Adrian led Amelia up to the second floor and pushed open the door to the open-plan kitchen.
To test new dishes, the space had been stocked with an abundance of ingredients, resembling a semi-professional back kitchen.
Amelia perched casually on a high stool beside the central island, resting her chin in her hands like an overgrown child, watching him with undisguised curiosity.
Adrian moved deftly at the counter, retrieving a clear container from the refrigerator and spring onions, garlic, and two fresh eggs from the pantry.
Amelia tilted her head, her gaze lingering on the container he set carefully aside.
"What's in that box? You're guarding it like it's treasure—is that the secret to this dish?"
Adrian glanced up at her, the corner of his mouth curving slightly as he replied, almost offhand,
"Leftover rice. From lunch yesterday."
Amelia blinked, then burst out laughing. "You made it sound so mysterious—turns out it's just leftover rice?"
She leaned in a little, peering again at the box.
"And what exactly are you planning to do with leftover rice?"
"Fried rice," he answered, using a spoon to loosen the grains. He paused, lips lifting faintly, before correcting himself:
"No—Golden Egg Fried Rice."
Fried rice?
Amelia blinked. Of course she knew it.
During those years in Shanghai, she'd eaten it countless times—cold rice, eggs, a sprinkle of scallions, a few cubes of ham, tossed together in a sizzling wok. Simple to the point of austerity, but hearty and satisfying.
Sometimes, she and Adrian would stop at the late-night stalls outside their compound, sharing a huge plate of fried rice while talking idly into the deepening night.
Fried rice, in its simplest form, needed little: scatter cold rice in a hot wok, fry fragrant scallions, pour in beaten eggs to coat every grain, stir-fry to a soft golden hue, and season with salt, soy, or whatever was at hand. Crude, unpretentious—and comforting.
Adrian's hand stilled in thought. Then he reached for a carrot and several white mushrooms, placing them neatly on the chopping board.
The knife came down with a crisp, rhythmic sound, like fingertips tapping out a beat on wood.
His movements were precise, economical—carrot reduced to paper-thin julienne, mushrooms sliced into identical pieces, all so perfectly even they looked as though they'd been cut by a mould.
Amelia stared, momentarily transfixed.
Her mind flashed back to a Shanghai afternoon years ago—Adrian, no more than seven, fumbling with a kitchen knife in her family's kitchen, so clumsy he'd nearly cut himself.
She had teased him then: "Keep this up, and no one will marry you."
And now—those once-awkward hands moved with an elegance and sureness that left her momentarily speechless.
Adrian's knife didn't pause, but his voice warmed, no longer a cool explanation, but the tone of someone speaking of what they truly loved:
"Most restaurant fried rice has its flaws."
"First—the rice."
He used the knife's spine to scatter the loosened grains. "Traditionally, cold rice is used so moisture evaporates and each grain stays dry and separate. But too many kitchens take shortcuts, using freshly steamed rice. It seems fresh, but the steam makes it wet and heavy—it clumps instead of staying light."
"Second—the method."
He swept the julienned carrots aside and turned to the mushrooms. "Some scramble the eggs first, some fry the rice then crack eggs in halfway. Some add beaten eggs, some separate yolks and whites. It's a chaos of methods—yet most fail to properly meld egg and grain."
"Third—the recipe."
The knife flashed, mushrooms falling in perfect slices. "Some add too many extras until it's mixed fried rice. Others drown it in sauces until it's soy rice—or worse, oyster sauce rice—losing the essence of what egg fried rice should be."
He stopped then, lifting his gaze to meet hers, his expression steady and certain:
"If it's Golden Egg Fried Rice, those problems cannot remain."
Adrian twisted the stove knob; a blue flame leapt to life.
"For fried rice," he said, as though reminding himself, "the wok must be scorching."
He crouched and drew out a blackened wok from beneath the counter—a seasoned piece of iron, its surface burnished by years of oil and fire.
"Only a wok like this will do." He set it on the flame, his voice carrying quiet conviction.
The fire licked at its base, the wok humming faintly with heat. In one swift movement, he poured in a splash of premium peanut oil.
While the wok came fully to temperature, Adrian worked quickly: one egg cracked and beaten into a golden froth; another carefully separated, the white joining the beaten egg, the yolk dropped into the bowl of rice.
"The key," he said, stirring briskly, "is coating every grain in yolk first."
The cold rice turned glossy, each grain taking on a warm golden sheen.
The wok smoked, the oil nearly singing.
It was time.
Adrian tilted the wok and "whoosh—" in slid the chopped scallions and minced garlic. They hit the oil with a sharp hiss, the air filling with a rich, mouthwatering fragrance.
Next came the rice, poured in one swift motion.
"Zzzzzh—!"
The sound was explosive, satisfying, the rice crackling in the searing oil, releasing a steam fragrant with garlic and egg.
Adrian gripped the handle, flipping the wok with practiced precision. Rice leapt and fell in graceful arcs, his other hand guiding a spatula that clanged crisply against the iron—a sharp, rhythmic counterpoint to the hiss of oil.
Flip, stir, toss—
The kitchen filled with the sound of metal on metal, the rice transforming under the intense heat, grains tightening yet staying separate, each coated in a shimmering golden film.
Amelia couldn't look away. This was no simple home dish. It was performance.
