Amelia blinked, still trying to catch up. "W–wait, what do you mean?? Why is there suddenly a second dish?"
Adrian glanced at her, his expression carefully measured, a faintly enigmatic smile tugging at his lips. "I've got an idea. One that feels ready."
"What idea?" Amelia pressed, her bright eyes fixed on him as though she could force the answer out by sheer will.
Adrian merely shook his head, his tone calm but laced with quiet anticipation. "Let me try it tonight. By tomorrow, you'll know."
Amelia pouted. She knew him well enough to recognise the unshakable tone in his tone. Once Adrian said "tomorrow," there was no prying further. She shot him a dramatically wounded look. "Hmph. So mysterious."
With a little huff, she spun on her heel, her shoes clicking against the floor as she stomped toward the door in mock irritation.
Adrian watched her retreat, a quiet amusement softening his gaze. He walked her to the door, lingering as she crossed the street and disappeared into the apartment building opposite. Only when the glass doors closed behind her did he turn back.
The restaurant sank into its familiar stillness, the warm glow of the lights folding into the velvet of the night.
Adrian returned to the Chef's Counter, lowered himself into the stool, and drew a steady breath before closing his eyes.
He dove into the system's interface, calling up the newly mastered recipe — Boeuf Bourguignon.
Formulas, precise heat controls, the delicate ratio between Burgundy and stock, the science of coaxing meat fibres to melt without collapsing — the knowledge flowed into his mind like the annotated notes of a master.
This wasn't merely a recipe.
It was a blueprint.
The foundation of a chef.
And the key to unlocking his "second dish."
He lingered in the current of information until every detail felt etched into his bones. Slowly, he opened his eyes.
Boeuf Bourguignon — once his signature dish, now refined by the system into something approaching perfection. Every step felt redrawn with ruthless precision: trimming sinew, squaring the beef, balancing the Burgundy against the bone stock, teasing the fibres into tenderness while preserving their form.
Adrian inhaled deeply, rose, and headed for the storage room.
This wasn't a grand kitchen with endless supplies, but for tonight's trial, it was enough.
After all, this dish had always been his specialty — and he'd made sure to keep its essentials close at hand.
On the top shelf lay a solid slab of beef cheek, its taut flesh traced with faint white marbling — the perfect cut for slow braising. Beside it rested bundles of carrots, onions, celery, garlic, and sprigs of fresh herbs, each with its preordained role already marked in his mind.
Crouching, he retrieved a bottle of Burgundy from the bottom rack, its dark glass catching a muted crimson gleam in the warm light. He'd bought it weeks ago for some "special occasion." Tonight, it finally had purpose.
In the chilled cabinet, heavy knucklebones and marrow bones sat in patient silence, waiting to be coaxed into a milky, soul-deep stock alongside vegetables and herbs.
Adrian gathered everything, laying it out on the Chef's Counter like pieces for a sacred ritual. His fingertips brushed the cool glass of the bottle, the rough edges of bone, the firm flesh of the beef — grounding himself in the process.
"Let's see how this turns out," he murmured.
He placed the beef cheek on the cutting board, sliding his knife along stubborn membranes with a soft scrape as he trimmed away the excess sinew and fat. Then, he cut the meat into evenly sized cubes — large enough to keep their shape through hours of cooking, small enough to melt on the tongue.
The pieces went into a deep bowl with roughly chopped carrots, onions, celery, a few crushed cloves of garlic, and a bundle of thyme, rosemary, and a single bay leaf.
He uncorked the Burgundy, letting the dark, wood-scented wine cascade into the bowl, submerging the meat and vegetables in its deep crimson embrace.
Wine, herbs, and beef — left to steep in silence, like a conversation unfolding in its own time."
Pulling on gloves, he turned the meat carefully until every piece was cloaked in the marinade, then sealed the bowl with cling film and slid it into the cold of the fridge.
At least twelve hours. Patience, as always, would do its work.
Next came the dish's soul: the stock.
Adrian pulled out the knucklebones and marrow bones, dropping them into a heavy pot of cold water. They sank with a muted thud, breaking the stillness. Slowly, the water climbed their sides, swallowing them whole.
Three to four hours. That's what it would take to draw out every trace of blood.
He set a timer on his phone, wiped his hands, and climbed the stairs.
Minutes later, he returned with his laptop and settled at the counter. The restaurant was silent, save for the hum of the fridge and the quiet tap of keys as he worked.
