When the two of them returned to the restaurant, the workers were just finishing their lunch break, trickling back in to resume the day's labour. The clang of hammers and whirr of drills once again filled the space, the scent of sawdust mingling with the faint tang of metal, as the room returned to that tense, orderly rhythm of the morning.
Adrian didn't simply stand by and give instructions. He shrugged off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and joined the crew. He hefted heavy stovetops with the carpenters, helping them reposition the chef's counter, checking over and over that each piece of equipment matched perfectly with its pre‑set connections.
— To speed things up, and to ensure every fixture ended up precisely where he envisioned, he had to oversee it personally.
Meanwhile, Amelia had gone upstairs. She sat by the window, sunlight spilling across her hair in a pale halo, and set herself to a "brainstorming session."
How does one make a Chinese restaurant that sells only one dish stand out in Paris?
Her brows drew together, fingers gently tapping the tabletop.
Adrian's fried rice was delicious—she knew that first‑hand. But Parisian dining culture was built on diversity and "experience." Fried rice, humble to the point of seeming homely, no matter how good, would be a hard sell for the general public.
Especially when that was all that was on the menu.
The strategy was as bold as it was marketable.
She flipped open her notebook and jotted down a few lines:
How to package it? (If you only serve one dish, it must appear extraordinary.)
• How to spread it? (In a city drowning in information, how do you make people remember this place?)
• How to test the market? (Start small with a close‑knit crowd, or launch with big publicity?)
Amelia propped her chin on her hand and murmured to herself:
"I need something that fits the Parisian palate and makes them want to try it…"
By late afternoon, the last drill fell silent. The workers packed up their tools and left. The restaurant exhaled into stillness, the golden light of the setting sun streaming through its three vast windows, tracing gentle outlines across the floor and countertops.
Adrian stood alone at the centre, eyes fixed on what was now finally complete—
the chef's counter.
It stretched across the back of the dining room like the spine of the space. Its body was pale wood, the grain clean and tactile to the touch, paired with matte stainless‑steel worktops—understated yet weighty, combining wood's warmth with the cool professionalism of metal.
Around it, crystal‑clear tempered glass enclosed the space, separating guests from heat and smoke without cutting off their view—anyone seated at the bar could watch the flash of blades and the dance of flames, as if part of an intimate performance. Above hung a single integrated lighting and ventilation unit, sleek and minimalist, the lights tuned to fall perfectly across the work surface and the finished dishes—stage lights for a culinary theatre.
Adrian walked a slow circle around it, his fingertips brushing the join of wood and steel, feeling the subtlety of its finish, a quiet satisfaction swelling in his chest.
This wasn't just a workstation.
It was a stage—where he would lay out his craft, his philosophy, his very soul for the world to see.
He stood at the Chef's Counter, his gaze skimming the pristine steel, the neatly arrayed tools and appliances, and felt a ripple of anticipation.
"Let's try it out."
He stepped into the storeroom behind the counter, emerging with chilled rice, two eggs, a carrot, and a few white mushrooms. Rolling up his sleeves, he set out his board, knife, and wok.
Before lighting the stove, he walked to the side of the counter and slid open the panel door, pushing back the adjoining glass as well, creating a wide opening.
Flame roared to life beneath the iron wok, which quickly smoked white‑hot. He sliced the carrot into thin matchsticks, the mushrooms into neat rounds, the rhythm of his knife sharp and steady. Minced garlic and chopped scallions hit the oil first, exploding into fragrance; then the rice, already mixed with egg yolk, poured in, the spatula clanging cheerfully against the wok's iron sides. A second bowl of beaten egg slid down the rim, searing instantly into golden ribbons that tangled with the tossing grains.
The carrot and mushrooms followed, a handful of deft flips scattering them through the rice. A pat of butter melted at the base, coating every grain in a soft, aromatic sheen.
Soon the air was heavy with the mingling scents of oil, garlic, and egg. Adrian flicked his wrist and sent the steaming golden rice tumbling into a pristine white plate.
