The wooden chair emitted a faint creak as Adrian Chen seated himself by the window, his gaze fixed upon the dim, amber-hued pendant lamp above. Afternoon sunlight slanted across the room, illuminating the motes of dust drifting in this unadorned bistro. There was none of the refinement of a Michelin-starred establishment, nor the ostentatious flair of a Parisian influencer's haunt—only peeling plaster, uneven wooden tables, and a few regular patrons in grease-stained aprons conversing in subdued tones.
Adrian glanced at the plate before him. The boeuf bourguignon was slightly oversalted, the mashed potatoes disconcertingly loose, yet he ate with deliberate care, his expression one of quiet contemplation—an ingrained habit. No matter how modest the place, he would dissect each dish with a craftsman's precision, analyzing its technique and balance.
He had once trodden a wholly different path: a Chinese father, a French mother, born in Shanghai, sent to Paris at the age of seven with his mother.
His father, a businessman of genial temperament, had left an indelible fracture in their marriage; his mother, a pastry chef of unyielding rigor, had poured all her energy into raising her only son.
Thus, he was nurtured in the flour-scented confines of her pâtisserie, moving between mathematical lectures and knife drills. A graduate of the École Normale Supérieure in mathematics, he could have secured a prestigious future in finance, continuing along the respectable trajectory his father had mapped out for him.
Yet he renounced it.
Rather than calculating the abstract flows of capital in an office, he preferred weighing butter and spices with exacting precision; rather than numbers, he cared more for crafting order and surprise upon the palate. Cooking was the sole pursuit that made him feel unequivocally alive.
Now, he sat quietly in the modest bistro, a timeworn knife case resting at his side. It had been a gift from his mother when he resolved to devote himself fully to the culinary arts—a reminder that, wherever he went, he must never forget the purpose of these hands.
Adrian lifted his gaze toward the ceaseless flow of traffic along the Parisian streets, the faintest trace of a smile curving his lips.
"Since I have chosen, there is no turning back."
Soon, his own restaurant would open—a gift from his father: unpretentious, yet sufficient to begin anew. His mother, though still urging him toward the traditional path—starting at the bottom in a venerable kitchen under a renowned chef—had not opposed his contact with his father and had even tacitly sanctioned the support. Adrian understood: she did not wholly approve, yet she chose to respect his decision.
And he had no intention of following convention.
A top-ranking graduate of Le Cordon Bleu could readily secure a position in any elite kitchen, but Adrian refused to spend his youth toiling under another man's shadow.
For he harbored a secret—his "Chef God System."
He could still recall the day it manifested.
It was the afternoon of his graduation ceremony. As he stepped through Le Cordon Bleu's gates, the sunlight was so brilliant it forced him to squint.
At that moment, a mechanical yet unnervingly lucid voice resonated in his mind:
[Chef God System activated.]
[Congratulations, Host, on meeting the initial condition: Graduation from Le Cordon Bleu.]
[Beginner's Gift Pack granted: Skill — Advanced Knife Work.]
[System Objective: To aid the Host in becoming a chef of universal mastery, versed in the culinary traditions of East and West, capable of crafting cuisine that touches the soul and brings forth new joy.]
There were no demonstrations, no intermediary exercises—only an overwhelming surge of refined knowledge and embodied memory, cascading through his mind and embedding itself into his very muscles.
Angles, force, cut surfaces, rhythm—every nuance etched into his nerves as instinct. He did not need to learn; he already knew.
That night, he could not resist testing it in the kitchen of his mother's pâtisserie.
Previously, Adrian's knife work had been competent—at best the polished efforts of a promising Le Cordon Bleu graduate—methodical yet tinged with hesitance, his slices occasionally uneven, his rhythm inconsistent. His mother often rebuked him: "When your hands waver, so will the food."
But now, everything was transformed.
He grasped a familiar chef's knife, his fingers instinctively settling into the most natural grip. The moment the blade descended, his wrist moved to an inaudible rhythm—fluid, precise, instinctive, beyond conscious thought.
Swish—swish—swish.
In mere moments, onions were reduced to perfectly uniform shreds, aligned with mechanical regularity; carrot slices gleamed with an immaculate smoothness.
Clack—
A soft sound came from the doorway.
Adrian looked up to find his mother standing there, a strip of mille-feuille offcut in hand, evidently having come to tidy the kitchen.
Françoise Dubois seldom betrayed her emotions, especially with her son—her expression habitually austere, her words honed to sharpness. But now she stood arrested, her gaze fixed upon the artfully cut vegetables, unmoving.
Adrian set the knife down, ready to explain, but she stepped forward first.
She examined the slices upon the board, then looked at him. The corners of her lips twitched as if to smile, yet she suppressed it, allowing only the faintest glimmer to reach her eyes.
"This knife work…" She paused, her voice softer than usual. "Not bad."
In Françoise's lexicon, those two words were tantamount to effusive praise.
Adrian raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Yet he noticed her fingers, clasped behind her back, tapping lightly against her apron—as though concealing her emotions.
After a brief silence, Françoise met his gaze, her tone resuming its customary severity:
"If you truly possess such skill, then do it."
She hesitated, then surrendered her final reservation:
"Your restaurant—I shall no longer oppose it."
She turned and left, her back still impeccably straight, as though nothing had transpired. But Adrian knew—just for that instant, she had been genuinely pleased for him. She merely clung to the dignity her role demanded.
When Françoise departed, Adrian remained still, the knife in hand. That night, for the first time, he had seen his mother's face caught between restraint and pride—her lips yearning to curve upward, her eyes alight, yet held firm by discipline. In that moment, he understood: it was never that she wished to deny him this path—only that she feared the pain of his fall.
—
Back to the present.
Adrian set down his fork, the final bite of boeuf bourguignon dissolving into a briny savor upon his tongue. He swiftly catalogued ideas for refining the recipe, then rose and left the bistro.
The early summer air of Paris carried a subtle coolness. With his well-worn knife case in hand, he walked toward the banks of the Canal Saint-Martin.
There lay his future battlefield.
The restaurant's façade remained a simple gray-white, its sign yet to be mounted. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, traces of renovation were visible: an unpainted wooden bar, a stack of old chairs in the corner, and a few potted plants temporarily set against the wall.
Adrian pushed the door open. The workers had departed, leaving the mingled scents of paint and sawdust in the air.
This was his restaurant—spartan, yet entirely his.
He gently placed the knife case upon the bar, rolled up his sleeves, and began arranging the decor: relocating two newly purchased pothos plants nearer the windows, wiping the lingering dust from the tables, positioning an old-fashioned floor lamp in the corner as he envisioned the interplay of light and shadow when guests would one day dine here.
At last, he stepped back, hands on his hips, surveying the modest space, the faintest smile touching his lips.
"This is it."
It was not the kitchen of a Michelin-starred establishment.
It was not the domain of a celebrated chef.
But it was the genesis of his dream.