Come on, What Kind of CEO Chases His Roommate Back to the Country? - Chapter 17

In the departure lounge of M City Airport, Pei Song stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, holding his boarding pass in a daze.

Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting a soft halo around the sharp contours of his side profile.

Shi Yancheng handed him a cup of hot coffee and looked at him thoughtfully. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking that this trip happened way too suddenly,” Pei Song said with a smile as he took the coffee. “The restaurant just finished the Michelin review, and before I could catch my breath, you dragged me off to Paris.”

“This is the perfect time,” Shi Yancheng replied. “The results take a month to come out. Instead of sitting around anxiously in D Country, we might as well take a break.”

Pei Song knew he had a point, but he couldn’t help but worry. “What about the restaurant…”

“I’ve taken care of everything,” Shi Yancheng interrupted. “This isn’t just a vacation, it’s an important learning experience. Once you see how the world’s top restaurants operate, you’ll gain new insights for your own.”

On the plane, Pei Song flipped through the itinerary that Shi Yancheng had prepared.

The first stop was the three-Michelin-star restaurant L’Arpège.

“Why this one?” Pei Song asked curiously.

“Because their head chef, Alain Passard, specializes in vegetable-based cuisine,” Shi Yancheng replied. “I remember you always wanted to incorporate more vegetarian elements into your dishes.”

Pei Song looked at him in surprise. “You even remembered that?”

Shi Yancheng awkwardly averted his gaze, looking out at the thick clouds beyond the window. “Of course, I remember what you say.”

By the time they arrived in Paris, it was already afternoon. They checked into the Mandarin Oriental hotel near the Champs-Élysées.

Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, Pei Song watched as the Eiffel Tower lit up in the twilight.

“Let’s go,” Shi Yancheng said, having changed into a casual suit. “I’ll take you somewhere.”

Under the gentle evening glow by the Arc de Triomphe, Shi Yancheng led Pei Song into a small, unassuming bistro.

“This place is…” Pei Song looked at the quaint interior.

“The most authentic French bakery,” Shi Yancheng said. “They make the best croissants I’ve ever had.”

The owner, a kind elderly Frenchman, greeted Shi Yancheng warmly, and Pei Song soon learned that he used to visit frequently during his student days.

“But I thought you hated European bread the most?” Pei Song couldn’t help but ask.

Shi Yancheng poured him a glass of red wine. “But I know you like it.”

Over the next week, they visited Paris’s finest restaurants. At every stop, Shi Yancheng arranged for Pei Song to enter the kitchens and observe the chefs at work.

What surprised Pei Song the most was how fluently Shi Yancheng spoke French, effortlessly conversing with the chefs and asking detailed questions about their techniques.

“I didn’t know you were this good at French,” Pei Song remarked one evening.

“I reviewed it beforehand just for this trip,” Shi Yancheng said casually.

Their itinerary in Italy was more relaxed. Shi Yancheng took Pei Song to visit various family-run restaurants, letting him experience the most authentic Italian cuisine.

On their third morning in Rome, Shi Yancheng drove them out of the city, winding up a mountain road. Olive trees lined both sides of the road, their leaves casting dappled shadows on the car windows.

Eventually, they arrived at a classic Tuscan-style villa.

The entrance was covered with blooming wisteria, its delicate fragrance drifting in the breeze. The door opened, and an elderly woman in a floral dress stood beneath the wisteria arch.

“Xiao Chen!” The woman’s Sichuanese accent caught Pei Song off guard.

“Grandma.” Shi Yancheng quickly stepped forward to support her. “I brought someone with me.”

The old woman held his hand and studied Pei Song with a warm smile. “So, this is the little chef you always talk about?”

“Hello, Grandma,” Pei Song greeted her in Sichuanese, making her eyes light up.

“Oh, a fellow Sichuan native!” she beamed. “Where are you from?”

“City C.”

“I’m from Leshan!” She excitedly took Pei Song’s hand. “Come in, come in! I’ll make some hometown dishes for lunch.”

Lunch was a feast of authentic Sichuan cuisine. Spicy boiled fish, braised pork belly with preserved mustard greens, spicy hotpot, and Zhong dumplings, a dish Pei Song hadn’t had in years.

Tasting the fish, Pei Song’s eyes immediately welled up. “Grandma, your cooking… it tastes just like my mom’s.”

The old woman smiled kindly. “Homesick? When you’ve been abroad for so long, what you miss most is the taste of home.”

As the afternoon sun bathed the dining room in golden light, she shared stories of her past.

She used to be a teacher in Leshan, where she met a visiting professor from D Country. They fell in love and married, and she followed him abroad. Later, she settled in Italy, drawn by the beautiful sunshine.

“When Xiao Chen was little, he was such a foodie,” she chuckled, pouring Pei Song some Longjing tea. “Every summer, he’d stay here for a month. He loved Sichuan food and always complained that D Country’s food was too bland.”

Shi Yancheng, helping clear the dishes, looked slightly embarrassed. “Grandma…”

“He looks cold on the outside, doesn’t he?” the old woman whispered to Pei Song. “But he’s got a soft heart. Once, a stray cat in our neighborhood got sick. He cried his eyes out because no one helped it, and in the middle of the night, he secretly took it to the vet.”

“Grandma!” Shi Yancheng finally couldn’t take it anymore and cut in.

Pei Song couldn’t help but laugh at Shi Yancheng’s rare moment of awkwardness.

The evening light cast a gentle glow on his profile, outlining his features in warmth.

“By the way, do you know how to make Zhong dumplings?” the old woman suddenly asked.

“A little, but not as well as you.”

“Then I’ll teach you today,” she said with a smile. “It’s Xiao Chen’s favorite, he can eat thirty in one sitting.”

Shi Yancheng’s ears turned visibly red.

By dusk, a soft warmth wrapped around the villa. The old woman held Pei Song’s hand. “You should visit often, child. I like you very much.”

Pei Song’s nose stung with emotion. After so many years abroad, this was the first time he had felt the warmth of home.

On the way back, the sunset painted the sky a brilliant shade of crimson, the olive trees swaying gently in the evening breeze.

“What are you thinking about?” Shi Yancheng asked.

“Grandma’s words,” Pei Song murmured. “She said the most important thing in cooking isn’t technique, it’s making people feel loved.”

Shi Yancheng was silent for a moment before replying softly, “That’s why I’ve always liked your food. Every dish tastes like it was made with heart.”

The next day in Florence, they visited a unique pasta shop. The small storefront was surprisingly busy.

“I opened this shop,” the owner, a graceful middle-aged woman, said, “to prove that food has no borders.”

Pei Song deeply resonated with her words. Wasn’t that exactly what he was trying to achieve with his own restaurant?

That afternoon, they wandered through the artisan market at Piazza Santa Croce. Pei Song was caught off guard by a less pleasant part of Italian culture, pickpocketing.

The moment a thief on a motorbike snatched his bag, Shi Yancheng bolted after him like a panther.

“Leon!” Pei Song shouted anxiously. “Let it go! We can replace the passport!”

But Shi Yancheng didn’t seem to hear him, weaving rapidly through the crowd, his long legs carrying him at an incredible speed.

Pei Song chased after him, heart pounding. “These guys might have weapons, Leon! Come back!”