My name is Lin Wei, and I’m the chef at “Lin’s Wontons” in Flushing. All my life, I’ve hated that flashy, over-the-top Western cuisine. But ironically, to save my dad’s crumbling old restaurant and escape a ridiculous, suffocating arranged marriage, I plunged headfirst into New York’s most elite kitchen showdown.

My opponent was Lucas, a French culinary aristocrat who treated French cuisine like a sacred text, embodying “arrogance” from head to toe. We were oil and water, red chili oil and red wine, diametrically opposed. Who would’ve thought that I, this Chinese chef reeking of “wok hei,” would end up tangled with that French culinary snob, drenched in “red wine,” creating a fated, yet troublesome, connection – one that almost cost me my life?

My dad’s incessant nagging is the bane of my existence. His old face, lately, is so wrinkled it could trap flies. Lin’s Wontons, our family’s three-generation legacy, used to be a famous spot on this Flushing street. But now? The doors are practically cobwebbed, so deserted even cats won’t bother. Delivery orders are pitifully few, and dine-in customers are sparse, just a handful of nostalgic regulars who order a bowl of wontons and sigh quietly. My dad, Lin Guofu, an old man who values Sichuan cuisine more than his life, now spends his days staring blankly at the empty restaurant or poring over his phone, muttering about losses. Things like, “The ancestral legacy will be ruined by me,” or “I’ve failed my forefathers.” It’s enough to make my ears bleed.

Of course, I know business is bad. These days, who still eats old-fashioned stuff? The streets are teeming with Western and Japanese restaurants, all glitzy and glamorous, their plating alone enough to wow people. Our wontons taste supreme, but they just lack that “gimmick.” I tried to innovate, to add some trendy elements, but my dad would blow a fuse, yelling, “That’s desecrating our ancestors’ craft!” and “That’s heresy!” Fine, old man, you’re right, I’ll shut up.

But we can’t just watch the restaurant go under. That night, my dad called me into the back kitchen again, his demeanor more serious than when I used to sneak his chili peppers as a kid. He rubbed his hands, hesitant, before finally, as if making a monumental decision, he squeezed out, “Weiwei, you… you should meet that boy from the Wang family.”

I froze, almost dropping the spatula in my hand. The Wang family? Which Wang family? Oh, I knew. That nouveau riche real estate family in Flushing. Their son, I heard he looked like a potato and was notoriously stingy. Last time he came to our restaurant for a bowl of noodles, he insisted I give him extra greens. Had my dad gone mad? Even if I, Lin Wei, never married, I would never marry a potato!

I exploded on the spot, slamming the spatula onto the cutting board with a loud clang! “Dad! What kind of joke are you playing? An arranged marriage? What era is this, and you’re still pulling that stunt? I’m an independent woman, not some pawn to sell the restaurant!” My dad flinched at my roar but quickly stiffened his neck and retorted, “Pawn? Do you think I want this? If the restaurant wasn’t on the verge of collapse, would I resort to such a desperate measure? The Wang family said that as long as you marry him, they’ll invest, revive the business, and even promise not to interfere with our cooking!” He grew more agitated, his eyes reddening. Watching him, looking as if he’d rather kneel before me, my heart felt heavy, stifled and aching. I knew he loved the restaurant more than life itself, and I knew he loved me, but sometimes, his love truly suffocated me.

Just as I was about to suffocate, my phone vibrated. An email notification from a program I’d never heard of—”Kitchen Showdown.” I opened it, and the content made me gasp: “We sincerely invite Ms. Lin Wei, head chef of Lin’s Wontons, to participate in the global top culinary reality show, ‘Kitchen Showdown.’ The champion will receive a huge cash prize and the opportunity to promote their restaurant globally.” My eyes lit up. Wasn’t this a godsend? “Dad, look!” I handed him the phone, my voice trembling with excitement. “This is our chance! We don’t have to sell the restaurant, and no arranged marriage!” My dad took the phone, put on his reading glasses, and read it word by word. Then, a long-lost smile slowly spread across his old face. At that moment, I felt like I had been sinking deeper and deeper into a swamp with every struggle, but now, I seemed to have finally seen a glimmer of hope. My whole life, I’ve dreaded being forced into choices, but now, I didn’t even have the right to choose. I could only spin like a top, driven forward, but at least, this time, the direction was my own.

