Recipe 01: Reminiscence


The thing with cooking, Harry decided, was that it was annoying as hell. Partly because he had been forced in to it and partly because it was simple in theory but far from simple in execution. Harry had learned the hard way that no matter how straightforward a dish appeared on paper, there were a thousand and one ways for him to inadvertently mess it up.


Take bacon, for example. Cooking bacon seemed deceptively easy in theory. Just lay the bacon strips in the pan and patiently await the tantalizing sizzle and crisp-up.

However, the devil was in the details.

Leave it in too long, and it could harden to an unpalatable crunch. Leave it not long enough, you'd be left with limp, undercooked strips that were equally unappetizing.

It was a culinary balancing act, and unless you possessed an unwavering sense of timing and an uncanny knack for the nuances of bacon frying, it was a real challenge to get it right on the first attempt... or the second... or the third.

Harry would know.

He had been trying to get this bacon thing right for the good of a week…much to Aunt Petunia's dismay.

And why was he a six years old boy learning to cook bacon you might ask?

Well, this whole mess started when Uncle Vernon had the great idea that it was time for Harry to start earning his keep…in other words, doing chores. He didn't care Harry was only 6 and was barely tall enough to reach most counter spaces, he wanted Harry working and that meant the boy needed to start now.

At first, he got Harry sweeping. But Harry was only six and normal brooms were twice his size, making it extremely difficult for him to do anything other then hug the broom and hoped it touched some of the dirt laying around.

Then he got Harry washing cloth. But after Harry had nearly fallen in to the washing machine for the third time, he reluctantly conceded that maybe Harry was a little too short for this kind of work.

That's when Uncle Vernon got the bright idea of having Harry learn to cook. The stove could be easily accessed with the help of a stool, and he had seen videos of six-year-olds successfully whipping up simple dishes online thus in his mind, it was entirely possible for Harry to complete this task without too many issues. It didn't matter that Harry was physically small for his age; Uncle Vernon's determination to make him contribute to the household remained unwavering. Cooking, he believed, was a skill that could be learned at any age, and Harry was about to embark on a culinary journey of his own, whether he liked it or not.

Petunia, at first, was far from pleased with the idea. Cooking was her realm, and the kitchen was her domain. The notion of having her disliked nephew intruding upon her kitchen - potentially causing havoc and messing up her carefully organized culinary space - was utterly unthinkable to her. Besides, she was acutely aware of the importance of food and the potential harm of inappropriately cooked meals. She had no intention of allowing someone she deemed inexperienced risk her precious son's health with improperly prepared meals.

Vernon agreed with her on that front but he was determined to let Harry try anyway.

After much discussion between them - mostly between Vernon and Petunia; Harry had no say whatsoever - it was decided that Harry would try to take over the breakfast shift.

Breakfast was simple. Bacon and eggs and store bought bread. There really wasn't much opportunity for Harry to mess up. All he had to do was cook the bacon, scramble the eggs and put the bread in the toaster.

Simple right?

Except it really wasn't.

Right from the start, Harry faced a plethora of difficulties in getting it right because, as it turned out, bacon required a certain degree of culinary skill - a skill that, incidentally, Harry did not possess. His initial attempts were marred by overcooked, almost inedible, pieces of bacon that were charred to a crisp.

"Maybe he just isn't cut out for this. Not everyone is cut out for cooking." Aunt Petunia finally said, her tone exasperated, after Harry had failed his X attempt at a perfect bacon. She casted a doubtful look in Harry's direction, her expression telling Harry she was wondering if Harry had been failing on purpose.

For the record, Harry really hadn't.

"It doesn't matter if he's cut out for it or not," Uncle Vernon's gruff voice sounded from his sofa in front of the television. "He needs to start earning his keep. I can't have him continuing staying here eating and sleeping for free."

Harry wanted to protest that he was only 6 and shouldn't have to earn his keep. According to the school councillor - who also doubled as a law teacher at the local community college - Harry was a minor currently under their guardianship, thus it was their legal obligation to feed and cloth him and not his to pay his way through childhood.

However, Harry refrained from voicing his frustrations aloud because he knew that such a complaint would be futile. He understood that in situations where he lacked the power to endure the potential consequences of speaking up, silence was often the wiser choice.

