blades and gadgets pummeling Gil’s lifeless body. I turned back to see blood spurting and splattering all over KITCH and the replica of my African funerary mask. Crimson sprayed over black.

The same blood red color of the LED on the side of the pair of glasses on the countertop.

Life is absurd indeed.