For three years, I was the exclusive taste tester for a top chef. The irony was that I had no sense of taste.
He cherished me above all else, cooking for me every day and gently asking, “Weiwei, is it good?”
I copied the way his unattainable first love looked, smiling as I lied to him. “A Yan’s cooking is the best.”
Then, on his birthday, he held another woman in his arms and pointed at the surveillance footage of me, laughing contemptuously.
“See? I trained her pretty well, didn’t I?”
“She’s a fake with no sense of taste, yet even the curve of her smile is exactly like A Nian’s.”
Later, he recreated his first love’s favorite dish and handed it to me in front of everyone, telling me to eat it.
But he didn’t know that my sense of taste had already returned.
I grabbed the dish and smashed it over his head.
“Gu Yan, your cooking is just like you: disgusting and hard to stomach!”
