You got your marriage certificate and then abandoned me? I'll feed the richest woman in the wor

The cold words were like the sharp edge of a knife with icy shards.

It pierced straight into the eardrum of the European duke.

The high-ranking nobleman's legs trembled involuntarily.

The expensive custom-made leather shoes made messy, backward steps on the carpet.

"Clatter".

The blank check, filled with an astronomical sum, slipped through his trembling fingers.

It fell onto the Persian carpet, which was stained with red wine.

Nobody cares.

Chen Yuan didn't even spare a glance.

He turned around, his tall and imposing back perfectly blocking the dazzling crystal chandelier above the hall.

He sheltered Shen Wanzhou completely in the shadow he cast.

Eat slowly, no rush.

Chen Yuan's voice was deep and gentle, completely different from the murderous aura he had exuded just now.

He pulled out the carved wooden chair next to him and sat down calmly.

His deep black eyes were fixed intently on the girl beside him.

Shen Wanzhou held the small pure silver spoon.

The fair fingertips had a healthy pink hue.

She scooped up a spoonful of clear broth, along with a few strands of tofu as thin as hair.

It was placed into her rosy lips.

The rich, sweet flavor melted on her tongue, and she smiled contentedly.

The soft flesh on her cheeks bulged slightly, like a cute little kitten guarding its food.

Chen Yuan rested his chin on one hand.

Seeing her completely unguarded appearance, his hard jawline softened completely.

That's his only purpose in standing here today.

No matter how crazy the powerful and wealthy outside are, they can't compare to the faint smile on her face as she eats and drinks her fill.

Separated by a wall.

Behind that heavy brass double door lies the private kitchen of a Michelin three-star restaurant.

The cold white shadowless light shone on the stainless steel kitchen counter.

The exhaust fan emitted a low hum.

The air pressure in the entire kitchen was so low that it was hard to breathe.

Alan was wearing a snow-white double-breasted chef's uniform.

The three gold-threaded stars on her chest shone brightly under the lights.

He stood in front of stove number 99, which Chen Yuan had just used.

That face, once filled with Gallic arrogance, was now ashen.

The graying beard on his chin trembled violently with his heavy breathing.

"A scam! This is absolutely an Eastern trick!"

Alan gripped the edge of the marble countertop tightly with both hands.

The fingernails scraped against the table with a sharp, grating sound.

He stared intently at the purple clay pot in the very center of the stove.

Those were the utensils Chen Yuan used to make soup.

The four sous chefs stood around, looking at each other in bewilderment.

No one dared to offend the head chef at this time.

The lid of the purple clay pot has been lifted.

At the bottom of the pot, only half a mouthful of clear broth remained, which had not yet been ladled out.

The broth was crystal clear.

There wasn't a single impurity, not even a single drop of suspended oil.

It's just like a bowl of ordinary warm water.

But in the air.

That exquisite sweetness comes from simmering a mixture of old hen, dried scallops, and Jinhua ham.

It was like an invisible behemoth.

It ruthlessly tore apart the original aromas of butter and rosemary in the kitchen.

It has taken over everyone's sense of smell.

"Chef, I watched him pour in the minced chicken breast with my own eyes."

A young sous chef swallowed hard, his voice trembling.

"The minced meat acted like a sponge, absorbing all the slurry in the soup."

"This kind of physical purification method is something our molecular gastronomy machines simply cannot achieve..."

"Shut up!"

Alan turned around abruptly and shouted angrily.

Spit landed on the sous chef's face.

"French cuisine is the pinnacle of world cooking! It's an unsurpassable art!"

"This kind of rotten vegetable leaf, boiled in water, deserves to be called a state banquet?"

He turned around, his gaze returning to the purple clay pot.

"This soup must have a lot of chemical flavor enhancers added."

Alan let out a cold laugh.

"Chinese people love to use such despicable means to numb diners' taste buds."

"Today I'm going to personally expose this swindler's true colors!"

Alan stretched out his hands, which were covered with old burn scars.

He pulled out a clean silver tasting spoon from beside the knife rack.

The metal spoon handle gleamed coldly under the light.

Without hesitation, he dipped the spoon into the bottom of the clay pot.

He smacked his lips, savoring the last sip of the slightly cool, clear soup.

The broth sloshed gently in the groove of the silver spoon.

Clear and bright.

Alan snorted coldly.