The set of “Kitchen Showdown” was a hundred times more extravagant than I’d imagined. Flashing lights, cameras, all sorts of high-end kitchen equipment, and a bunch of contestants dressed like fashion magazine cover models. I, in my faded chef’s coat, stuck out like a sore thumb among the impeccably suited chefs. I grumbled to myself, this isn’t a cooking competition, it’s a chef’s fashion week.

As I surveyed my surroundings, a figure brushed past me, leaving a strong scent of perfume – not a cheap, sweet kind, but a high-end, crisp, woody fragrance that just reeked of “expensive.” I turned my head, and lo and behold, a blond, blue-eyed man, tall and lean, with deeply sculpted features like a statue, dressed in a perfectly tailored chef’s uniform, a delicate brooch pinned to his collar. A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips, his gaze… how should I put it? Like he was looking at an alien species who had accidentally trespassed into his private domain, carrying a hint of scrutiny, a touch of disdain.

He was Lucas, the “Crown Prince” of French cuisine. His family’s restaurant in Paris supposedly boasted three Michelin stars, the kind of top-tier place you’d be lucky to get a reservation for in a year. I scoffed internally. What good was being handsome? Could it feed me? Could it save my restaurant? As I was muttering to myself, he suddenly stopped, turned, and those blue eyes stared directly at me. His gaze made me a little uncomfortable, but I maintained my usual “keep-your-distance” Lin Wei demeanor.

“Hello.” He spoke, his voice deep, with a slight French accent. It sounded quite pleasant, but his words weren’t so agreeable. “You are… the chef from Lin’s Wontons?” He frowned slightly, his tone laced with a hint of confusion, as if confirming how a woman reeking of “wok hei” could possibly be in such a high-class setting. A million expletives ran through my mind. What do you mean “the chef from Lin’s Wontons”? My name is Lin Wei! “Yes, I’m Lin Wei,” I retorted, a touch of impatience in my voice. “What? Never seen a Chinese chef?”

He chuckled softly, a barely perceptible hint of mockery in his laugh. “Oh, it’s not that I haven’t seen one, it’s just… you have a very strong smell of cooking oil about you.” He shrugged, as if stating a mundane fact, but his expression clearly showed disdain. I instantly exploded. My whole life, I’ve hated people looking down on my “wok hei.” It’s my pride, the proof of my hard work! “What’s wrong with the smell of cooking oil? It’s better than that perfume smell of yours, isn’t it? It’s cloying, just like those French dishes – all show and no substance!” I shot back unceremoniously, my voice rising a few octaves, drawing curious glances from the surrounding staff.

The smile on his face instantly froze, and a flicker of anger crossed his blue eyes, but he quickly suppressed it. He put on that fake smile again, his voice now colder. “It seems you have some misunderstandings about French cuisine.” “Misunderstandings?” I scoffed. “I’m always straightforward. French cuisine is French cuisine; no matter how you package it, you can’t hide its inherent arrogance. Unlike our Chinese cuisine, which values practicality and genuine sincerity.” I spoke with hidden meaning, and he naturally understood. He said no more, just gave me a deep look, a gaze that seemed to want to see through me, or perhaps devour me whole. I scoffed inwardly. Look at him, you’d think he was a Michelin-starred signature dish come to life, radiating “Stay away, I am noble.” I just wanted to splash a bowl of red chili oil on his face to make him sober up.

The theme for the first round of the competition was an absolute prank from the directors – “The Art of Fusion.” It required us to use two completely different ingredients to create a dish that showcased both our styles yet perfectly merged. This was practically putting Lucas and me in a boxing ring, forcing us to fight. I cursed the directors’ wickedness a million times in my head, but kept a poker face.

My assigned ingredients were Sichuan peppercorns and French foie gras. Peppercorns with foie gras? That sounded like asking a rock singer to perform Peking opera – completely mismatched! But then I thought, isn’t this my chance? Lin Wei plays with contrast, plays with surprise. Countless ideas flashed through my mind, finally settling on a bold concept. I picked up the peppercorns, sniffed them, and that spicy, numbing aroma instantly awakened the dormant Sichuan soul within me.

