In the hush of dawn, when the city still dreams, a flame awakens in the kitchen. It’s not just fire — it’s devotion, it’s memory, it’s the heartbeat of a chef.
He remembers the first scent of garlic crackling in oil, the warmth of fresh bread breaking in his hands, the hush that falls across a table when flavor silences conversation. These are not just meals — they are whispers of a thousand stories, folded into pastry, stirred into broth, seared into the very grain of a cutting board.
