Amelia ate with a look of quiet satisfaction, her chin propped in one hand as she watched Adrian.
He ate quickly, with almost no wasted motion — the tender cheek meat required little more than a press of the tongue before it melted away, and in barely five minutes, his plate was nearly bare.
She stared without realising it until he set down his cutlery. A quick, self-conscious cough, and she stood to gather their dishes.
Adrian stayed at the counter, leaning back in his stool, fingers drumming lightly against the wood.
The dish was good — exceptional, even. But as the "second dish" of their restaurant? Its price was another question entirely:— Charolais beef cheeks, a top Burgundy, hours of labour. This wasn't something you could simply list as a casual entrée.Would it be a flagship, limited dish? Or should the entire menu shift upward to match?
Numbers flickered and collided in his head, sketching the shape of the restaurant's future.
Amelia returned quickly, shaking the last droplets of water from her hands as she sat back down."What's got you thinking so hard?" she asked, tilting her head.
Adrian's focus returned. "Pricing."
Her eyes brightened. "I was just about to ask! Once I know the price point, I can start working on everything else — marketing, branding, even the tone of our promotions."
He tapped the counter once, pausing, then said, "Ninety-nine euros."
Amelia blinked, clearly startled. "Ninety-nine? That's… bold." Her brows knit as doubt flickered across her face. "In 2016 Paris, that's a high-end price. I checked while waiting — most places list Boeuf Bourguignon between thirty-five and fifty euros. We're new. People who don't spend that much won't come. And the ones who do? They've already got their regular spots. Why would they take a risk on us?"
Adrian caught her concern, though his expression remained steady. "I know what you're worried about. But here's what I want — every dish on our menu, no matter how complex or costly, is ninety-nine euros. That's our identity. No price games, no confusion. Guests come here knowing that for this price, they'll get the best we can create."
She stayed quiet, still weighing his words.
He continued, "And another thing — starting high and moving down is easy. You just post a discount. But going the other way? From low to high? People call it betrayal. But if we start here, establish that standard, then offer discounted prices for certain groups — children, the elderly, the disabled, those who can't work — we're not just keeping it accessible, we're making it meaningful."
He glanced at her, voice soft but certain. "I've never studied psychology. But I do know this: if I sell a truly remarkable fried rice for a dirt-cheap price, people don't feel fortunate. They feel demeaned."
Adrian paused, weighing his next words. When he spoke, it was with quiet conviction:"And one day, when the menu expands, people will be able to enjoy dishes worth hundreds for just ninety-nine. The better I cook, the cheaper that price will feel."
Amelia's lips curved slowly, the resistance in her gaze softening into something like excitement. "Alright," she said at last, a spark of resolve in her voice. "I believe you. Let's do it."
She shut her laptop, tucking it under one arm, then extended her other hand in an awkward attempt at a fist bump.
Adrian couldn't help laughing at the clumsy gesture, but met her hand with his own, a quiet acknowledgment of their shared resolve.
There was one thing he didn't tell her.
A few minutes earlier, he'd checked his bank account.The system's delivery — that crate of Charolais beef, that Domaine de la Romanée-Conti Burgundy — hadn't cost him a cent.
It meant one thing:Complete the "ingredient task," and the system provided everything for free.
If it kept this up, his profit margins would soar beyond any normal restaurant's.At the very least, as long as he didn't make any fatal mistakes, this restaurant wasn't going under.
Adrian stretched, his shoulders popping as the tension eased from his frame. "I need to get a run in," he said, glancing toward the stairs. "Slept too late to do it this morning. Can't skip it entirely."
Amelia hugged her laptop to her chest. "Then I'll go finish drafting the proposal."
They left together — one climbing the stairs, the other crossing the street to her apartment.
Amelia's pace slowed as she walked, the memory of their fist bump still lingering. She rubbed her fingertips against her palm absently, her ears warming despite the cool breeze.
Adrian reached his room and tossed his phone on the nightstand. At the wardrobe, he pulled out a dark grey quick-dry tee and black running shorts — he never liked wasting time picking clothes. Sitting on the bed, he laced up his cushioned running shoes with practiced ease, then gave himself a once-over in the mirror: hair tousled, but with a kind of unpolished energy.
Grabbing his watch, earbuds, and keys, he took a deep breath. The faint trace of last night's Boeuf Bourguignon still clung to the air, grounding him in the present.
Downstairs, sunlight poured through the tall windows, laying soft gold across the floorboards. He stretched briefly at the doorway, loosening joints and muscles, then set his watch to track his run.
The streets gave way to the Saint-Martin Canal.
In the afternoon light, the water shimmered with flecks of gold, white gulls cutting across its surface in fleeting shadows. The trees along the bank swayed gently, their leaves whispering in the soft wind. There was a stillness here that felt far removed from the city's noise.
Adrian found his rhythm, breath syncing with his steps. Cyclists passed. A couple strolled with a dog. Someone read a book on a bench. This part of Paris always made him feel as if time slowed, as though the world shrank to the steady cadence of his feet.
His earbuds played a quiet piano track, but his mind wandered beyond it: the menu's pricing strategy, the next dish he'd design, that strange coordinate tied to the "Golden Fried Rice" task. Fragments of thought floated and fell into place with each step.
