The morning air in Paris carried the dampness and coolness unique to early summer.
Adrian jogged along the Canal Saint‑Martin, his steps and breath keeping a steady rhythm. The plane trees along the bank cast dappled shadows, and every so often a passing cyclist stirred up a light breeze. After a half‑hour run there and back, he finally slowed to a stop, standing by the water to steady his breath as a fine sheen of sweat slid down his temple and dampened the hair at his neck.
Back on the third floor, he went straight into the bathroom. Hot water washed away the faint soreness in his muscles; the fatigue ebbed, leaving him awake and clear‑minded once more.
Today's schedule was simple, yet crucial.
He would make one final check on the restaurant's ground‑floor renovations.
Adrian dressed and went downstairs.
The ground floor still smelled of paint and wood shavings, as though time itself had paused here for the weekend. The worksite lay silent—until today, when the workers would finally return—yet for now, the place remained hollow and still.
He pushed open the front door and took in a deep breath. This building's location truly was unique.
The restaurant's entrance directly faced the Canal Saint‑Martin—one only needed to push the door to see the water's surface glittering in the morning light. It stood at the very head of a row of waterfront buildings, its left and right sides flanked by full‑height windows, capturing nearly the entire vista of the canal's banks.
Inside, the Chef's Counter stretched across the rear of the room, the first thing to meet the eye. Its surface formed a graceful oval, like an elegant curve laid across the space. Though not at the center, it was undeniably the room's visual anchor. The unpolished blend of raw wood and stainless steel still bore the roughness of construction, yet already hinted at the texture and presence it would one day command. High stools lined the counter's arc in perfect order, like front‑row seats in a theatre, giving guests a close view of every dish as it came to life.
At one end of the counter, a sliding door had been set in place; once the glass panels enclosing the counter were fully installed, the one adjacent to the door could also be slid open, forming a wide passageway for easy movement between the front and back of the house. Facing the guests, a sliding hatch will be built into the counter's glass—a panel that could be lifted to pass dishes straight to the servers, dissolving the barrier between kitchen and dining room and inviting interaction. A wooden door inside the counter led directly into the storeroom, creating an efficient, seamless path for supplies.
The dining area was neatly laid out: four four‑top tables ran along the walls, while a scattering of two‑tops filled the central and entrance areas, balancing privacy with flexibility for combining tables.
To the left of the entrance sat the reception and cashier area, its wooden counter still marked with the traces of drying varnish; to the right, a compact restroom, its white‑tiled walls glowing softly in the morning light.
Bathed in the day's first light, the restaurant resembled a half‑finished painting—its structure fully formed, awaiting only the final strokes to bring it to life.
By the windows stood a few temporary tables and chairs, their bare wood warmed by the sunlight spilling in through three walls of glass, giving this unfinished space a faint sense of breath.
This was a restaurant still in gestation, like an incomplete work of art, waiting for the artist's final touches.
Adrian stood in the middle of the room, his gaze sweeping every corner as an image surfaced in his mind: nightfall, the canal reflecting golden lights, guests raising their glasses in conversation, their laughter and the chime of clinking cups mingling with the rhythm of the water.
"Soon," he murmured inwardly.
A quick set of footsteps at the door broke his thoughts, followed by the turning of the handle.
"Morning!"
Amelia stepped inside, her blonde hair catching the light in soft glints, like a breeze had just swept into the quiet space. She wore a white knit top and light blue jeans, looking relaxed and bright. Her gaze immediately found the semi‑oval counter stretching across the back of the room.
"Wow." Hands on her hips, she made a slow circle around the counter, her eyes lighting up. "I saw it yesterday, but I didn't really look. Up close… it's pretty impressive."
She paused at the counter, tapping the wood lightly as if testing its texture, before glancing around. "Now the whole place is coming together. Three walls of windows—eating here will be a dream."
Adrian leaned against the opposite side of the counter, his voice calm: "So, the location wasn't such a bad choice."
Amelia turned to him, smiling. "Not bad? It's perfect."
The sound of car doors slamming outside cut through their exchange, followed by engines idling down.
Adrian looked out to see several vans and a delivery truck pulling up to the open space outside the restaurant.
One by one, men in workwear climbed out, carrying toolboxes or rolled‑up blueprints, their movements brisk and precise. The foreman raised a hand in greeting, his voice carrying easily:
"Good morning, Mr. Chen!"
