I finger the steak, tracing the marbled flecks of fat.

I observe it with steady concentration and follow each streak as if it were a roadmap, pointing me home.

A well-marbled steak is a beautiful thing.

It's perfection.

It's redemption.

Is it also salvation?

My mouth moistens as I think about the silky texture of melted fat.

The depth of flavor. The tenderness. The way it transcends a moment in time.

I grind salt and pepper over one side of the steak, and then flip it over to season the other side. Then I heat a cast iron skillet and when it's at the desired temperature, I drop a pad of butter into its center. I watch as the butter circles, spins, and sizzles around the pan until it's a melted puddle.

Then I place the steak on top, listening to the hot skillet kiss the raw slab of red meat, slowly caramelizing it.

I've made my fortune in the restaurant business.

Flipping food. Perfecting my craft.

Making a name for myself.

But I want more.

I want to elevate the culinary landscape of New York City … and the clock's ticking faster than Julia Childs chopping an onion.

And this restaurant here—The Pearl on Park—is a longtime dream come true. I've made my fortune through high-end cuisine—you know, the kind of food that requires three spoons and three forks just to eat it? The kind of food accompanied by waiters in suits and white linens. I've become one of the most famous chefs in the world, running a chain of high-quality, extremely fancy restaurants.

You've probably seen me profiled in publications like Bon Appetite, Saveur, Food and Wine, Cooks Illustrated, and The Art of Eating.

I've made food that'll give you an orgasm as soon as it hits your tongue.

Beautifully crusted baguettes, fresh meat that'll make you moan, and warm cakes gooier than a woman begging for more.

But this restaurant is different.

I'm still creating dishes that are good, orgasmic good, but now I'm pushing boundaries. Salty, fatty, sweet—the kind of food that makes you want to sink your face in and say fuck it, I'm eating this.

Maybe I'm stubborn, or stupid, or both, but you have to be all of those things and more to make it in the restaurant business.

You see all of these tools in this kitchen—the vacuum machines, pH meters, and liquid nitrogen? I'm debunking cooking myths. I don't care what any other chef in this city is doing. If it's working for me, just get out of my way.

Let me run my restaurants the way I want to run them.

And this place here—these stainless steel appliances, the swanky Park Ave vibe, the top of the line table linens and décor—it's a longtime dream come true.

I have no interest in what the chef is doing next door, or across the street, or even across the fucking globe. Why? Because the only thing that matters is my kitchen.

I look down at the steak and spoon brown butter over it, basting it. It's now crusted and cooked to perfection, and I remove it from the skillet. It's caramelized around the edges with a beautiful brown crunch I can't wait to place between my teeth.

If you visit The Pearl on Park, this'll be one of the best steaks you've ever had; I promise. It's going to be one of the new dishes that I present.

I plate the steak and carefully slice a chunk of meat off with a serrated knife. There's a crisp char on the outside and rareness in the middle that feels like butter on my tongue.

"Fuck, that's good!" I can't help but yell out and slam my fist down on the countertop.

"You made me jump!" I look over to see my sous chef, Brit, walk into the kitchen. She's working overtime with me to get a few dishes perfected before our soft opening.

Any other day, and this late at night it wouldn’t be Brit here with me. Maybe some actress with one of these fake smiles, too eager to have a taste of the Chef, but not today.

I can’t waste my time. Not now.

"Taste this!" I say, looking at Brit over my shoulder.

She walks over, and leans against the counter and I place a forkful of steak into her mouth. I watch as she chews slowly, and then closes her eyes, throwing her head back.

"My God," she says, shaking her head in disbelief. "You weren't joking. This is the best steak I've ever eaten."

I'm glad she agrees, but I can't help but want to make sure.

"Don't pull my leg—tell me the truth," I say.

"I'm serious! It's that good," she says. "This'll put The Pearl on Park on the map."

The way she drags her hand over her throat tells me that she means it.

But I can no longer think about that perfectly caramelized steak.

Instead, I close my eyes and remember the dr. appointment I had last week.

It's an appointment that haunts me and drives me in equal measures.

The sanitized talk. The fluorescent lights. The sterile smell of it all.

Something showed up on the MRI, the Dr. said, as I sat back in the hard plastic chair. He pointed to a white, walnut-shaped mass, and the rest of the appointment was a blur. I left, vaguely agreeing to a follow-up appointment, and ultimately making myself a promise to cook the best fucking food New York City's ever tasted.

"This is the best steak the Big Apple's got," Brit says.

That's exactly what I want to hear.

It's true; I'm a multi-tasker. I can juggle a dozen restaurants, and even more women, and still find time to scuba dive my way through St. Thomas.

It's what I do. And I'm good at it.

I'm not interested in half-assing my way through life.

Sure, I'm living large and I know it. But I'm just getting started.

If you can handle the heat, go ahead … turn the page and jump into the fire.

My name is Chef Palmer, and I'm going to gift the world with a pearl that they'll never forget.