I saw that Lucas’s ingredients were Guizhou sour soup and Italian truffles. A rare look of confusion crossed his sculpted face. Sour soup? He probably hadn’t even heard of it. Watching him pace back and forth in front of his station, frowning, looking utterly lost, I secretly gloated. Hmph, you’re always so high and mighty, now you know what “culture shock” feels like, don’t you?

I started working quickly, my movements swift and fluid. I slowly dry-fried the peppercorns until fragrant, then ground them into a powder, mixing them with several of my secret spices to create a unique “peppercorn sauce.” For the foie gras, instead of simply pan-searing it like in French cuisine, I used a low-temperature sous vide method to keep its tender texture, then marinated it with the peppercorn sauce, and finally, lightly torched it to crisp the skin. I also added some refreshing vegetables on the side and a drizzle of red chili oil, making the whole dish look both exquisitely French and soulful Chinese. As I cooked, I thought, I’ll call this dish “Spicy Foie Gras Meets French Romance.” Sounds catchy enough.

Over at Lucas’s station, he eventually chose to make a soup with the sour soup, paired with truffles. His technique was indeed exquisite; his truffle slicing was as elegant as art, and he mastered the soup’s simmering temperature perfectly. But that sour soup, in his hands, always felt like it lacked a certain soul, a certain Chinese smoky charm. He tasted it, his brow still furrowed, clearly not satisfied. His gaze towards me had shifted from initial disdain to a hint of curiosity and caution.

When the judges tasted my “Spicy Foie Gras,” their expressions went from confusion to surprise, then finally to admiration. One judge even excitedly slapped the table: “This… this is a revolution for the taste buds! The numbing spice of the peppercorns and the richness of the foie gras, how can they merge so perfectly? Incredible!” I was so delighted, I felt like I could fly. Who said Chinese cuisine was just greasy street food? This is ancestral craftsmanship, ready to deliver a culinary knockout in minutes, showing him what “delicious enough to make you swear” truly means. Lucas, though receiving good reviews, clearly didn’t have my “explosive” impact. Watching his somewhat frustrated face, I secretly gave him a big thumbs up.

The show’s editors practically turned Lucas and me into a viral sensation. After the first episode aired, the internet exploded. My “Spicy Foie Gras” and Lucas’s “Sour Soup with Truffles” became hot topics online. But what really went viral were the clips of Lucas and me “bickering” on set. The directors edited our first meeting, and even a moment where I “accidentally” bumped into his utensils during the competition, making it incredibly fiery, then adding dramatic background music. It was practically a “Culinary CEO Loves Me” melodrama.

Headlines screamed things like, “Chinese Chef Disses French Aristocrat: Who’s the True Kitchen King?” “Red Oil vs. Red Wine: A Century Duel, Sparks Fly or Mutual Destruction?” The comment section was polarized. My supporters said I represented the rise of Chinese cuisine and was genuinely spirited; Lucas’s supporters called me rude and uncultured, lacking artistry. Of course, there were even more people who just loved the drama – various CP fans, haters, casual viewers – pushing Lucas and my names onto trending topics.

I looked at the comments, feeling incredibly stifled. What do they mean “rude and uncultured”? I call that genuine! What do they mean “lacking artistry”? My cooking is art! But no matter how much I explained, it was useless; they only believed what they wanted to believe. I even saw someone comment: “Is Lin Wei trying to use Lucas to climb the ladder? So manipulative.” I was so angry I almost smashed my phone. Me, climb the ladder? Climb your big head! I just want to save my family’s restaurant, I just want to quietly make my wontons!

Lucas probably wasn’t doing much better. Although he didn’t say anything, I could feel a hint of helplessness and annoyance in his gaze towards me. He was always so gentlemanly, so composed, but now, even he would sit in the lounge, frowning at his phone screen, occasionally letting out frustrated sighs. Once, I overheard his assistant, Emily, comforting him: “Lucas, don’t mind the online comments, they’re just chasing traffic.” Lucas just shook his head, saying nothing.

I actually felt a little bad. Although I didn’t like his condescending attitude, being maliciously edited and exploited like this wasn’t what either of us wanted. But what could I do? We were both pawns of the show, manipulated and consumed by them. These days, the key to traffic is conflict. I finally understood: we were just free labor for the show, and the bloody kind at that. It was truly melodramatic! As I looked at the overwhelming reports, I had only one thought: I must win. Only by winning could I escape all this, only then could I shut up those who looked down on Chinese cuisine!