They reached the apartnt building’s gate when Dravin suddenly stopped, startled by the notification he had just read.
"Thank you for your help. I’ll take it from here." Siena took her groceries from his hands and, with an anxious look, bowed her head. Her quick steps away from Dravin made him chuckle in disbelief.
What kind of situation is this? ? Stalking? Why? When? How?
Dravin frowned and grunted as he walked to his apartnt.
The aura deduction ant he had done sothing wrong.
Did asking if she liked strawberries trigger her? Or was it about asking to et?
But from what he understood about this world through his mories, those were not the traits of a stalker.
He stood in front of his apartnt door, his eyes darting to the door next to his, apartnt 444, Siena’s place.
He shook his head and opened the door, a gnawing disbelief still clouding his mind.
The clock showed it was already four in the afternoon.
Dravin placed his groceries on the dining table, which greeted him as soon as he opened the door.
He sighed, imagining how cramped this apartnt would feel later, even with just himself, he already felt suffocated.
He squeezed his eyes shut to regain his focus on his mission. There was no point in thinking about other people who had nothing to do with his life.
Dravin took off his jacket and started to unpack his groceries.
He placed the dry spices on a tal rack hanging on the wall next to the fridge.
Then opened the fridge and smiled at how clean it was. One by one, he arranged the ingredients that needed to be put in the refrigerator.
Dravin quickly put on the apron he’d just bought, then washed his hands and stood before the ingredients, taking three long, deep breaths.
It had been a while since he’d done that ritual; he rarely got nervous anymore.
This habit was born when he worked as a sous chef at a five-star hotel.
Cooking for custors always felt like a battle, demanding absolute precision and an incredibly high standard. The pressure was both ntal and physical.
But he didn’t start creating content just because of his sister’s silliness.
It all started with a "what if."
What if he could bring his knowledge—the hacks of cooking a five-star dish—into people’s hos?
And here he was, feeling a bit of that old pressure again.
The complexity of this dish was a real hassle compared to the standard beef Wellington recipe.
He should have just made a bowl of curry ran or a simple steak with creamy mashed potatoes.
But he’d learned the hard way that if he wanted to gain more, he had to endure more pain. And the maximum tip was worth every bit of it.
Dravin placed paper towels on the fresh, bloody tenderloin and ground beef to absorb the moisture.
While he waited for the blood to be soaked up and the at to firm, the sharp sound of a knife hitting the cutting board with fast, precise chops echoed as the onion was mutilated into tiny cubes.
His lips ford a satisfied "o" because of the new chef’s knife he’d also just bought.
If he had used a dull knife from this kitchen, the sulfuric acid from the cut onion would have definitely brought him to tears.
He paused for a mont and took out his phone. He grabbed the tripod from beside his bed and angled it for the perfect lighting.
His eyebrow raised, and he smirked as he tried placing the tripod near the sink. From the screen, it showed that the lighting was perfect.
Was it because the Dravin of this world works as a studio photographer that his body could instinctively find this position?
Well, he was glad this world’s Dravin had sothing he liked.
After the cara was set, Dravin continued chopping button mushrooms into a small, fine dice.
He set the pieces aside, and his eyes fell back to the at.
The paper towels, which had been white, were now a sodden crimson.
His fingers picked them up and dabbed the remaining wet blood with fresh towels until the at was dry.
This step would determine the final crispy crust. He then cut the tenderloin lengthwise to get two 4-inch-long blocks and two smaller, 2.5-inch pieces.
He clicked his tongue in disappointnt, because this was why he needed to use fillet mignon, the size and shape would have been perfect, not to ntion the cheaper price.
Dravin then rubbed the at with the dry rub mix he had prepared in a small bowl.
He sprinkled it on little by little, his fingers massaging and rubbing the tender, jiggling at.
He poured the rest of the dry rub mix into the ground beef, adding black pepper, salt, and egg whites, then kneaded it. Finally, he set it aside so the seasonings could soak in.
The hissing of the onions as they sautéed in the pan tickled Dravin’s ears.
The fragrant aroma of the bubbling butter with its smoke assaulted his nose with a relentless thrust, making his stomach growl.
This apartnt really had bad ventilation, so tonight he would sleep with the sll of roasted beef all around.
After searing the onion and mushrooms together for two minutes, Dravin quickly poured them into a bowl containing solid cream cheese.
He stirred it rapidly until the butter’s oil emulsified smoothly with the cream cheese. It would give a foam-like texture in the mouth, like eating clouds.
To balance the heavy taste and add a delightful color, he added a teaspoon of mustard paste to the cheese.
It would have been good if there were a mixer, but since the concept was minimalist ho cooking, relying on his arm muscles to stir was an important asset.
With the sa pan, Dravin heated it again over high heat, tossing in fresh rosemary that made a puff of smoke, signaling the heat was ready.
Then the seasoned cuts of tenderloin gave a sharp sizzle as they kissed the pan to create that holy, shiny, crispy golden-brown crust on every side.
The hiss from the dripping at juices spread a savory aroma, smoked with a hint of earthy spice, making the worms in Dravin’s stomach writhe. He had only grabbed an instant sandwich earlier before entering the supermarket.
It’s been a while since I felt hungry while cooking. It seems this body still functions normally to feel hunger from good food.
After one minute of cooking to a rare-dium doneness, the tenderloin was taken from the pan and set aside to cool.
Minutes passed, and Dravin needed to wrap the crisp-outside, juicy-inside tenderloin with the moist ground at mixture. There was a reason why he was using this hack for today’s beef Wellington.
The clock had shown it was almost six in the evening when Dravin checked his phone and watched the video recording.
He sat on a stool next to the dining table. He needed to prepare the oven at 7 p.m. so the food would be ready in ti and fresh.
In that exact mont, Dravin gasped in a damn realization. His eyes darted to the space below the stove, which was just a regular shelf.
He didn’t have an oven in this house.
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