He took a spoonful, tasting it slowly.
The first bite made him pause.
Better than yesterday. Subtly so, yet undeniably—each grain looser, the egg and fat melding more harmoniously.
A small step, but enough to delight him.
Leaning against the bar, he murmured,
"So this is what practice does."
The system had given him the knowledge to cook, but it hadn't fixed him to some static "level." Each attempt, each adjustment, brought him closer to his own ideal.
— As it should be. No chef's dish ever stays the same forever.
He set the spoon down, smiling softly at the first dish crafted on his new stage.
The steam, heavy with fragrance, drifted lazily through the opening he'd deliberately left ajar, curling up the staircase like an invisible hand.
Soon came the sound of quick footsteps—"thump thump thump"—and Amelia bounded down like a cat drawn by the scent. She spotted the open glass panel and instantly understood, pressing her hands to her stomach in mock despair:
"You did that on purpose—luring me down with the smell!"
Adrian glanced at her with a faint, knowing smile, saying nothing as he set the steaming rice on the counter. He took two porcelain bowls, filled them generously, and slid one towards her.
"Since you're here," he said lightly, "don't stay hungry."
Her eyes brightened. She perched on a high stool, resting her hands on the counter as she took in the crescent‑shaped bar, her lips curling into a curious smile.
"First time eating at the new counter—it feels… special."
Just as they were about to dig in, the doorbell rang.
They exchanged a glance. Amelia arched a brow: "At this hour? Who could that be?"
Adrian rose, switched on all the lights, and bathed the room in a warm golden glow that pushed back the night. He walked to the door and opened it.
On the step stood two figures—a woman and a child.
She was in her early thirties, with chestnut hair catching the lamplight, its soft curls brushing her shoulders and setting off the creamy fairness of her skin. A tailored beige trench coat and a simple knit dress gave her an effortless, unstudied elegance. Her features were fine, her expression carrying the gentle composure of someone who could slip easily into any room.
Beside her stood a boy of seven or eight, clutching a little backpack. His soft, light‑brown hair was slightly mussed, his round face cherubic, his bright eyes drinking in the sight of the half‑finished restaurant.
Adrian blinked before recognising them—Isabelle, from the neighbouring building, and her son, Louis. They were nodding acquaintances, exchanging brief greetings when jogging by the canal, and he'd once seen her collecting her son from school. But he'd only just moved in; they'd never truly spoken.
Isabelle smiled politely. "Sorry to intrude. Good evening, Mr Chen." Her voice was soft yet carried the unhurried ease of a Parisienne. She gave Louis's hand a light squeeze. "We were just back from a walk, and Louis caught the most incredible smell. He insisted we come and see which restaurant had opened here."
The boy tilted his head up, unashamedly curious. "Was it you cooking? It smells amazing…"
Adrian chuckled, his gaze softening as it landed on the boy.
"I didn't even open the door, and you smelled it?"
Louis puffed out his little chest. "Of course! I've got the best nose for good food in the world."
Isabelle laughed quietly, brushing a curl behind her ear. "Apologies—he's… very passionate about food. Once he smells something delicious, he won't eat anything else until he's tasted it. So—please forgive us for the interruption."
Adrian waved it off. "Neighbours are always welcome. Especially little ones following their noses." He stepped aside, gesturing for them to come in. "You're just in time."
She led Louis inside. The boy's curiosity lit up the moment he saw the three‑windowed dining room from inside, his gaze darting from the pristine Chef's Counter to the neat bar stools.
Adrian brought them to the bar. "This is my friend Amelia," he said with an easy smile, then turned to his guests. "My neighbour, Isabelle. And this is Louis."
"Hello," Amelia said warmly, extending her hand.
Louis stared at her for a long moment, then blurted out, "Wow, you're so pretty!"
The candid praise caught Amelia off guard for a heartbeat before she broke into a bright grin. "Why, thank you. You've got quite the sweet tongue."
Isabelle sighed with a helpless smile, patting his shoulder. "You can't go saying that to everyone you meet." She looked to Amelia with an apologetic chuckle. "Please don't mind him."
