The Silver Spoon opened on the third morning with the scent of warm bread and sizzling bacon already drifting into the street.
Max was still tired—bone-deep tired—but he didn't complain.
This was the kind of exhaustion he could live with.
The restaurant had barely opened before the first customer arrived. Then two more came. Then five. Some were familiar faces. Some were completely new.
One group of college students sat near the window, laughing as they passed plates between them.
"I swear, this sandwich is *dangerous*," one of them said. "I could eat like, three."
"You told me it was good, but this is insane," said another. "The bread's got that crunch—like toasted just enough, but still soft inside."
Max listened quietly from the kitchen window, wiping his hands on a towel, a strange warmth filling his chest.
---
By 9:45 AM, the line was halfway down the block again.
Max was faster now. His hands worked with sharper rhythm, more confidence. Eggs fluffed and folded. Bacon crisped to perfection. Pancakes flipped with a flick of his wrist.
But in the brief moments between orders, a thought crept in.
> *This is good… but not great yet.*
He tasted a stray edge of bacon.
Too salty.
He tried a bit of the grilled cheese he made for himself at noon.
Still delicious—but maybe the cheddar was too sharp. Or the bread too plain.
He looked down at his ingredients. Generic cheddar. Basic white bread. Supermarket quality.
> *If I could just get something a bit better...*
---
After the lunch rush, Max closed the door for a one-hour break and sat down at a table with his notepad.
He scribbled:
* **Cheese** – upgrade to mix: cheddar + gouda
* **Bread** – artisan loaves? Try sourdough
* **Eggs** – farm eggs if affordable
* **Butter** – clarified? Test richer flavor
He knew the costs would rise. That meant profit margins would shrink—for now. But he also knew something else:
> *The better the taste, the stronger the impression. The more customers return.*
He didn't want "good." He wanted unforgettable.
---
Later that evening, Max took a trip to a small farmer's market on the other side of town. It was quiet, almost closing time, but he managed to grab a few things:
* Freshly baked sourdough
* Locally churned butter
* Organic farm eggs, deep orange yolks
* A small block of gouda, soft and creamy
It wasn't much. Enough for maybe ten sandwiches. But he'd test. Measure. Learn.
Back home, he fired up the pan and made one more grilled cheese.
The butter hissed softly against the pan. The bread crisped slowly, turning gold. The cheese melted and stretched like silk.
One bite—and he closed his eyes.
Creamy. Warm. Tangy. Rich.
This… this was what he was chasing.
---
The next morning, he added a tiny sign inside the shop:
**"Deluxe Grilled Cheese – Premium Edition – Limited Daily Quantity"**
**(\$10 – Only 10 Servings per Day)**
He didn't push it. Didn't explain.
Just left it there, and waited.
---
By 11:15 AM, the first one sold.
By 12:20, they were all gone.
And every single customer who ordered it had the same look after the first bite:
Wide eyes. Slow chew. And silence.
One woman actually stopped mid-sentence and looked at the sandwich like it had offended her reality.
> "Is this… how grilled cheese is *supposed* to taste?"
Another man sat back and muttered, "I've had gourmet food in New York that didn't hit this hard."
---
Max didn't speak. He just watched. Smiled faintly. Took notes in the back.
This was how it began.
The slow climb from decent to divine.
---
That night, when he closed the shop and cleaned up, he sat down at the counter again with his notepad.
Today's revenue: \$215.
Cost of upgraded ingredients: around \$70.
Total net profit: \~\$145.
The system's screen lit up quietly beside him.
\
\
\
He didn't hesitate.
> "Let's see where this takes us."
He tapped the spin button.
---
The wheel appeared, spinning with smooth magic. It shimmered. Glowed. Slowed…
Tick—tick—tick—
Nothing.
The wheel stopped on a blank gray panel.
Max stared.
A long silence followed.
Then he gave a dry laugh. "Figures."
But strangely… he didn't feel disappointed.
> *This isn't luck. It's a journey.*
He stood. Washed his hands. Packed his notepad.
Tomorrow, he'd refine the eggs. Or maybe try a new mix of bread. Add a soup.
And every step would bring him closer.
Not just to fame. Or fortune.
But to proving—to the world, to himself—that his name still meant something.
That Max Carter was a chef worth remembering.
---