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The master chef of Eat drink man woman. Before dawn, the house is already awake. In the quiet kitchen, the master chef moves as if answering a call older than the morning itself. He ties his apron, sharpens his knives, and breathes once, steady and practiced. Outside, the city stirs faintly, but inside the kitchen time slows, bending to ritual. Ingredients are washed and arranged with reverence. Vegetables gleam with freshness, fish are handled with care, meat is prepared without haste. The rhythm of the work builds—knife against board, flame rising under a wok, oil singing as food meets heat. Each movement is precise, almost wordless, guided by decades of mastery. Steam curls through the air, carrying the weight of tradition and devotion. Hour by hour, dishes take shape. Sauces are tasted, adjusted by instinct rather than measurement. Plates are assembled with balance and restraint, each one a quiet offering. When the work is done, the table is filled—an abundance that speaks of love more fluently than conversation ever could. The daughters arrive and take their places. The family sits together, eating in near silence. Chopsticks move, bowls are lifted, steam drifts between faces. No one explains themselves. No one needs to. The meal carries what words do not—expectation, distance, care, history. Afterward, the table is cleared. Dishes are washed, leftovers stored away. The daughters move through the familiar choreography of cleanup, exchanging glances and quiet gestures, their lives pressing forward beneath the surface of routine. The house gradually settles, returning to stillness. In the end, the kitchen stands empty again. The ritual is complete, yet unresolved. Tomorrow, it will begin once more.