With Vernon still adamant at getting Harry to cook - as it was the only thing inside this house that he could do with his minuscule form - Petunia bit her lips and started to think of other ways to make this work.

"Maybe we can get him a teacher," Petunia suggested, looking at Harry through narrowed eyes, as if mentally gauging if he was worth spending money on.

Apparently, Vernon did not have the same concerns.

"And spend money on him!?" He sounded outraged at the mere idea of it, his face turning red, his neck bulging.

"But how is he going to get better? I'm not spending time trying to teach him how to cook. I have other things - better things - to do," Petunia protested, glaring at her husband. The man obviously did not understand how busy a house wife can get trying to keep this house in perfect condition.

Vernon thought for a few seconds before an idea entered his mind.

"Just send him to one of those after school program thingies at the local community centre. I'm sure they have cooking related classes for free."

But the thing was, Harry was 6 and way too young to be cooking, let alone attending after school activities meant for 10-11 years old.

So Petunia did the only thing she could think of.

She lied about Harry's age.

Harry, of course, was utterly baffled by the audacity of the entire idea. How he was supposed to pass off as a 10-year-old child when there had been times people didn't even believe Harry was 6 - mainly because he was extremely small and malnourished for his age - was beyond him. But, to Harry's endless astonishment, Aunt Petunia's ruse somehow worked and Harry found himself, on weekday afternoons, in a class with kids at least a head or two taller than him.

That was his first cooking class.

And it was during that class Harry was yet again acquainted with the reality that cooking might appear simple in theory but was anything but in practice.

His teacher was a young woman named Clarice, a recent graduate from a prestigious French cooking academy whose name Harry couldn't pronounce for the life of him.

Clarice was a passionate woman; she loved cooking with a passion and loved to share her love of cooking with her students. And Harry, despite having been sent there against his will - because really, who wanted to learn to cook when the end goal was to serve those monsters he called relatives - started enjoying himself and actually liking cooking as well as coming to class everyday.

Clarice taught them a lot of things; from how to cut to how to sauté to how to fry. But there was one thing she insisted was more important then anything else, something that not all cooks had but all master chefs knew about and that was your intent when cooking. Over and over again, she insisted that a dish prepared with love, care, and a genuine desire to nourish the soul would always outshine one crafted merely for sustenance. It was a lesson that went beyond the physical aspects of cooking she said; it delved into the heart and soul of the culinary world. Cooking, she said, was an act of love and creativity, and that intent and passion were the secret ingredients that could transform an ordinary meal into an extraordinary experience.

"Try to imagine how you want your audience to feel when eating your food and cook with that intent," she had said with a warm and encouraging smile. "If you succeed, your audience will feel the way you want them to. Cooking is not just about the flavors and techniques; it's about crafting an experience, evoking emotions, and leaving a lasting impression. Your intent in the kitchen is like a secret ingredient that infuses your dishes with soul and connects you to those who savor your creations."

Naturally, Harry did not understand a word of it.

Intent was such a vague notion in his mind that it made him wonder if Clarice was only saying it to make herself sound more professional then she really was. He didn't want to think of her that way of course, but it was really difficult not to when days turned in to weeks and then in to month and Harry still had no idea what intent even means.

Luckily, not knowing what intent meant didn't stop Harry's progress.

And boy did he progress.

Under Clarice's expert guidance, Harry experienced a remarkable transformation.

Cooking techniques that might have taken an ordinary person years to master were absorbed within the span of a few short months. As he honed his culinary skills, he also found his physical strength growing in tandem. He could now effortlessly handle even the heaviest of cooking instruments without the slightest falter.

The most striking change, however, was in his physical health. With the opportunity to eat what he prepared in class, Harry's body underwent a remarkable transformation. The marks of malnutrition that had once marred his frame began to fade as he grew taller and more robust.

Back at the Dursleys, Vernon had finally started to leave him alone, mainly because he was now able to cook a simple meal without major mishap. He could do more of course but there was no way he was going to let them know.

Time passed like a swift river, flowing relentlessly, never pausing for anyone or anything and before Harry knew it, a year has gone by. And on the day he turned 7, something happened that will change his life forever.

