Adrian unlatched the first case, the metal clasp releasing with a crisp, satisfying snap.
A heavier wave of cold rolled out, carrying with it a fragrance that defied simple description — not the raw scent of ordinary produce, but a clean, curated aroma, like the meeting point of a grand wine cellar and a meticulously kept larder.
Inside, everything was arranged with precise order:
• A large slab of beef cheek lay sealed in vacuum packaging, its deep crimson surface unmarred by excess sinew or fat, the cuts so clean they bore the marks of machine-level precision. The label read: Charolais AOP — Burgundy's most renowned breed.
• Beside it were several pouches of prepped vegetables: carrots cut into uniform obliques, onions peeled and sliced into graceful crescents, celery stalks trimmed to exact length, even the garlic cloves lightly crushed yet left whole, as if caught in perfect suspension between rawness and readiness.
• A neatly tied bundle of thyme, bay, and parsley — a bouquet garni so delicately arranged it resembled a piece of craftwork.
• At the base sat a weighty bottle of Burgundy, cushioned in soft padding, the wooden cork embossed with a golden crest: Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. Adrian's fingers stilled on the glass — one of Burgundy's most exalted estates, a single bottle worth more than most chefs could even dream of cooking with.
• Even the bones — knucklebones and marrow segments — were portioned in equal size, scrubbed clean, devoid of any stray residue, as though hand-selected to form the "perfect frame."
It wasn't a set of ingredients.
It was as if someone had walked the markets, the farms, the cellars of Burgundy on his behalf, gathering the finest elements with almost obsessive care — and laid them here for him.
Adrian traced the cool glass of the wine bottle, silent for a long moment.
"They've even done the math for me," he murmured — a blend of astonishment and a strange, quiet reverence.
Before he could dwell further, the system's familiar chime cut through his thoughts:
"Notice: When the host achieves Mastery level in a dish, completing its ingredient task unlocks a full provision of required ingredients. Current status — Boeuf Bourguignon ingredient task: Completed (System-granted)."
Adrian froze, fingers still on the bottle's neck. It took him a moment to fully absorb it.
"So… once I complete the ingredient task, the system delivers the finest provisions outright?"
The thought struck him with a thrill that tightened in his chest.
Exiting the Bourguignon interface, he navigated to another of his mastered dishes — the Golden Egg Fried Rice.
A new entry flickered into the task menu:
"Golden Egg Fried Rice ingredient task: In progress. Location: Poissy–Saint-Pierre, Seine-et-Marne, coordinates: 48.7800° N, 2.5600° E."
Adrian frowned. No instructions. No context. No description of what he was meant to find. Just a lonely set of coordinates.
"This… counts as a task prompt?"
He let the silence hold for a beat, committing the location to memory. "I'll need to check it out when I can."
But not now.
He closed the system, sealed the case back in the freezer, and returned to the Chef's Counter.
Amelia was no longer gaping as before, though her curiosity still brimmed, practically sparkling in her eyes. As he emerged, she tilted her chin toward the street where the black truck had vanished — a silent, almost playful question.
Adrian offered a wry smile. "A little help from my investor."
She blinked, genuinely surprised. "You have an investor?"
He only shrugged, offering no clarification. In a way, wasn't the system precisely that? It had invested in him — in his skills, his craft. And now, even his ingredients.
Adrian glanced toward the simmering pot, a steadier calm settling over him. There was still work to be done.
Amelia seemed to sense his unwillingness to elaborate, and she didn't press. Instead, she quietly turned back to her laptop, while Adrian reopened his own — adding impressions of the newly delivered ingredients to his cooking notes.
Side by side, they worked in companionable silence, the soft tap of keys blending with the quiet simmer of the kitchen.
By the time Adrian finally closed his laptop, the clock had crept past three. The hours had slipped by unnoticed.
Last night, he'd already messaged the staff: the restaurant would remain closed today, wages paid as usual. No interruptions, no calls. The space was wholly his.
He stood, stretching lightly, and stepped back into the Chef's Counter.
The heavy lid lifted with a low hiss. A wave of rich, wine-laced steam curled up, brushing against his face. The sauce had darkened to a deep mahogany, bubbles rising lazily from its surface.