He updated his notes — fine-tuning the fried rice recipe, adjusting timings, refining ratios. Then he opened a new document dedicated to the Boeuf Bourguignon, recording each new insight granted by the system.
Somewhere along the way, exhaustion crept in, his head nearly sinking to the counter as his eyelids surrendered.
The alarm dragged him awake. He blinked at his phone: past 1 a.m.
Adrian shook off the fog, rising with a long breath.
He drained the soaking bones and transferred them to another pot for blanching. As the water roiled, froth surfaced — he skimmed it off patiently, leaving only clean bones and clear liquid.
Then came the heart of it: he lowered the bones into his latest acquisition — a programmable, heavy-bottomed stockpot. In went rough-cut onions, carrots, celery, and a bundle of herbs. He poured in enough water to cover them, brought it to a rolling boil, then switched the settings, dialing it down to a low, steady simmer.
The machine would do its quiet work for hours, pulling marrow and sweetness into a deep, milky broth.
He double-checked the time and temperature glowing on the panel, then exhaled slowly. The ritual had begun.
By the time his knives, boards, and tools were washed, dried, and returned to their cabinets — neat as if untouched — the clock read past 2 a.m.
He inspected the marinating beef, checked the pot of stock, and, satisfied, sealed the kitchen in darkness.
Upstairs, he washed up and collapsed into bed. Sleep claimed him almost instantly.
It was nearly 11 a.m. when Adrian stirred awake — a rare indulgence, but last night had earned it.
He dressed, washed, and descended to the restaurant.
At the counter sat Amelia, already tapping away on her laptop. Dressed in pale casuals, her blonde hair caught the morning light, giving her a crisp, effortless glow.
The moment she spotted him, she stilled her typing and flashed a sly, triumphant smile.
"Boeuf Bourguignon."
Adrian paused mid-step, lifting his gaze to her — only to find her wearing a grin that said, I know everything.
"I had a peek," she added lazily, snapping her laptop shut. "That bone stock still simmering in your shiny new pot? And that tray of wine-marinated beef in the fridge? Not exactly inconspicuous."
Adrian chuckled softly. He'd worked late into the night; no amount of restraint could hide that from her.
"Seems my 'secret project' isn't so secret after all," he said with a shrug.
Striding past her, he opened the side door to the Chef's Counter and lifted the stockpot lid.
Steam rolled out — rich, creamy, carrying marrow and the sweetness of long-melted vegetables. It wrapped around him like a slow exhale.
His gaze flicked to the fridge: the beef, after its night's rest, had drunk deeply of the wine, the flesh taut and perfumed.
Amelia cracked open the service window, resting her chin in her hand like a smug little fox. "So… this is the 'second dish' you mentioned?"
Adrian offered only a small, knowing smile. "Let me finish it first. Then you can taste for yourself."
With that, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work.
He pulled out the marinated beef, the fragrance of wine and herbs unfurling across the room. One by one, he placed the pieces on a tray, blotting them dry with meticulous care.
"You're even wiping the meat dry?" Amelia asked, curious, chin propped in her palm.
Adrian smiled faintly, not pausing his hands. "This is where most people fail. If you don't dry it, the pan cools, and instead of searing, you boil the meat. No crust. No depth."
He moved to the storage racks, collecting carrots, onions, celery, garlic, and a basket of mushrooms. Lining them neatly on the counter, he worked through them with his knife: rolling cuts for the carrots, onions sliced thin, garlic smashed and peeled, the mushrooms left whole for now. The rhythmic clack of the blade struck the board like a soft percussion, an overture to the dish to come.
"And you can't crowd the pan," he added, setting a heavy cast-iron pot over high heat. "If it's too full, you steam the meat instead of browning it."
A faint ribbon of smoke rose. He poured in a thin layer of oil.
The beef hit the pan with a hiss — the music of heat meeting flesh. "That," he said, "is the sound you want." He left the pieces untouched, letting them form a deep crust before turning them.
Amelia leaned forward. "Even the marination has rules?"
"Of course." Adrian prodded a piece, checking its color. "Too short, and the wine doesn't penetrate. Too long, and the acid ruins the texture. Twelve to eighteen hours — that's the sweet spot. And don't use cheap wine." He gestured toward the Burgundy bottle. "A bad bottle leaves it sour or cloying."
When the last piece of beef was seared to a perfect golden brown, he set them aside. Into the pot went onions and carrots, their edges caramelizing as the heat transformed their sweetness. Crushed garlic followed, and a generous spoonful of tomato paste. He stirred until it darkened, releasing its sharp acidity into something rounder, deeper.