And it came in the form of Clarice's teacher, Chef Francois.

Harry knew Clarice had studied in France before coming to teach at their community centre although he couldn't fathom why a classically trained chef would accept work at a community centre when she could have spent her time making waves in some kind of fancy restaurant in Central London. Clarice had once said it was because community centre work was less stressful and she liked the idea of giving back to the community. Harry thought she was full of bullshit but he wasn't in a position to pry.

Clarice's teacher was a world renowned French chef who had appeared many times in prestigious culinary magazines. Harry knew this because Clarice was very proud to have him as her teacher and would often show her students media in which he would appear in. It was through those showings that Harry learned that Chef Francois was a 60 years old man who has many connections with the world's elite as his food was often sought after for private parties or big events.

Harry, like the rest of their little class, have never met the man in person as the latter was busy travelling the world. As a young child who had only taken classes at the community centre and did not aspire to become a chef when older, Harry had thought there never would be a day he could meet the man in person.

That is, until he actually met the man in person.

It was the day of his 7th birthday and after class has ended, Clarice asked him to stay behind. With nothing better to do, Harry agreed, not expecting when Clarice introduced him to a man he had only seen on television until now; Chef Francois.

In person, Chef Francois looked more like a oversized ballon trapped in a business suit then a world renowned chef. He wasn't very fit - mainly because he spent most of his time travelling from restaurant to restaurant tasting food and giving critiques - but walked with a confidence that most people his size would find difficult to muster up.

Harry was suitably awestruck.

It wasn't because Chef Francois was his idol or anything but rather because this was the first he was meeting someone he had previously seen on television.

And while Harry was happy to see Chef Francois, the Chef wasn't all that thrilled to meet him. It was nothing personal of course - because Harry wasn't important enough for it to be personal - and Harry knew that, but it still bothered him a little to see someone dismiss him so utterly without even bothering to know him.

And then Clarice suggested Harry should cook for him.

Harry was surprised. Chef Francois was surprised. Both of them wanted to protest - Harry, because he wasn't happy with the Chef Francois had dismissed him earlier and didn't want to cook for the man; Chef Francois, because he did not believe that a 10 years old - because that was what he was in everyone's eyes - could cook up a dish that would surprise him.

Clarice refused to budge.

She really wanted to see this happen.

Harry finally agreed. Chef Francois also relented.

Harry was invited to cook his best dish and after some thought, chose a simple egg fried rice.

Before he started making his preparations though, Clarice found him again and repeated what she had said about intent.

"I still have no idea what you are talking about," Harry told her, exasperated.

"You don't need to understand. Just remember to think about what you want those eating your food to feel and cook with that intent," she patted his shoulder before departing, leaving the stage for Harry.

Harry bit his lips in thought.

Egg fried rice, he mused. What did one think when one talked about egg fried rice?

It was an Asian food that was for sure. Maybe it could be considered an Asian comfort food as it is often cooked in homes. If it was a comfort food, he wanted those eating it to think about home.

With that thought in mind, Harry got to work.

The ingredients of egg fried rice were simple:

- 2 cups of cooked and cooled jasmine rice

- 3 large eggs

- 2 tablespoons of vegetable oil

- 1/2 cup of diced carrots

- 1/2 cup of frozen peas

- 1/2 cup of diced red bell pepper

- 3 cloves of garlic, minced

- 2 tablespoons of soy sauce

- 1 tablespoon of oyster sauce

- 1 teaspoon of sesame oil

- Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

- Fresh cilantro and green onions for garnish

Harry first started by setting a large seasoned work on the stovetop and turned it on, the flame quickly licking its bottom.

Next he started scrambling the eggs, his movement precise, not getting even one drop of liquid outside the bowl despite the speed at which he was moving. He added a pinch of salt to the egg for flavour and some pepper as well.

After heating the wok over medium-high heat, Harry poured in a tablespoon of vegetable oil, swirling it around the wok and letting it coat the surface. Despite being only 6 and the wok being as big as him, Harry found moving it around to be rather easy, as if the wok held no weight of its own.