"Not at all," Amelia said, amused. "He's adorable."
The two women soon fell into easy conversation—about running by the canal, about local cafés—while Adrian quietly slipped back into the storeroom, fetched more rice and ingredients, and returned to the counter.
Louis clambered onto a stool, chin propped on his hands, watching with rapt attention.
The wok sizzled under the flame, oil snapping as garlic and scallions hit the heat. Rice cascaded into the pan, Adrian's spatula turning it over with deft precision. A ribbon of beaten egg flowed in, coating each grain in a shimmering gold.
Louis' eyes widened. "Wow…"
Adrian added a small handful of diced ham, letting its savoury aroma deepen the richness of the dish. He knew it wasn't strictly better—sometimes adding ingredients only muddied a dish—but children craved that straightforward, salty‑savory flavour. If it worked, this could become the "kids' version" of his golden egg fried rice.
Soon the ham, eggs, and grains danced together in a medley of colour and scent.
Louis nearly bounced on his seat. "Ham! That's going to be even better!"
Adrian said nothing, only gave a faint smile as he plated the steaming rice and slid it through the service window. He added two bowls and spoons for good measure.
"Thanks!" Louis chirped, grabbing a spoonful before it even reached a bowl. One bite in, his face lit up.
"This is amazing!"
He dove back for another mouthful, cheeks bulging like a little hamster.
Isabelle watched, fondness and amusement softening her features. She looked up at Adrian, teasing lightly: "Seems you've found your first loyal customer."
Adrian laughed. "Then I'd better treat him well."
Louis, mouth still full, nodded enthusiastically.
Isabelle took a spoonful herself, sampling it with the poise of someone tasting wine. Surprise flickered across her eyes. It was unlike any fried rice she'd had—rich yet clean, the egg and rice perfectly balanced, the ham's saltiness cleverly tuned for a child's palate.
Amelia and Adrian joined in, and in no time the plate was scraped clean.
Louis leaned back with a satisfied burp, rubbing his little stomach, while Adrian glanced at Isabelle, who'd barely eaten. He opened his mouth to offer another serving, but she raised a hand.
"No need," she said gently but firmly. "I'm cutting back—too much at night isn't ideal. Just tasting it was enough."
He nodded, accepting it.
Before leaving, Isabelle reached for her purse. "We came uninvited. At least let me pay."
Adrian blocked her hand with quiet finality. "No need. We're still in the testing phase. Come back when the restaurant opens—then we'll call it even."
She studied him for a moment, then relented with a small smile. "Very well. When you open, we'll be back."
Louis hugged his backpack and piped up through a mouthful: "Only if you make this egg fried rice again!"
Adrian chuckled. "It'll be here waiting for you."
Mother and son waved goodbye and disappeared down the riverside path, the lamplight stretching their shadows into long, swaying silhouettes.
The restaurant fell quiet once more, the lingering scent of fried rice drifting in the golden light.
Amelia gathered the empty dishes and slipped behind the counter, loading them into the built‑in dishwasher. The plates were spotless—hardly a grain left—so she skipped rinsing and set them in place with a soft clink before closing the door.
The hum of the dishwasher joined her footsteps, the only sounds in the stillness.
And then—
Ding.
The familiar mechanical chime in Adrian's head:
"Hidden task complete: First loyal customer acquired."
He froze for a moment as the voice continued:
"Reward: One random dish upgraded by two levels (maximum: Mastery). Detected eligible dish: 'Boeuf Bourguignon.' Automatically upgraded to Mastery."
Adrian blinked, staring at the door Louis had bounded through earlier, a strange warmth curling in his chest.
—His first loyal customer. An eight‑year‑old boy.
"Hey!"
Amelia bounded over, grinning broadly. Seeing him frozen, she waved a hand in front of his face. "What's with you?"
Adrian blinked back to the present—and broke into an equally broad smile.
"We might just be able," he said, a spark lighting his eyes, "to make this a two‑dish restaurant."