The engine hummed softly as the car sped away.
However, as they glanced back, a massive sea of people had filled the entire street, making it seem like half of New York had gathered here. The further the car moved away, the more imposing and overwhelming the crowd became, as if the power of it was still growing.
So, this is the energy of Hollywood?
After the initial shock, Nora slowly regained her composure. It was only then she noticed, well, Anson's calm demeanor was expected, but why was Lucas also so unfazed?
More importantly, "Lucas, why are you here?"
Lucas glanced at the rearview mirror, casting a meaningful look at Anson.
To his surprise, Anson returned the gaze with a completely indifferent expression, as if he didn't understand the significance of Lucas' look. In the end, Lucas gave up.
"Dinner," Lucas replied, his eyes still on the rearview mirror, though now he directed his words at Nora. "I booked a dinner to celebrate Anson's Palme d'Or win and the successful end of his European tour."
Sure enough, Nora's mood lifted immediately. "Lucas, well done. I was just telling your dad the other day that we should throw a party and ask Darren to invite some special guests to celebrate Anson properly."
Anson looked slightly exasperated. "Mom…"
Nora patted Anson's arm. "I know, you'll be starting your next project soon and need time to read the script, not attend parties."
"But a small family dinner to celebrate, that's totally fine, right?"
"Unfortunately, your dad is still stuck in L.A. and can't join us, but the three of us are enough. Your dad's not important. We are the Wood family."
Charles Wood: ???
"Lucas, where did you book?"
"Chef Keller," Lucas answered.
"Oh, Thomas, nice choice. Very tasteful," Nora responded.
In New York, top-tier restaurants are everywhere, offering different price points, styles, and experiences—whether it's upscale eateries aimed at the upper-middle class, secret spots focusing on privacy, or themed venues offering unique experiences. Picking the right restaurant is an art in itself.
For most people, five-star hotels and Michelin three-star restaurants represent the pinnacle of fine dining, and a reservation made six months to a year in advance is a status symbol.
This is true.
However, the true elites often know about secret restaurants hidden away from the public eye—places most people wouldn't even know existed, let alone how to get in.
The Wood family hadn't quite reached that level yet; they didn't have the depth or capital for it.
But thanks to their work, they could walk among the top-tier elites and slowly push open the door to this mysterious world.
Thomas Keller, a French chef working in New York, runs a French restaurant called "Self-Service" in Hell's Kitchen. It's not on any guides or rankings, but his fusion of Southern American flavors with French cuisine has made him a favorite among the elite.
The most important thing about "Self-Service" is its exceptional privacy. Each group of diners gets their own private room, ensuring they can enjoy their meal undisturbed while engaging in confidential conversations. In a city as packed as New York, such privacy is rare.
Rumor has it that the backing behind Keller is a real estate tycoon who loves food—a billionaire who owns his own skyscrapers in New York.
But insiders know the truth: that real estate mogul is too flamboyant to appreciate a restaurant like "Self-Service." The real benefactor behind Keller is a media tycoon from Boston.
Of course, the food is still the main attraction.
So, when people talk about this restaurant, they refer to it by the chef's name, just like people call films by their director's name.
"Lucas, are you serious…"
Anson sat down with a resigned look in the private dining room decorated in red, white, and blue tones.
"I just got back from France, and you chose a French restaurant?"
Lucas was unfazed. "You know how it is in New York. French restaurants are everywhere. If you want a high-end British restaurant, that's a lot harder."
Anson sighed, "Does Britain even have high-end cuisine?"
Lucas grinned, "Exactly my point."
The most casual remarks are often the most devastating.
For years, the relationship between America and France has been complicated. Americans admire French culture—the language, literature, film, art. France represents sophistication and depth. Meanwhile, the French look down on America, seeing it as a land of fast-food culture steeped in commercialism. This dynamic even extends to daily life.
And of course, it applies to food as well.
In New York, there are over 6,000 French restaurants crammed into a relatively small area—just slightly outnumbered by Italian restaurants, mainly because Italian pizzerias and family eateries dominate through sheer numbers. From fine dining to casual fare, from traditional to fusion cuisine, it's all there.
People often joke that if a man in America can speak French, he's already won over half the women.
It's a joke, but there's some truth behind it.
Nora's eyes sparkled with amusement. "This isn't authentic French food, obviously. It can't compare to the real thing in France. But then again, what you had on the French Riviera wasn't exactly authentic either. This place combines Southern American cuisine with French techniques—it'll be a fun challenge."
Anson shook his head. In just a few words, his mother had managed to dismiss Southern French cuisine as inferior and mock American food as well. Wasn't that a bit much?
"Mom, relax. This isn't a roast session," Anson tried to cool things down.
Nora looked genuinely serious. "I wasn't roasting anyone."
Knock, knock.
There was a knock at the door.
The waiter had just dropped off the menus and wine list, so it seemed a bit rushed for them to already be checking on drink orders.
The three exchanged glances, and in the end, Lucas spoke up. "Come in."
The door opened, and a middle-aged man in his forties stepped in, wearing a chef's uniform without a hat. His hair was neatly styled, and his face carried a friendly smile with the effortless charm unique to the French.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said with a noticeable French accent that immediately caught their attention.
It was Thomas Keller himself, the head chef!
With a bright smile, he politely bowed to greet them.
Nora didn't hide her surprise. Her impression of Thomas Keller was that he was proud, arrogant, and as stubborn as a rock. He never bowed to anyone, no matter who they were, and had no social graces to speak of.
He was the epitome of a difficult genius.
To some, that attitude was just a testament to his talent, something to admire.
But tonight?
Nora quickly composed herself and returned the greeting with equal politeness. "Good evening, Chef Keller. We're honored to dine here tonight."
Thomas bowed slightly. "Welcome. I hope you have a wonderful evening. Mr. Wood mentioned that you wouldn't mind me stopping by to say hello…"
Huh?
What was going on here?