When his muscles ached, he slowed to a brisk walk, regulating his breath. Once recovered, he picked up the pace again. The changing rhythm felt like a quiet dialogue between his body and mind, each step negotiating space for the other.
An hour passed like this — unhurried, but purposeful.
When he returned, the sun had tilted west, and the streets had grown busier. He stopped near the restaurant, stretching out his legs before walking the last few paces to the door.
And then he saw them.
Two figures.
One tall, one small.
The taller wore a pale beige trench coat cinched neatly at the waist, its hem swaying just enough to reveal long legs and low-heeled shoes. Her posture had the easy grace of someone who never needed to force elegance.
The smaller was practically plastered to the restaurant's glass door, tiny fingers gripping the frame as he tiptoed to peek inside — a curious kitten in boy's clothing.
As if sensing his gaze, the woman turned.
Chestnut hair loosely gathered at the back, a few strands framing her face. Features delicate, touched by a trace of weariness, yet softened by the kind of smile that needed no words to feel warm.
Adrian knew that face.
Isabella.
And beside her, of course, Louis — eyes wide, brimming with restless curiosity.
Her smile — soft, apologetic — bridged the distance between them. She nodded, as if to say: I'm sorry to trouble you again.
Louis followed her gaze, spotting Adrian in the same moment.
"Adrian!" he shouted, the name bursting from him with unfiltered joy. His little legs pumped furiously, arms flung wide like he meant to latch onto Adrian's leg.
Adrian froze, caught off guard by the charge.
But just before impact, Louis skidded to a stop.
A flicker of hesitation crossed his face. The arms that had been so boldly outstretched now hung awkwardly at his sides, his small fingers twisting together as he scratched at his head. His cheeks flushed crimson.
"I… I just wanted to say hi," he mumbled, shy now, though his bright eyes still sought Adrian's approval.
For a moment, Adrian didn't know how to respond. Then, stiffly, he reached out and patted the boy's head.
"Mm," he said simply, the sound somewhere between a greeting and a concession.
Louis lit up at the small gesture, his embarrassment dissolving into delight.
Isabella's lips curved, a quiet laugh dancing in her eyes — amusement for her son's antics, and perhaps a little for Adrian's awkwardness, too.
"I smelled something!" Louis declared suddenly, sniffing the air like a little hound. "It's fruity! And kind of like veggies… but also something I've never smelled before!"
Adrian raised a brow, impressed. The kid wasn't wrong; that smell was the alcohol.
He glanced at Isabella, his voice carrying a note of genuine admiration. "You've raised him well."
She didn't know what prompted the remark, but smiled politely all the same. "Thank you."
"Mr. Chen," she said after a moment, her tone careful, "may we trouble you again today?"
Adrian looked from her to Louis, then pulled the door open with an inviting gesture."Of course."
Louis barreled inside with uncontained energy. Though only his second visit, he darted straight for the counter, scrambled onto a high stool with some effort, and sat up straight, hands flat on the polished wood. Like a little gentleman waiting for service.
Adrian couldn't help but smile.
The kitchen still carried the fragrance of Burgundy and slow-cooked beef. The programmable pot hummed softly, keeping the Boeuf Bourguignon at the perfect serving temperature. Of the two kilos he'd made, about one remained — more than enough for three.
He washed a scoop of rice, set it to cook in the high-speed mode of his rice cooker, then ladled some of the sauce into a smaller pan. Over medium heat, it thickened into a glossy reduction.
Once ready, he transferred the beef into the pan, letting the concentrated sauce glaze each piece in the final minutes — an idea that had come to him mid-run. The aroma deepened, tightening into something richer, more whole.
No need for flourishes. Not for Louis.
He plated it simply in a deep dish, the sauce pooling like dark velvet around the meat, and slid it across the counter.
"Dinner's ready," he said.
Louis nearly fell off his stool in his scramble to grab a fork. "It smells even better than lunch!" he cried, bouncing in place.
Isabella followed more slowly, though even she couldn't quite hide her intrigue at the aroma — wine mellowed by hours of cooking, vegetables lending their sweetness, meat yielding all its richness to the sauce.
"Come on," Adrian said, passing them utensils.
Louis speared the first piece and gasped. "It's so soft!" He bit in, his little face lighting up as though the world had just shifted. "It's sweet! And… like fruit juice? But meat juice!"
Adrian chuckled. Perhaps not the words of a critic — but honest, and strangely apt.
Isabella tasted hers more carefully. She closed her eyes briefly, then exhaled, her voice low but sure. "This… is unlike any Boeuf Bourguignon I've had in Paris. It's richer, more layered — yet still refreshing."
Adrian only nodded. He didn't need to explain the small adjustment that made it so.
Louis was already on his third bite, happily chewing through carrots and mushrooms along with the beef. "Can I come eat this every day?" he mumbled through a full mouth.
Isabella smoothed a hand over his hair with a quiet laugh. "Little glutton."
Adrian watched them, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
For a moment, the weight of menus and pricing and expectations slipped away.
Sometimes, he thought, the meaning of food was as simple as this: a table, a dish, and the quiet joy it brought.