Put the spoon directly into your mouth.

Teeth closed, tongue tip curled upwards.

one second.

two seconds.

The only sound coming from the kitchen was the noise of the freezer compressor running.

The four sous chefs held their breath, staring intently at Alan's reaction.

Waiting for the chef to spit out that soup, and then to deliver the most vicious judgment on Eastern cuisine.

But Alan did not vomit.

His body, at the moment the soup touched his taste buds.

It was as if a high-voltage lightning bolt had struck him directly on the top of his head.

"Clang!"

The pure silver tasting spoon slipped from his fingers.

It slammed heavily onto the stainless steel kitchen counter, bounced twice, and rolled to the ground.

Alan's eyes suddenly widened.

His gray-blue pupils contracted to the size of pinpoints, and the muscles around his eye sockets spasmed violently.

It doesn't have the pungent smell of chemical fragrances.

It doesn't have the dryness of inferior MSG.

It's a pure, deep-seated, top-tier sweetness that pushes the original flavor of the ingredients to their limits.

This freshness.

Layer upon layer, it exploded in my mouth like a tsunami.

First comes the rich flavor of old hen, then the crispness of deep-sea scallops, and finally the lingering sweetness of aged ham.

All the flavors intertwine, yet none overpower the others.

It blends perfectly into that seemingly plain bowl of water.

Alan's Adam's apple bobbed up and down with difficulty.

Gudong.

The half-mouthful of soup slid down the esophagus into the stomach.

It leaves behind an extremely comforting warmth that spreads through the veins to every part of the body.

He opened his mouth, trying to breathe.

But it felt like a scalding hot iron had been shoved into my chest, and even breathing was painful.

"This...how is this possible..."

Alan's voice was hoarse and cracked, like a rusty, broken telegraph machine.

He staggered back half a step.

His back slammed hard against the refrigerated display case door behind him.

It made a muffled "bang".

Thirty years.

Alain has been working in the French catering industry for a full thirty years.

He spent countless days and nights researching how to precisely adjust the ratio of butter.

How to use expensive liquid nitrogen and molecular capsules to reshape the form of food ingredients.

He thought he had reached the pinnacle of human taste.

Looking down upon all living beings.

But now.

This clear broth is like an ancient, blunt, heavy sword.

Arrogant, domineering, and unreasonable.

It directly shattered his proud temple, built with butter and molecular technology.

He turned his head and stared blankly at his control panel, which he was so proud of.

There were top-grade white truffle extract, caviar cream, and various complex temperature control devices on display.

Just now, he thought these were the crystallization of art.

now.

Standing before this simple, authentic Eastern-style broth noodle soup.

All of those things were turned into crude, greasy industrial feed, only fit for feeding animals.

"Chef? What's wrong?"

A sous chef mustered up his courage and stepped forward to help him up.

Alan, however, jerked his hand away from the sous chef as if he had been electrocuted.

The force was so great that it sent the young Frenchman sprawling to the ground.

Alan ran his hands through his sparse, graying hair.

They pulled and tugged at it forcefully.

He was completely unaware that blood was seeping from his scalp.

The arrogance and haughtiness on that old face had been completely stripped away.

All that remains is the endless desolation after the collapse of faith.

"Art...my art..."

He muttered to himself nervously, his eyes glistening with tears.

Two cloudy tears rolled down her cheeks without warning.

It struck the three Michelin stars on his chest, which symbolized the highest honor.

original.

True mastery of cooking is never about adding, but about subtracting.

It hides the most complex and intricate processes beneath the simplest and most ordinary appearance.

The big sound is loud, the elephant is invisible.

That Chinese man used a broad-backed cleaver and an iron pot.

It taught him a lesson that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Alan's legs finally lost their last bit of support.

My kneecap buckled.

With a "plop".

He knelt firmly on the cold, hard, non-slip floor tiles in the back kitchen.

The sound of knees hitting the floor sounded particularly desolate in the quiet kitchen.

The four sous chefs were dumbfounded.

They watched helplessly as this emperor, known for his fiery temper and wielding considerable influence in the European culinary world, was brought to life.

At this moment, he resembles a believer who has lost all faith.

The renowned three-Michelin-starred chef, whose fame resounded throughout Europe, collapsed to his knees on the cold kitchen floor, covering his face and sobbing uncontrollably: "My pride of thirty years has been shattered by a pot of clear soup..."