A Recipe Without Taste
When Luc Moreau, one of Paris’s most celebrated chefs, suddenly loses his sense of taste, his life and career are left in ruins. As he withdraws from the world that once revered him, a gentle push from his estranged sister leads him to a community cooking class where flavor is only one ingredient among many. Through unexpected friendships and the rediscovery of the true meaning of food, Luc learns to savor life again—even without taste.
The Flavorless Fall
The first quiver came during the amuse-bouche course. Luc’s hands trembled—only a whisper, the kind of tremor other chefs might blame on lack of sleep or too many espressos. But Luc had spent years training his body to obey, like a pianist bending each finger to the keys. He paused, resting his knife on the cutting board sprawled with radishes, their thin pink-lipped skin threatening to split beneath a single careless movement.
A glance at the mirror-polished pass showed the brigade moving with satisfaction. The kitchen had the oleaginous gleam of high performance. Out in the dining room, laughter rose in triumphant arcs. The mayor of Paris herself was due at table forty-two; it was to be the most significant night of the year.
Luc braced himself. Tasting spoon. Crème fouettée—delicately infused with tarragon and a dusting of lemon zest. He raised the spoon to his lips, swallowing without thought. Then he froze.
Nothing. No brightness, no green tang, no sharp citrus note. Just coolness, the vaguest breadth of cream on his tongue.
He set the spoon down with a click. No one seemed to notice. He tried again, tasting a splatter of bisque, expecting the thundering salinity of shellfish, the wine’s heat. Again—nothing.
The world shrank around him. Luc pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, desperate for evidence of flavor. Thoughts tumbled: Maybe I’m coming down with something. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe the kitchen needs rewiring.
He forced himself to keep moving, barking orders he couldn’t quite hear himself say. The sweating junior sous chef missed a garnish; Luc corrected him, but with a growing sense he was mouthing someone else’s script. Each course felt alien, as if it arrived from some other kitchen. When the mayor and her entourage began their main, Luc watched for their reactions, fighting to read pleasure or disappointment in the press of lips, the tiniest arch of a brow.
He made it to service’s end with his limbs heavy and heart scurrying. When the kitchen finally emptied, Luc allowed himself to lean against the counter. Silence pressed in; overhead lights flickered like dying stars. He wiped sweat from his forehead, tasted salt, but nothing else. It was as if the universe had stolen something fundamental.
At home that night, Luc’s world contracted to the paper-thin walls of his apartment. Every surface here spoke of order: clean white tiles, spice jars alphabetized, knives hanging immaculate in their magnetic grip. Yet tonight his hands shook opening the refrigerator door. He assembled a plate—guérande butter, aged cheese, a sliver of fig chutney, bread with a crackling crust—and tasted each in turn. Still nothing. The cheese, musty and sharp as a slap in any other life, tasted of only texture. Butter was but a smear of fat. Even the chutney, with its syrupy tang, conjured up only memory.
He pulled each jar of spice from the rack and dusted them on his tongue: smoked paprika, cumin, the ghost of cinnamon. None gave up their secrets. Luc pressed his back against the cold tile and slid to the floor, his knees at awkward angles. His restaurant, his reputation, his life had spun on this sense—a world now blank.
He woke the next morning to a pounding headache and the dull ache of hope. Yet at the hospital, the stark fluorescent lights and staid white walls only made him feel more exposed. The doctor’s questions struck him as meaningless. When did you first notice? Are you otherwise congested? Do you feel tingling on your tongue? Luc answered with monosyllables. He saw the doctor exchange a glance with the nurse—sympathy, not understanding.
The diagnosis came after a series of tests and a spare, technical explanation. Post-viral anosmia, with likely permanent ageusia. The doctor tried to offer comfort: Some patients recover with time. Others manage with scent, with texture. Luc heard only the clinical terms, felt only the verdict—bereft of flavor.
Just like that, the city’s shimmering array of food lost its allure. Walking home, Luc passed boulangeries and cafés—the bright tang of sourdough, the heady perfume of coffee, croissants still warm from the oven—all now closed off behind a wall of glass. He hurried back to his apartment, ignoring the raspberry-mouthed barista who called his name.
In the days that followed, his phone shrilled with calls: staff, journalists, even his sister Elise. Luc let them all go to voicemail. The world, even his own flesh and blood, became an intrusion. He lay on the couch with the curtains drawn, cocooned in gray. At night, dreams came of crowded dining rooms, effusive applause, the sunlit kitchen where, as a boy, he'd first crushed herbs under his thumb and marveled at their hidden power. He would wake gasping, tongue searching for flavors lost forever.
The next week, he found himself drifting to the stove—old muscle memory launching him into action. He lined up ingredients, set a pan to warm, and attempted a classic velouté. But as he moved through the ritual—deglazing with wine, whisking in butter, seasoning and tasting—he found nothing to guide him. He seasoned by rote, going through the motions. When at last he plated his sauce and took a bite, it was like eating air. A choke of frustration knotted his throat. He dumped the entire dish in the sink, a milky swirl going down the drain, followed by another, and another.
He stopped going to the restaurant. Stopped responding to texts from his sous chefs—young, hungry, and now, he suspected, circling like wolves. When a journalist from Le Monde surfaced on his doorstep, Luc stared at them through the peephole until they gave up. Some days, he sat against the door just in case anyone tried to slip in, silence ringing in his ears.
Even his sister's voice, insistent and concerned, grated: "Luc, pick up. I'm coming over if you don't call me!" She sounded so much like their mother that, for a moment, Luc was a boy again, hiding flour-dusted hands behind his back.
Food became mechanical—simple bowls of rice consumed with the desperate hope that flavor would return. Sometimes he caught himself holding his breath, as if savoring a scent from memory. The city outside celebrated the fading summer—acorns tumbling, leaves yellowing above the Seine—but Luc could not feel its radiance. He existed in dim rooms, an exile inside his own body.
He let the days pass, one indistinguishable from the next, unraveling like overboiled pasta. Guests would ask after him, Elise told him in a rare moment he did not hang up. Critics speculated. But Luc, once the maestro of taste, sat alone, untethered from the art that had bound him to the world.