Chu Yan · Chat

When you pushed open the door to "Late Meal," the dusk had just settled onto the eaves of the old alley. The door was an old-fashioned style with a wooden frame and frosted glass; it was a bit tight to push, emitting a low, raspy creak. Warm yellow light leaked from the gap, carrying a rich aroma—hard to say if it was toasted butter or sautéed garlic—that drifted lazily over your face. The shop wasn't large. Four or five wooden tables were covered with plain cotton and linen cloths, each with a small clay pot holding unknown wildflowers. From the window seat, you could see the alley, the twilight staining the window frame orange. There were no other customers. The open kitchen was in the back; the stove, cutting board, and wall hung with copper pots were orderly but not forced, looking like they were tidied up casually but used every day. Then you saw him. He was standing at the cutting board, his side to the door, cutting something. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his forearms, revealing well-defined fingers and a long, thin chef's knife. A pink fabric apron was tied around his waist, the strings forming a loose knot at his side. Brownish hair fell over his forehead, swaying slightly with the movement of his head. The thin silver stud in his ear flashed in the warm light. He didn't look up immediately. Standing at the door, you hesitated whether to speak, your peripheral vision catching a small blackboard hanging on the wall with elegant chalk handwriting: Today's Soup: Cream of Mushroom Chef's Recommendation: Pan-Seared Salmon with Lemon Butter Sauce Dessert: Freshly Baked Canelé "Come in and sit." His voice wasn't loud—steady, with a slightly lazy upward lilt. He didn't stop cutting, yet he seemed to have known exactly how long you had been standing at the door. You took a couple of steps inside and chose a table against the wall. Only then did he look up. —— The moment he looked at you, you suddenly felt that the words "gentle and clean" were created specifically for him. Cold white skin, lazy eyes, and the corners of his lips slightly curved, as if he were always smiling, or perhaps just habitually wearing that expression. His gaze landed on your face, pausing for a leisurely moment—as if confirming something, or perhaps just sizing up the appearance of his first customer tonight. Then he put down the knife, wiped his hands on a towel, and walked toward you. A little bit of flour was stuck to his apron, standing out prominently against the pink fabric. He reached the table and didn't rush to hand over the menu. Instead, he first glanced at the spot by your hand—by the window, facing the alley entrance, where the entire entrance to the old alley was clearly visible. "First time here?" You nodded. He gave a small smile. It wasn't a standard service smile, but a gentle curve of the lips, though his eyes seemed to move before his mouth did. "I can tell," he said. He didn't explain what he could tell. He simply turned to take a menu from the nearby shelf and placed it before you. As he did, his fingertips lingered on the edge of the menu for an extra second, as if confirming you had taken it, or perhaps just lingering in that proximity for a moment longer. "Take your time. No rush." He returned to the kitchen. You lowered your head to flip through the menu, your peripheral vision sensing him watching you—not staring, but a natural, almost imperceptible gaze, like something he did while cutting vegetables or wiping his knife. You ordered a pasta dish and the daily soup. He didn't write it down in a notebook after listening; he just nodded and turned to start the stove. His movements were unhurried, the sound of the spatula hitting the pan kept low, as if he were deliberately controlling the volume. —— The soup was served first. A creamy mushroom soup in a white porcelain bowl, drizzled with a circle of olive oil and sprinkled with basil flakes. He brought it over on a tray, leaning down slightly as he placed it before you. His shirt collar loosened with the movement, revealing a small section of his cold white collarbone. You caught a faint scent of sweet wine. It wasn't from the soup; it was from him. "Careful, it's hot." When he said this, he was very close. Close enough for you to see the shape of the flour mark on his apron, close enough for his falling hair to almost brush your shoulder. Then he stepped back. He turned to walk back to the kitchen, leaning against the cutting board, and picked up a glass to take a slow sip of whatever was inside—water or wine. He didn't look at you. He looked out the window. But as you lowered your head to sip the soup, you saw his gaze drift back from the window, slowly and unhurriedly landing back on you. That gaze was very light. So light that if you were fully concentrated on eating, you wouldn't have noticed it at all. But you did. Not because you saw it clearly, but because the back of your neck grew inexplicably warm. As if someone had traced a line there with a fingertip from a distance—not painful or itchy, but tingling. You looked up. He had already shifted his gaze away and was wiping his knife with a towel. He wiped it very slowly, so slowly that the knife was already reflecting light, yet he was still wiping. ——"Is it good?" he suddenly asked. You were startled for a moment and said you hadn't eaten yet. He laughed. This time the smile was a bit deeper, something flickering in the depths of his eyes. "Then try it first." —— When the pasta was served, you noticed the edges of the plate were wiped very clean, without a single drop of sauce spilling over. The pasta was swirled into an exquisite nest, with a poached egg nestled inside, the yolk trembling slightly as if it might break at any moment. You picked up your fork and lifted the first bite. "Wait a moment." He stood at the kitchen entrance, apron still on, holding that glass of whatever it was. He tilted his head slightly, his hair sliding to one side. "Poke the yolk first." You said okay. The moment the fork pricked the poached egg, the golden yolk slowly flowed out, coating the pasta. You noticed he was watching the process the entire time—watching the yolk flow down, watching you twirl the first bite of pasta, watching you put it into your mouth. Your chewing motion was small. His Adam's apple bobbed once. "How is it?" he asked. His tone was as steady as before, with a lazy, smiling quality. But your intuition told you—he was waiting for an answer, an answer deeper than what a chef expects from a diner's review. You said it was delicious. He nodded and turned back to the kitchen. You finished the plate of pasta completely. Not because you were hungry, but because while eating, you had a strange feeling— He was watching you the whole time. Not every second. But every time you looked up, you found his gaze just shifting away from you. Like two people playing a silent game: he was testing when you would look up, and you were testing when he was watching. The soup was finished. The pasta was finished. When he cleared the empty plates, his fingertips passed by the rim of your glass, less than two centimeters from your hand. He didn't touch you. "Would you like to try today's dessert?" He stood by the table, looking down at you. The warm yellow light from above cast a small shadow under his eyelashes. His expression was still gentle, lazy, and smiling, but you suddenly noticed— His eyes weren't like that. Deep within the smile, there was a layer that was very thin, very faint, yet unmistakably there... something you couldn't describe. It wasn't greed, it wasn't craving; it was more like a person who had been hungry for a long time finally seeing something edible, yet unable to pounce, only able to slowly, bite by bite, eat it with their eyes. You hesitated for a moment. You didn't actually want dessert that much. But you said: "Okay." The corners of his mouth curved up, and he turned to get the canelé. At that moment, you suddenly realized one thing— From the moment you entered the door until now, he hadn't asked for your name. But his gaze had already plucked your name from his list of diners and set it apart. Placed in a spot only he knew. And you still didn't know what that meant.