After the oil had suitable heated up, the eggs went in, hitting the hot surface with a satisfying sizzle. Harry made quick work in scrambling them, creating delicate curds.

Once the eggs were set, he transferred them to a plate.

In the same wok, he added another tablespoon of vegetable oil plus the minced garlic, the latter filling the air with its enticing aroma as it sizzled in the hot oil. With the garlic perfectly golden, he tossed in the diced carrots, followed by the red bell pepper and fresh peas. The vibrant colors and fragrant vegetables danced in the wok, their natural sugars caramelizing.

The cold jasmine rice was the next addition, giving the wok a satisfying sizzle as it hit the hot surface. Harry used a spatula to toss the rice and vegetables together, ensuring they were well combined, his actions elegant and a joy to watch. The soy sauce and oyster sauce followed, their savory aroma mingling with the enticing scent of garlic.

Finally, the scrambled eggs returned to the wok, breaking into smaller pieces as they were incorporated into the dish. Harry drizzled a hint of sesame oil over the mixture and gave it a final toss, ensuring that every grain of rice was glistening with flavor.

As his body moved around on instinct to complete all the steps required for a good egg fried rice, Harry kept thinking about "home".

The concept of "home" was one Harry wasn't truly familiar with, as the Dursleys could barely be considered adequate guardians. They might have provided him with clothing - albeit Dudley's hand-me-downs - offered him food - even if it was just leftovers - put a roof over his head - although it was little more than a cramped closet beneath the stairs - the one thing they never gave him was the feeling of belonging, of coming home every time he crossed the threshold into their house.

In that ordinary suburban house, Harry often felt like an outsider, like he didn't truly belong. It was a place to stay, but it wasn't a place to call home. He had yearned for the warmth and comfort of a true home once upon a time, even if he did not truly understand the concept of it.

Being at home, he gathered, was more than just occupying a physical space; it was a profound sense of belonging and comfort, a place where you feel safe, welcomed, and accepted for who you are. It was where you can let your guard down, relax, and be your true self without judgment. Home was a sanctuary, a haven where you can create cherished memories with loved ones, a place where you can find solace and peace.

Home was not just a physical dwelling; it was a feeling, an anchor in the storm of life, and a sanctuary where you are loved, valued, and truly at ease. It was where you find your sense of belonging and where your heart can find rest.

A person might have numerous houses in his life, but he will only have one true home.

And that was the feeling Harry wanted to capture in his dish.

He wanted those eating it to think about home. He wanted to evoke warm and sentimental feelings associated with a time they were at home, where they felt happy and carefree and ultimately to yearn for days gone by.

He wanted it to be a sentimental journey to the memories and experiences of the past.

He wanted them to reminisce.

Harry momentarily closed his eyes, letting the feeling course through his veins.

In his head, he imagined a happy family of three; the father joking, his laughter filling the empty space, the mother quietly observing, a contented smile on her face, her emerald green eyes sparkling with joy and the child, giggling, clapping his hands as if he was the happiest person on earth. He didn't know who these people are, but for some reason, he felt suddenly very warm, as if had been poured in to a warm embrace.

Was this what home felt like?

He opened his eyes again, suddenly feeling very confident with his dish.

Intent, Clarice had said. Had he finally cooked with intent?

"You done?" Chef Francois asked quietly, looking subdued and no longer as arrogant as he had been a while ago.

Harry nodded and scooped out a bowl of rice and placed it in front of the Chef.

"It looks…good," Chef Francois admitted as Clarice clapped her hands in excitement at hearing her teacher admitting something looked good.

"Here," Harry handed over a spoon which the older man took without hesitation.

Without further words, Chef Francois took a bite and as he chewed, something warmed rushed through his body, images flashed through his head, making his nonchalant expression turn in to one of pure delight.

He gasped, turning to Harry and grabbing his hands in his own.

"My dear boy," he said, his voice almost trembling with emotion, "This is the best fried rice I've tasted in a very long time. It's like a miraculous trip down memory lane, taking me back to my childhood in China where I spent my formative years. I can't fathom how you've managed to do it, but it tastes exactly like the rice my mother used to make. For 40 years, I've searched high and low, hoping to find someone who could recreate that flavour after my mother passed away, taking her recipe with her. I had almost given up hope until I met you."

