Julian Slowik (Part 1)

By mid-April, New York's weather swung between hot and cold. Yesterday had been windy; today, the sun was so nice it made people want to skip work.

Chen Xiao skipped work.

After all, Daniel was keeping an eye on things at the Sanctum. Whether Chen Xiao was there or not made little difference—according to Daniel, "When the chief is here, we work. When the chief isn't here, we still work. So whether the chief is here doesn't actually affect our workload."

Chen Xiao felt like that sounded both complimentary and insulting.

He decided not to think about it and focused on checking out restaurants.

He had been in New York for so long, yet he had never seriously explored Manhattan's restaurants. Daniel had once made him a list, from Michelin establishments to street stalls, filling two densely packed pages. Chen Xiao took one look and decided to do it backward—starting with street food.

So over the past few days, he had shown up at the Jewish deli in the Lower East Side, a Mexican taco cart in Chelsea, a Japanese ramen shop in the East Village, an Italian pizzeria on the Upper West Side...

Today, he had wandered into a rather inconspicuous neighborhood.

Observation Haki was one of the abilities he was most proud of in the Marvel Universe—not because it could help him fight, but because it could help him find food. Within a few hundred meters, he could tell at a glance which places had the longest lines, which smelled the best, and which had the happiest diners.

There was a very strange restaurant on this street today.

Seven or eight people stood outside, all peering inside, but not one of them went in. Their emotions were complicated—curiosity, hesitation, and a trace of self-doubt that seemed to say, Am I even worthy?

Chen Xiao raised an eyebrow and walked over.

The door was dark gray, matte, and entirely without unnecessary decoration. A small brass plaque was set beside it, engraved with a single word:

Hawthorne

There was no menu, no signboard, no neon "Open" sign. Just that tightly shut door, as though it were saying, You don't belong here.

Yet it also had a narrow crack left open, as though it were saying, Unless you're good enough.

The people outside were murmuring among themselves:

"I heard the chef worked in Europe for more than ten years. He was the head chef at three Michelin restaurants..."

"Not three. Five. Every one of those restaurants lost stars after he left."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. After he left, none of those five restaurants ever got their three stars back."

"Then why did he come to New York?"

"Who knows?"

Chen Xiao stood beside them and listened for a while, getting a rough idea of the situation.

The head chef of five three-star Michelin restaurants. Every one had lost stars after he left.

What kind of godly cooking was that?

He leaned in for a look through the crack in the door. Inside was a minimalist dining room in gray and white, with wooden floors and a bouquet of dried wildflowers in one corner. It was as quiet as a temple.

"So," Chen Xiao asked the person beside him, "why aren't you going in?"

The person looked at him as if he were an alien.

"Do you know how much people spend here per person?"

"How much?"

"Over five hundred. Not including alcohol."

"Five hundred dollars?"

"Yeah. And you can't order. You eat whatever the chef makes. If he serves you a plate of grass, you eat grass."

Chen Xiao fell silent for two seconds.

"What if it isn't good?"

The person looked at him as if to say, Are you serious? "A three-star Michelin chef, a legendary figure whose five restaurants all lost stars after he left—and you think it might not taste good?"

"Then go in."

The entire group fell silent.

Chen Xiao understood.

It wasn't that they didn't want to eat there. They didn't dare go in. The threshold of that door was not just about money; it was also the psychological question of whether they belonged.

Three Michelin stars, a legend behind five restaurants, a name that made the entire European culinary scene tremble—an ordinary person walking into a place like that would feel as if they had somehow wandered onto the wrong set.

Chen Xiao thought about it and decided that since he was free anyway, he might as well.

He pushed the door open and walked inside.

A collective gasp sounded behind him.

It was even quieter inside than outside.

The lighting was soft, as if it had flowed in from somewhere unseen. There was only one table in the front dining area, with a thick leather menu placed on top. But when Chen Xiao opened it, the pages were blank.

"..."

He closed the menu and looked around.

The open kitchen stood directly ahead. Its counters were gray marble, and copper cookware hung across an entire wall. A man in a white chef's uniform stood behind the counter, head lowered as he chopped something with surgical precision.

He was tall and lean. His graying hair was combed impeccably, his features deep-set, his brow prominent, and his lips pressed into a thin line. Standing there, he looked like a blade sharpened for many years, yet never once dulled.

He did not look like a chef.

He looked like a tyrant.

His tyranny simply happened to extend only as far as the kitchen.

"Sit." The man did not even look up.

Chen Xiao found himself a seat—not in a corner, but at the table in the very center of the restaurant. He did that on purpose.

"Where's the menu?"

"I am the menu."

Chen Xiao paused, then smiled.

"Then what am I ordering?"

"You don't order. You eat what I give you."

"What if I don't like it?"

The man finally raised his head and looked at him.

The glance was brief, but Chen Xiao felt as though he had been scanned from head to toe—not the kind of appraisal Tony Stark gave when assessing someone's value, but the picky scrutiny of someone deciding whether he deserved to eat his food.

"You can leave." After saying that, the man went back to chopping.

This guy is even more annoying than Tony.

Yet Chen Xiao remained seated.

"So what are we having today?"

"First course, fish."

"What kind of fish?"

"A fish whose name you don't know."

"..."

Chen Xiao took a deep breath and decided to shut up.

The fish was served.

A white porcelain plate, black sauce, a slice of raw fish at the center, sprinkled with some sort of garnish Chen Xiao could not name. The plating was as exquisite as a painting—though the portion was pitifully small.

Chen Xiao picked up his fork, hesitated for a moment, and put it in his mouth.

Then his mind went blank for a second.