Adrian smiled faintly, stepping forward with a nod.
"Morning. Thank you for coming."
He tapped the keypad on the electronic lock; a soft "beep" sounded, and the restaurant's heavy door swung open.
"Come on in."
The workers filed in, hauling crates of equipment and materials. Today was the day to finish fitting out the Chef's Counter.
With several pairs of hands, the heavy metal stovetop was lifted carefully through the sliding door at the counter's side and lowered into its pre‑planned slot. Carpenters set about attaching panels and trims, while electricians rerouted wiring in the corners. Drills and hammers sang out in tandem with the clipped rhythm of workmen exchanging instructions.
Adrian trailed their movements, checking each installed piece of equipment, occasionally pausing to confirm measurements against the plans with the site manager.
Amelia had taken a seat by the window, chin propped in hand as she watched the flurry of work. "Once this is all in place," she mused aloud, "your restaurant will finally look like a restaurant."
Adrian only nodded, his eyes scanning the site, mentally cataloging the small adjustments still needed.
He led Amelia to the cashier's counter near the entrance, where chalk marks still scrawled across the newly installed wood.
"This will be the guests' first stop." He gestured at the space, his tone thoughtful. "They'll order and pay here."
Amelia drummed her fingers lightly against the counter, imagining the flow of guests. "So I'm your first line of welcome?"
"More or less." Adrian nodded. "The menu will display on a digital screen. Orders will sync to the kitchen, so I'll see them at the counter immediately."
He glanced toward the Chef's Counter. "Once a dish is ready, either I or a kitchen assistant will pass it through the hatch. You'll handle getting it to the guests."
Her brows arched. "So I'm half cashier, half server?"
"At the start, the traffic won't be heavy. One person is enough." He paused. "Once things settle, I'll think about hiring more help."
Amelia took another sweeping look at the room, mapping out the guests' journey from entrance to table. "It's efficient," she admitted, "especially for an open kitchen like this."
She tapped the counter again. "And the menu? What are we putting on it?"
Adrian hesitated, his expression twisting with thought. "At the moment… just one dish."
Amelia blinked, as if she'd misheard. "Just one?" Her brows rose high, her tone incredulous. "You make fried rice that good, and you're only serving one thing?"
Adrian rubbed his brow. "That fried rice made me realize my problem."
Her head tilted, questioning.
"The golden fried rice is far beyond anything else I can make right now," he said, voice steady with pragmatic conviction. "If I put it next to other mediocre dishes, guests will only order the rice. The rest would just drag the menu down."
He glanced toward the counter. "So why not make it the sole star? At least at first. One dish, but done exceptionally."
She paused, visibly surprised. "And the rest of your recipes?"
"Still in testing," he admitted. "Right now, they're… mediocre."
A wry shrug. "Not ready for a plate."
Amelia stared at him for a long moment before breaking into a laugh. "You really do love your minimalism."
Adrian didn't deny it. He offered a faint smile. "Minimalist—but excellent."
She didn't argue, only studied him quietly for a few moments, reassessing him.
"…You're right," she said finally, a small smile tugging her lips. "If you'd told me this yesterday, I'd have thought you were crazy. Opening a restaurant with one dish? It sounds insane."
Her eyes lit with the memory of the night before. "But after that first bite of fried rice, I get it. You're not being reckless—you're doing what you're best at. What you love."
She let out a soft breath, like she'd set down a long‑held doubt. "Honestly? When I first came here, I thought: if I can help, I will. I believed in you, but I still doubted if such a drastic change would work."
Her gaze met his, clear and steady. "But now? I believe you can do this."
Adrian glanced at her, lips twitching slightly, but said nothing—only silently took in her faith.
By midday, the sun blazed overhead, the streets alive with traffic and the distant toll of church bells.
Adrian led Amelia through two side streets and stopped before an aging block.
It was an old‑style Shanghainese restaurant, its facade lined with dark‑red wooden panels. The paint had weathered into small flecks over the years, but the building still held a quiet grandeur. A pair of faded yet festive red lanterns swayed gently under the eaves.
Above the door hung a gilt plaque, its golden characters glinting in the sun, the calligraphy bold and deliberate—a statement of old‑world grace.
Before even pushing the door, the sounds reached them: clattering crockery, servers calling out orders, and a medley of Cantonese, Mandarin, and French. The scents of oil and spice rolled out in a wave, alive and inviting.
