The Taste Master

Behind him, the corkboard pins up the rhythm of the week—Tuesday, Wednesday, Saturday—handwritten notes, printed orders, the mundane scaffolding behind the alchemy. But the chef himself is framed as something more than a worker; he is the “taste master,” the one who turns lists into flavours, recipes into experiences.

The typography on the glass becomes part of the portrait. “Chocolate” cuts across his chest, “milk” brushes his arms. The layering is not accidental—it’s the visual suggestion that the man is inseparable from his medium, that the ingredients are as much a part of his identity as his uniform.

Photographically, the glass is both barrier and collaborator. It keeps the viewer outside, looking in, yet it also adds texture and meaning. The chef doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge the camera; his focus is on the work ahead. And perhaps that’s the point—the mastery is not in the show, but in the quiet rituals that happen before the first taste ever reaches the public.