Once the yolk-coated rice had fully absorbed the heat, Adrian poured in the second bowl of beaten egg along the wok's edge.
"Zzzhh—"
The egg sizzled, instantly setting into delicate strands.
Adrian gave the wok a sharp jerk—rice and egg lifting, tumbling, folding back together like golden waves.
His spatula struck the wok's rim with clean metallic notes, the kitchen alive with sound and scent.
"Plenty of thorough tossing, with the right pressure from the spatula," he said over the rhythmic movements, "makes every grain wear its coat of egg—and gives it that light, airy texture."
"And when that fluffiness settles," he added, "high heat draws it back together—bringing the rice to perfection."
Mushrooms joined the dance, their pale slices soaking up oil and releasing their delicate aroma, followed by bright carrot julienne, splashing colour into the gold.
At last, a sliver of butter, shaved thin, slid into the sizzling wok, melting into a soft, nutty richness that deepened the fragrance.
Flip, toss, clang—
Each motion layered flavour over flavour, colour over colour, until the kitchen brimmed with a rich, intoxicating scent.
With a final decisive flick of his wrist, Adrian tipped the wok, sending the golden mound tumbling onto a white porcelain plate.
The rice sat high and loose, every grain separate, shimmering like tiny gold coins. Steam curled upward, carrying with it the mingled scents of egg, butter, garlic, and sweet vegetables.
Amelia sat frozen, staring at it.
Was this truly the same humble fried rice she remembered from those night stalls?
She scooped a spoonful and tasted.
The world stilled.
Each grain was distinct, yet light, as though buoyed by air. The egg's richness wasn't surface-deep but suffused through every grain, full and rounded. Garlic burst bright on her tongue, the sweetness of carrot and earthiness of mushroom following in waves. It wasn't merely fried rice.
It was golden, radiant—transformative.
She turned to Adrian, eyes wide, words failing her until finally she whispered,
"Adrian… this is extraordinary."
At that moment, she understood why he called it Golden Egg Fried Rice.
Adrian only glanced at the plate, his brow faintly furrowed.
"Not satisfied?" she asked, catching his expression.
He shook his head.
"It's good," he said quietly. "But the heat, the tossing, the spatula work—they aren't yet where they need to be."
His gaze lingered on the plate, his voice almost to himself.
"A mastery-level fried rice shouldn't just be good. It should be flawless."
Amelia stared, then laughed softly. "You're impossible. It's already outrageously good."
Adrian said nothing, only smiled faintly and pushed the plate toward her.
"Then you finish it."
"You're not eating?"
"I've tasted enough."
And so she did, almost all of it vanishing into her.
Adrian watched, a quiet resolve settling in his chest. This was only the beginning. When his heat control, tossing, and spatula work caught up—he would perfect it.
As Adrian moved to tidy the kitchen, "thump-thump-thump" came light, quick steps. Amelia darted back in, like a playful cat.
She pulled open a cupboard, produced a pair of rubber gloves, snapped them on with exaggerated flair, and grinned at him.
"I'll help."
She was all mischief in expression, yet her hands worked briskly: sorting utensils, filling the sink, soaping, scrubbing—efficient, almost methodical.
Water splashed her cheeks; she wiped it away with the back of her wrist, undeterred, sleeves rolled high.
Adrian leaned against the counter, the corners of his mouth lifting.
So she's not just here to freeload, after all.
When she finished, she stripped off the gloves, flicked water from her fingers, and snapped to attention in an exaggerated salute.
"Mission accomplished, chef!"
Adrian chuckled, ready to reply—only for her to tiptoe forward and ruffle the curl of hair at his forehead.
"Still that same stubborn curl," she teased, eyes crinkling.
Before he could react, she was halfway to the door, waving cheerily over her shoulder.
"See you, boss."
The door clicked shut, leaving only the faint aroma of butter and garlic behind.
Later, Adrian tidied the kitchen and locked the restaurant for the night before climbing the stairs to the third floor.
The soft glow of a lamp lit his room, casting gentle pools of light across the black-and-white decor. He washed, sat on the bed's edge, closed his eyes, and summoned the interface in his mind.
The Chef God System unfolded like a luminous projection.
He reflected on the day:
The system didn't hand him recipes.
It etched the finished dish—its taste, texture, and layers—into his senses, guiding him instinctively toward the techniques needed to achieve it.
It meant he wasn't bound by any one set of ingredients.
With the right skills, he could create near-identical perfection through different means.
"But my hands," he thought grimly, "must catch up to what I can now conceive."
Today's fried rice had been dazzling—but he knew, as plainly as the numbers before him, that his mastery lagged behind his vision.
He focused on the panel:
[Current Culinary Skills]
Knife Work: Advanced
Heat Control: Intermediate
Wok Tossing: Beginner
Spatula Technique: Beginner
Seasoning: Intermediate
Pan-frying: Beginner
Stir-frying: Beginner
Boiling/Blanching: Beginner
Braising/Stewing: Beginner
Roasting: Beginner
Plating: Beginner
[Mastered Dishes]
Golden Egg Fried Rice (Mastery)Bœuf Bourguignon (Beginner)
Adrian's gaze lingered on the list of "beginner" marks. He traced them lightly with his mind, then murmured to himself,
"These… are the gaps I need to close."