He paused, took a deep breath, and then continued, his eyes filled with nostalgia and gratitude.

"The moment I took a bite," he said, his voice tinged with emotion, "I felt a warmth I haven't experienced in a very long time. Memories I had thought were long forgotten came rushing back to the surface."

"So I succeeded?" Harry smiled.

"You more then succeeded my boy," Chef Francois told him, eyes bright, "You knocked it out of the park."

Beside them, Clarice stood in shock.

Over the years, Clarice had witnessed a range of emotions from her teacher – anger, frustration, happiness, sadness, and everything in between. However, it was the first time she had seen such an overwhelming display of excitement and, dare she say, nostalgia.

Prompted by his emotional reaction, she reached forward and took a bite of the fried rice, her eyes widening as the flavors danced across her taste buds. In that moment, she was suddenly transported back to Paris, to a time when her fiancé Mike had still been with her. She could almost feel the cozy warmth of their small kitchen, where he would eagerly prepare dishes like this for her, and where they would share intimate moments over a simple meal.

Egg fried rice had been one of Mike's specialties, although he was far from a professional cook. In fact, his culinary skills were often a source of amusement, but Clarice didn't mind. To her, nothing could compare to Mike's dish, not because of its culinary excellence, but because of the emotions he poured into it. The flavors on her tongue carried not just the taste of the dish but the memories of a love that had once been; a feeling she thought she might never get to experience ever again…that is, until today.

Before she knew it, she was crying, her tears falling down her cheeks in torrents. Whether they were tears of happiness or tears of sadness she did know. But what she did know was she did not want this feeling to stop, no matter what.

So she continued to eat, savoring each bite and stuffing her cheeks like a chipmunk, lost in the flavors and the flood of emotions the dish had stirred. Between the two of them, the entire wok full of fried rice vanished in a matter of moments, leaving them both wanting for more.

"I need you to come with me," Chef Francois exclaimed, his excitement still palpable even after the food had vanished. "You must come with me. I can't leave you here; it would be a waste, I tell you! A waste. You, my boy, are destined for greatness. Your skills, I can't fathom how you do it, are unlike anything I've ever seen before. The ability to evoke actual memories in people through your food and not just vague emotions is something I never thought was possible until today."

Chef Francois continued to babble excitedly, his eyes sparkling with fervor under the room's luminescent illumination. Beside him, Clarice stood, tears streaming down her face, nodding her head like a mad woman.

Harry stared at them, a blend of happiness and pride coursing through him and, for the first time ever, a sense of belonging.

"I'll speak with your guardians," Chef Francois declared, his eyes filled with determination. "I'll take you in as my protege, maybe even my son if they are willing to part with you. We'll relocate to France, and there, I'll impart to you all the knowledge and skills you need to become a culinary master. And Clarice, she will join us, of course. Together, my dear boy, we will conquer the culinary world."

The offer was not just an invitation; it was a proclamation of a remarkable journey ahead, an opportunity to turn dreams into reality, and to create a culinary legacy that would leave a lasting mark on the world.

The options were crystal clear; he could stay with the Dursleys, enduring a life of servitude until he was old enough to escape, or he could embark on a life-changing journey to France with someone who truly appreciated him and his remarkable culinary talents. It was a choice between a stifling existence and the promise of a future filled with passion, creativity, and the opportunity to make a genuine impact on the world.

Only a fool would choose the former and Harry, was no fool.

"I'll come with you," he decided.


The thing with cooking, Harry realized, was that it was actually a pretty amazing thing. It could provide you sustenance, evoke in you you profound emotions and bring families together.


OMAKE

On AIR

J: Welcome back ladies and gentleman to another exciting episode of The Host, where we talk about the latest trends in the world of music, arts, technology and cooking. I'm your host Jean.

M: And I am your host Mary.

J: With all that said, today's episode is a special one and do you know why Mary?

M: No Jean. Why is today so special?

