A drop of red dye plopped into the vat of white frosting faster than Chef Michel could realize a drop of red dye had even gone rogue. A quick evaluation of the options followed.
One drop of dye isn’t enough to color an entire batch of frosting, he thought. The frosting, for the most part, would remain white. Any red sections could be scooped out with the trusty wooden spoon or, if it came to it, with the sly sweep of a finger. The region surrounding the drop was remaining clear, though, so Michel pushed a sizable glob of white over the flaw and sheathed his digit once again.
“Where eez theh frausteeng?!” screamed Chef Jean Paul. “Cheffe Meechelle! Thee cack muste be frausted beefore it cools if we arre to acheeve the prauper densitee!”
“It’s here, Chef Jean Paul! I have the whole vat prepared!”
“Eet ees white?”
“Yes, Chef Jean Paul! Bright and clear!”
Chef Jean Paul sniffed a glance into the vat, scanning it for the slightest hint of Michel’s incompetence. Nothing. Nothing obvious.
“Hmmph,” he hmmphed. “Stirre it waunce more to be sure eet ees pearfecte. Madame President weel eexpect nahthing less.”
The masking glob was weaker than Michel had expected. Red was bleeding through at a crawl for now, but any stirring would blow the whole thing. Michel spun the vat out of Jean Paul’s sight and reached for his chef’s spoon. A quick evaluation of the options followed.
To murder Chef Jean Paul as a means of hiding his mistake would only provoke more attention, and likely turn more foods red, which would in turn require more cover-up murdering. The kitchen was on the basement level, which meant no windows were available for a proper escape, and he had just used the bathroom a scant five minutes before, which made that excuse to leave downright unusable.
“Stir eet!” Chef Jean Paul belted. “We are late alreedy!”
Michel plunged the wooden spoon into the frosting and stirred. Just as he expected, the red pock split and spread like wildfire around the vat, morphing the pure white ever-so-slightly into a gentle pink. All told, it was actually rather pretty. Much prettier than the white, actually. Against the creamy tan of the unfrosted cake, it would make a wonderful complement and provide a more inviting contrast than a generic blank slate would. Chef Jean Paul was a fool. Pink was playing gangbusters.
He stirred and stirred, pleased with the unexpected byproduct of his ineptitude. But as he stirred (and stirred), the pink grew fainter again, swallowed back into the depths of the thick white frosting. As quickly as it had come, it was gone again. Back to stupid, boring white.
“Here,” Michel said, thrusting the vat into Chef Jean Paul’s pasty arms. “Clear and bright, just as you requested.”
Another sniffed glance.
“Eet is bare-ly perfect, but eet weel have to do.”
Jean Paul slopped a batch onto the cake, easing the frosting over every visible inch of confection. The whole thing was done before Chef Michel even realized it was starting.
With the enthusiasm of a dying wildebeest, Michel loaded the finished work onto a gleaming silver cart and pushed it down the hall into the ballroom. Fanfare followed him all the way to its resting point by the other desserts in the buffet, guests lauding the ingenuity and inspiration of Chef Jean Paul’s latest creation. Jean Paul himself wasn’t far behind to capture the accolades as they fell.
Michel left the cake to its audience and slunked back to the kitchen, quiet and empty. He cleaned the bowls and the spoons, swept the floor clear and organized the ingredients back to their places, save for the small vial of red food dye which shouldn’t have even been out to begin with.
He pocketed it gently and flicked off the light switch. Maybe tomorrow pink.
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