The feeling was difficult to describe—it could not be summed up by the words "tastes good." The freshness of the fish, the acidity of the sauce, and the fragrance of the garnish unfolded layer by layer in his mouth like a symphony, each instrument entering at exactly the right moment.

He looked down at the plate, then at the man in the kitchen who was still chopping with his head lowered.

"..." He wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

He took another bite.

Then a third.

The plate was empty.

"Second course," the man's voice came from the kitchen. "Soup."

The soup was served.

It was a clear amber broth, transparent as stream water. Several mushroom slices as thin as cicada wings rested at the bottom of the bowl. Chen Xiao lifted it and took a sip, closing his eyes.

He took another sip.

Then drained the bowl.

Third course, fourth course, fifth course...

Every dish made Chen Xiao want to say something, but each time the words reached his lips, he swallowed them back down. Anything he said would have felt unnecessary.

"Tastes good" was too cheap.

"Way too delicious" was too crude.

"You're a genius" was too exaggerated—though it might actually have been true.

The final course was dessert. A small chocolate tart dusted with gold leaf. After Chen Xiao finished it, he set down his fork and remained silent for thirty seconds.

Then he spoke from the heart.

"Your food is poisonous."

The man's hand paused.

"What?"

"The kind of poison that tastes so good it becomes addictive," Chen Xiao said. "What am I supposed to do after this? Will I even be able to eat anything else?"

The man looked at him expressionlessly, then said, "That is your problem, not mine."

Chen Xiao paused, then laughed.

"Do you talk to every customer like this, or just me?"

"Only the ones who know good food."

This guy's mouth is even worse than mine.

But Chen Xiao still obediently paid more than five hundred dollars, along with a one-hundred-dollar tip.

As he left, he said, "I'll be back next week."

The man did not answer. He was lowering his head and wiping a knife.

After Chen Xiao returned, he had Daniel investigate the man's background.

Daniel placed the file in front of him, his expression a little strange.

"Chief, this man... is interesting."

Julian Slowik.

Forty-five years old. His origins were unknown. Some said he had grown up in kitchens; others said he was a genius who entered the profession midway through life. He earned his first Michelin star at thirty and became the youngest three-star Michelin chef in history at thirty-five. Over the next twelve years, he moved among five of Europe's top restaurants. Every restaurant he joined became three-star; every restaurant he left lost stars.

Five restaurants. All lost stars.

People in the culinary world called him "The Hawthorne"—meaning that his cooking was like hawthorn fruit: sweet at first bite, bitter in the aftertaste, addictive if you had too much, but impossible to live on alone.

Something had happened during his final year in Europe—exactly what, no one could find out. All they knew was that he abruptly closed his restaurant in Paris and vanished for three months. Then he appeared in New York and opened Hawthorne.

The restaurant accepted no orders and offered no explanations for its menu. If you wanted to eat, come in. If not, get lost.

But in its first week, every food critic in New York came. In the second week, every food critic in America came. In the third week, food critics from all over the world came.

Their conclusion was astonishingly unanimous: this might be the best restaurant on Earth right now.

"The best restaurant on Earth," Chen Xiao repeated. "And it's on such an unremarkable street?"

"He once said something," Daniel said as he flipped through the file. "'A good restaurant doesn't need a good location. Good locations are for bad restaurants.'"

Chen Xiao fell silent for two seconds.

"...This guy talks even bigger than I do."

He lowered his head and continued flipping through the file. When he reached a certain page, his finger suddenly stopped.

There was a photograph on it—Julian standing in a kitchen, a knife in his hand, staring expressionlessly into the camera. Behind him was a row of gleaming copper pots.

Chen Xiao stared at the photograph for several seconds. Then something in his mind clicked.

He remembered a movie.

A movie he had watched before crossing over. It was about a top chef who opened a restaurant on his own island, prepared a meal for a group of wealthy people, and then—

Then he remembered.

Cheeseburger.

At the end of the movie, the chef made a cheeseburger for the last customer. An ordinary cheeseburger, without anything fancy. But that customer said it was the best thing he had ever eaten.

Chen Xiao opened his mouth.

"Julian Slowik..." He murmured the name once, then slapped his thigh. "It's him?!"

Daniel jumped. "Chief, you know him?"

"I don't know him, but I..." Chen Xiao nearly said, "I watched his movie," but swallowed the words at the last moment. "I saw him in some... report."

Daniel looked at him suspiciously.

Chen Xiao no longer had the attention to spare for Daniel's stare. His mind was racing—Julian Slowik, the chef in the movie who made one final meal for a bunch of assholes. The obsessive maniac who treated cooking as art. The man who had ultimately vanished into the flames together with his restaurant.

The man who made the cheeseburger.

Chen Xiao leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, the corners of his mouth slowly lifting.

"Chief?" Daniel called cautiously.

"It's nothing." Chen Xiao waved a hand, unable to suppress his smile. "I just suddenly think this chef... is pretty interesting."

Daniel watched his expression, feeling that something was off, though he could not say what.

"Then... should I keep investigating?"

"No need," Chen Xiao said. "He's just a pure chef."

"Then why are you so interested in him?"

Chen Xiao thought about it and gave Daniel an answer he could not possibly understand.

"Because of cheeseburgers."

Daniel said, "...What?"

"Nothing." Chen Xiao stood and patted Daniel on the shoulder. "I'll take you there next week. You'll understand after you eat."

Daniel watched him leave with a bewildered expression.

Cheeseburgers?

What did a three-star Michelin chef have to do with cheeseburgers?

Daniel did not understand, but Daniel decided not to ask.