J: Well, that's because we have a very special guest with us today. It's none other than Hadrian Potter, the Head Chef/Owner of Castle, a three Michelin star restaurant located in Central Paris and voted the number one spot to visit in Paris by more than 20 world renowned culinary magazines. But what's truly astonishing is that he achieved all of this as a teenager – yes, you heard me right – a teenage businessman and a world-renowned chef. So, without further ado, please join me in giving a thunderous round of applause to Hadrian!

Hadrian comes out.

M: Welcome Hadrian. Please come sit. I must admit, you look very young. Just how old are you Hadrian?

HP: I'm 18. I had my birthday a few days ago.

M: Well, happy birthday! Did you celebrate at all?

Hadrian laughs.

HP: I did actually. Me and some friends went to Miami to celebrate; we actually rented out an entire hotel. It was an incredible experience.

J: Was it the Brickwell hotel?

HP: Yes it was. How did you know?

J: My cousin works there as General manager. He shared this interesting tidbit with me during one of our weekly phone calls. He also said some staff told him that the whole thing had been booked by the one and only Bruce Wayne.

Hadrian blushes.

HP: It was a birthday gift. A little extravagant I admit, but I couldn't exactly refuse when he already did so much.

M: So it's true then; you are close friends with the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. How does that feel?

HP: Bruce might be rich, but he's really like everyone else. We met at a charity ball he threw in Paris a few years back. My adoptive father and I ran a catering business back then to test the waters and he liked my food so much that he asked me back a few times. He even said that I was the reason he didn't want to leave Paris. We became friends after that. I think he kind of adopted me as a little brother.

M: Does Mr. Wayne give you investment advice? I hear that his portfolio is quite something.

HP: Oh god no. Bruce might be good at many things, but he truly doesn't have the patience to play the stock market. His butler Alfred is the genius behind it all. But Bruce did give me advice on how to negotiate better deals with my suppliers. In addition, I'm not sure if you know this, but he was the one who give me the money to start Castle. He thought my talents were better suited for restaurants instead of catering businesses.

M: And one year later, you are the youngest self-made multi millionaire in the country. That must be quite a change.

Hadrian smiles.

HP: It is, and I won't be humble about it. I worked hard to get where I am and I'm proud of my accomplishments.

M: And we as well. But talking about your accomplishments, how did you start in this field? Were your parents prodigies as well?

HP: My parents are dead actually. They died in a car accident.

M & J: Oh I'm so sorry.

HP: Don't be, it was a long time ago. After they died, I was put in the tender care of my only living relatives. I didn't grow up in a happy home; they already had a son of their own and only saw me as an additional chore. I hadn't been physically abused, but verbal definitely wasn't off the table.

M: Oh god, that's horrible.

J: What happened to those monsters?

Hadrian laughes a little at that.

HP: If I am honest, I should be grateful to them in a way because if it wasn't the fact that they had wanted me to be better at cooking so I could cook them their meals, I never would have met Ms. Clarice and my adoptive father, Chef Francois. Without them, I never would have gotten to the place I am today. After all it was Father's connections that got me the opportunity to show case my talents. But that doesn't mean I condone them for making a 6 years old cook their food.

M: I'm glad your story have a happy ending.

J: Your relatives must be regretting being so mean to you right now.

HP: Actually no. For some reason, they never contacted me ever again. Not since I've moved out as a kid and went to France to study under Father. I'm glad for it because that was a problem I didn't have to deal with.

M: That is true. It would have been worst if they decided to ask you for money.

J: It's always wonderful to hear a success story such as this. You deserve everything you've earned.

HP: Thank you.

M: Unfortunately, that's all the time we have for today. Hadrian, it had been a true pleasure talking to you. To see such success in someone so young inspires us all. You can definitely expect us to make a visit to Castle in the near future.

HP: Thank you. I'll be looking forward to your visit.

J: And that's it for today's special guest ladies and gentleman. Please give a warm hand of applause to Hadrian.

HP: Thank you, thank you.

M: Alright, after the break, we will be discussing the latest in the world of technology. Please stay tune.


Note: The next chapter is already finished and should be uploaded soon. If you would like give your support for this fic, please drop a review - in which you can also give things you would like to see in this fic, which I might add if it fits the plot - it'll motivate me to upload faster as I am just getting back in to writing. I am also prioritizing fics with the most interest.

Thank you for reading and see you in the next chapter.