"Most people skip this," he said evenly. "If you don't caramelize the paste, the sauce stays flat."
He gave the Burgundy a swirl and poured it in.
The pan hissed, erupting into a fragrant cloud. Adrian scraped up the browned bits clinging to the bottom. "This," he explained, "is deglazing. Those bits? That's where the soul of the dish hides."
When the wine had reduced to a thick, fragrant base, he ladled in the bone stock from the previous night — its milky depth softening the Burgundy's edges. Back went the beef, along with a bouquet garni: thyme, bay, parsley, tied neatly with twine.
He brought it to a boil, then dialed the heat down to a gentle simmer. Slowly, the liquid darkened to the color of polished mahogany.
"At least three hours," he replied when Amelia asked. "And steady heat — eighty-five to ninety degrees. Too high, and the meat shreds. Too low, and the collagen never breaks down."
He nodded toward the untouched mushrooms. "Those go in during the last hour. Any sooner, and they collapse into mush."
The kitchen grew warm with its own orchestra: wine, beef, vegetables, and herbs weaving into the air, a slow, intoxicating harmony.
Amelia watched him quietly, then smiled. "You know, this feels like I'm in a cooking class."
Adrian glanced up, lips curling faintly. "Then pay attention. You might need it when we open."
Just as he set down the spatula, lowering the heat to keep the pot at its slow burble, a familiar chime sounded in his ears:
Ding — new feature: ingredients delivered. Please confirm receipt.
Adrian froze, brows rising slightly.
"Ingredients?" he muttered.
Through the tall front windows, across the street —
A black refrigerated truck idled quietly. Minimalist, understated, yet elegant. Its side bore a knife-and-fork emblem — a seal of some secretive, high-end supplier.
Adrian inhaled deeply, unlocked the door, and stepped outside.
The truck's surface gleamed beneath the noon sun. With a soft click, the door opened. Out stepped a lean, smiling man in a tailored black suit, the same emblem embroidered neatly on his breast pocket.
"Mr. Chen," the man said warmly, extending a hand like an old acquaintance. "Eddie. Chef's Supply Co., at your service."
Adrian barely had time to respond before Eddie turned, pressing a button on the dash.
A soft chime. The truck's rear door rose with a hiss. Cold air spilled out in a swirl of mist as several sleek, silver-white delivery robots rolled down the ramp, each carrying a frost-lined case etched with the same emblem.
Adrian couldn't help but think:
Not just ingredients. Even logistics. How much more is this system hiding?
Eddie gestured politely. "Your delivery, Mr. Chen. Please sign here."
Adrian scrawled his name on the electronic pad.
"Enjoy," Eddie said with a courteous nod.
The robots fell into perfect formation, following Adrian with near-silent precision, the faint hum of servos their only sound. He led them around to the back, unlocked the warehouse door with a tap on his phone, and watched as they rolled inside, heading unerringly for the freezer.
They stopped in front of it — and waited.
Adrian arched a brow, amused. "You're waiting for me to open it, aren't you?"
He pulled the heavy door open. A wave of cold air rushed out.
One by one, the robots placed their cases neatly inside. Frost clung to the boxes, each marked with serial numbers and sleek labels.
Six robots. Six boxes.
Once finished, they stepped back in unison, emitted a soft tone — and bowed.
Adrian blinked, then let out a low laugh. "Even your exit has style."
The robots turned in synchrony and rolled back to the truck.
Adrian followed them out, watching as they reloaded with mechanical grace. Eddie bowed again, his professional smile unwavering.
"Your ingredients are now properly stored, Mr. Chen. If you need anything, we're only a call away."
With that, he returned to the driver's seat. The doors shut with a quiet thud, and the truck purred away, disappearing around the corner.
Adrian lingered a moment, staring after it, faintly dazed.
When he turned back, he caught sight of Amelia through the glass — standing behind the Chef's Counter, frozen in disbelief, eyes wide as though she'd just watched a scene from a sci‑fi film.
He hesitated, then offered her a sheepish smile and a raised hand: Wait there. Explanations can come later.
Instead, he slipped through the back door into the warehouse.
Let's see what the system has sent me this time, he thought, giving Amelia a moment to collect herself.
Inside, the cold bit at his skin. The sleek boxes gleamed softly in the freezer, lined up like treasures waiting to be claimed.
Adrian bent down, let his fingers trail across the chilled metal, then drew a steadying breath and lifted the first box.
It was time to see what his new ingredients would be.