He added the white mushrooms he'd set aside, stirring them gently into the sauce. These had sat a little while in storage — an hour of braising would turn them mushy. Half an hour would strike the right balance.
Re-covering the pot, he ladled a portion of the sauce into a smaller pan — no meat, just liquid — and set it on medium heat to reduce. The main pot remained at its lazy simmer, giving the beef and vegetables time to finish soaking up their bath of Burgundy and bone stock.
He moved with methodical calm, skimming the surface, checking viscosity, occasionally stirring the smaller pan to keep the reduction from catching.
The kitchen grew warmer, denser with its mingling perfumes — wine, beef, marrow, herbs — each note distinct yet woven into a single, enveloping composition.
Adrian chopped fresh parsley into fine, bright flecks, his knife rhythmic against the board. Between strokes, he traded lazy conversation with Amelia — half-teasing remarks about the series they'd been watching, fleeting little smiles in between the work.
When the timer ticked down its last ten minutes, he preheated the deep plates and a clay serving pot in the oven, ensuring the dish would reach the table hot and stay that way.
The reduced sauce had turned silky, draping the spoon like velvet. In the main pot, the beef had softened into submission, holding its shape but trembling with the slightest nudge; the carrots glowed like burnished amber, the mushrooms pale stones against the dark, rich sea of sauce.
He fished out the bouquet garni, lifting the herb bundle free with a pair of tongs. Its leaves, once vibrant, were now spent — its work done, its essence left behind in the depths of the dish.
Plating came next. He lifted the meat and vegetables carefully onto the preheated plate, then spooned over the glossy reduction, letting it cascade in slow, deliberate ribbons. Finally, he scattered the parsley across the top, a bright green whisper against the deep reds and browns.
Boeuf Bourguignon. Complete.
Adrian regarded the finished dish for a breath, satisfaction flickering briefly across his features. This was a statement — of craft, of patience, of control.
He carried it out to the counter. The plate's light clink against the wood was nearly lost under the rush of its fragrance — Burgundy, beef, and herbs unfurling like a dark, lush ribbon through the air.
Amelia's posture snapped straight, the aroma striking her before she even looked. Her stomach betrayed her with a loud, plaintive growl, and her face flushed at the sound.
Adrian hid a smirk, nudging the plate toward her.
She wasted no time, darting around the counter to fetch utensils like a soldier retrieving arms. "Hurry, hurry!" she urged, bouncing slightly on her heels.
Adrian handed her the fork and knife, his tone teasing: "Careful. It's hot."
She didn't dive in immediately. Instead, she paused, studying the dish like it was something sacred — the beef half-submerged in its glistening sauce, carrots and mushrooms tucked like small jewels in the dark sea.
Her fork slid into the beef with barely any resistance. It parted cleanly, fibers yielding as though they'd been waiting for this moment.
The first bite.
Wine bloomed first — bright, acidic, quickly mellowing into something deeper as it entwined with the beef's rich, slow-cooked savor. The sweetness of the carrots threaded through it, lifting the heaviness just enough, while the herbs whispered in the background — subtle, deliberate, never overpowering.
Her eyelids fluttered shut, and a soft hum escaped her throat. "Mmm—"
When she swallowed, she looked at him, almost accusingly. "You're ridiculous. This is… unreal."
Adrian only smiled faintly, as if he'd known all along. "Then have more."
She obeyed without hesitation, pairing beef with mushrooms and carrots this time. The flavors unfolded differently now: the Burgundy's depth lingering, the earthy mushrooms grounding it, each bite new yet familiar.
She pressed lightly with her tongue, and the beef disintegrated — no effort, no fight, just silken surrender.
This wasn't merely a dish.
It was a feast for the senses.
She ate in quiet reverence, only realizing when she was nearly finished that she'd forgotten entirely about the lack of a side. Her fingers drifted to her stomach with a sheepish laugh.
Adrian caught the glance she threw him and chuckled quietly. "There's more in the pot."
He ladled a serving for himself, unadorned, no plating flourish. The first spoonful touched his lips — and he stilled, letting the flavors sink. By the second bite, his gaze sharpened, brightened, conviction settling over him.
"Our restaurant," he said softly, almost to himself, though the weight in his voice carried further, "has just found its second signature."