The rhythmic drumming of rain against the windowpanes created a gentle, soothing backdrop. I sat nestled in the old armchair, its worn fabric a familiar comfort. The past month had been a whirlwind of culinary exploration. Every afternoon, once my schoolwork was done and before Mum and Dad returned from their long shifts at the pub, I ventured out—quietly, methodically—visiting restaurants all over town. Sometimes I even pushed further, slipping into the city to taste dishes from acclaimed establishments.
But I wasn't taking notes with pen and paper. I had Core.
Every dish, every subtle flavor, every texture—I logged it all. Core analyzed each component, cross-referencing techniques, ingredients, and flavor profiles. I was learning fast. Quality ingredients, spice balances, the telltale signs of culinary mastery—these weren't just meals. They were lessons.
Why was I doing this?
To answer that, I had to rewind a month—back to when our family's situation started gnawing at me. Mum and Dad worked long, punishing hours, and yet we barely got by. I wanted to help, but being a kid? It felt like being locked in a cage. I couldn't just go out and get a job.
"I remember thinking, "Okay, let's think this through," murmuring to myself, brow furrowed like Dad's when he wrestled with a stubborn problem. I'd sat there, staring out at the rainy street, trying to make sense of how to make real money. Future tech? That was out—this was the early '70s, and Silicon Valley was still just orchards. The stock market? Too slow, too risky. It all felt like chasing shadows."
I sighed, the rain mirroring the swirl of memories from a world I'd left behind—a world of speed, of data, of access. Things here moved slower, more deliberately. Sometimes it was comforting. Other times, frustrating. But it offered something valuable: space to plan.
"I need capital," I muttered. "Which I don't have. And moving too fast? That's dangerous. British society... it's rigid. Too much success too quickly draws attention. I need to move carefully."
My gaze drifted to the rain-streaked window. I thought of my parents—their love, their sacrifices. Mary, always smiling even when exhausted. David, quiet and steady as stone. I wanted more for them. Security. Peace. A chance to dream.
"A plan," I said firmly. "Something sustainable. Not flashy—stable. A steady income."
And then, like a spark catching dry kindling, it hit me. The food. The food of Chengdu. The rich, layered flavors. The busy, joy-filled eateries. I remembered the mapo tofu, the numbing fire of Sichuan pepper, the harmony in every bite.
"Food," I said aloud. The word felt like a key.
Everyone eats. Everyone loves good food. What if I brought something new to town? Collected the best local dishes, refined them, elevated them, and created something truly special?
A restaurant. My restaurant.
I stood up, energy rushing through me. I could already see it: the layout, the menu, the buzz of happy customers. A place where food was more than a necessity—it was an experience.
"It'll be hard," I acknowledged. "I'll need time. I'll need to learn."
"Core," I said, steady and clear, "give me an update. Have you compiled the cookbooks? Analyzed the sauces from the restaurants? Can you break down the ingredients?"
Core's synthesized voice responded instantly. "Affirmative, Elen. All requested cookbooks are scanned. Molecular analysis complete. Ingredient compositions inferred. Flavor profiles and techniques cataloged. Ingredient suppliers and pricing identified."
I nodded. "Great. Let's start with the fundamentals. Knife skills. Heat control. Flavor theory. And I want context—cultural origins, history of the dishes, everything."
The far wall shimmered. A holographic kitchen bloomed into view, sharp and detailed. Core guided me through each station, narrating tools, equipment, and techniques with precision.
"everything in its place." Core began. "Preparation and organization. Foundation of any professional kitchen."
I absorbed it all. Hours passed. Core showed me how to hold a knife, how to dice, mince, julienne. My small hands gripped the holographic blade with determination. Mistakes came often, but Core was patient. Each misstep was a lesson.
"Uniform cuts ensure even cooking," Core reminded me. "Presentation matters. Food is visual, too."
We moved on to heat: simmering, sautéing, searing. I learned how flame and time affected texture and flavor. I cooked simple dishes—stir-fries, omelets—making plenty of errors, but improving steadily.
I learned the Maillard reaction. I learned about seasoning, about creating balance—acid, salt, fat, umami. I learned how to tell a story with a dish.
Day by day, my skills sharpened. Core became mentor, teacher, companion. I didn't just want to cook—I wanted to understand.
By the end of the second week, I could walk you through a béchamel, explain the science of caramelization, and identify a dish's regional origin from a single bite. And I was just getting started.
I wasn't just learning to cook.
I was laying the foundation for something bigger.
Something that might just change everything for my family.