The cashier's counter faced the entrance, an old wooden desk adorned with an abacus and a vintage register, preserving the air of a bygone dining hall.
A plump middle‑aged woman stood by the door, dressed in a simple cheongsam‑style dress. A smear of flour marked her cuff, evidence she'd just come from the kitchen. Her round face held the soft warmth of Jiangnan features, undercut by the brisk competence of someone long used to managing a busy floor.
As Adrian entered, she'd just finished handing off a waiting couple to a server. She brushed her hair back, turned, and broke into a familiar smile.
"Well, if it isn't Adrian!"
Her Mandarin carried a distinct Shanghainese lilt, her tone instantly softer.
This was Madame Gu, who had moved to France with her husband, an old‑school Shanghainese chef. With his craft and their savings, they'd built this restaurant, a haven for Chinese expatriates and anyone in Paris craving a taste of home.
Adrian's first visit had been as a university student. He'd overheard the owners chatting in fluent Shanghainese, and instinctively called out,
"What did you just say?"
They'd both frozen—then laughed.
That moment marked the beginning of an easy familiarity, Adrian's own half‑Shanghainese roots bridging the gap.
Madame Gu was about to return to the counter when she spotted the tall blonde behind him. Her eyes widened, and a teasing smile spread across her face.
"Well, well, well—Adrian, is this your girlfriend? My, she's gorgeous—like she stepped out of a painting!"
Amelia, caught off‑guard by the blunt compliment, blinked before returning a polite smile. "Thank you." Her Mandarin was fluid, surprising Madame Gu all the more.
Adrian only chuckled lightly, his voice calm with a hint of exasperation. "No, Auntie Gu. Don't get the wrong idea—she's just a friend."
"A friend, hm?" Madame Gu arched a brow, her grin turning wicked. "Such a pretty friend? I see how it is."
Her teasing had the playful edge of an older relative poking at a junior.
Adrian didn't bother to argue. Still smiling, he gestured toward a table by the window. "Auntie, enough teasing. We'll seat ourselves."
"Go ahead, go ahead." She waved them off with good‑natured cheer, her knowing smile refusing to fade.
Adrian led Amelia to a table by the window. The sunlight spilled across the canal outside, reflecting in shimmering waves onto the tabletop.
"This is your usual spot?" Amelia asked quietly, taking in the restaurant's retro decor.
He nodded. "Best Shanghainese food in Paris."
They skimmed the menu and ordered simple fare: red‑braised pork, blanched greens, a platter of poached shrimp—and, at Adrian's insistence, a plate of fried rice.
"You just had your 'golden fried rice,' and now you're ordering more?" Amelia teased.
"Research," he replied evenly, closing the menu.
From the counter, Madame Gu overheard and laughed. "Still the same boy—always treating meals like experiments."
Their dishes arrived quickly: glossy red‑braised pork, its layers melting at a touch; bright‑green blanched greens kissed with hot oil; plump shrimp, their flesh tasting of the sea; and a simple fried rice, humble but fragrant.
The table filled with the warmth of a Jiangnan dining hall.
They ate mostly in silence. Amelia, intending to sample lightly, found herself reaching again and again—especially for the pork and shrimp.
When the last grain of rice disappeared, Adrian glanced at the half‑emptied plates, then at her, his brows rising in surprise. "You matched me bite for bite?"
Amelia dabbed at her mouth, perfectly unapologetic. "You should've guessed—I can eat."
He chuckled, shaking his head, silently noting her appetite.
They paid under Madame Gu's smiling gaze and strolled back toward the restaurant.
"I have to say," Amelia mused, licking her lips as though savoring the memory, "the chef here is good. That pork was spot‑on. The fried rice too—pleasantly surprising."
Then her expression shifted, playful. "But… if I hadn't tried yours yesterday, I might've come back for more. Now? Yours is leagues ahead."
Adrian didn't answer right away, his gaze lowered as he considered.
That fried rice—they'd nailed the fundamentals. The heat and seasoning were solid, the grains held together with a seasoned hand.
Somewhere between intermediate and advanced, he judged. Good enough to keep a steady stream of guests in a city like Paris.
But compared to his golden fried rice, it lacked that ethereal looseness, that layered richness.
The corner of his mouth tugged upward.
His standards had already left the realm of ordinary restaurants far behind.