Chapter 2
Olivier
You have to be fucking kidding me.
Not again.
Not another egotistical customer sending their plate back just to get an angry response from me?
I should be used to it by now. My reputation is clearly preceding me more and more as the years go by.
It’s almost like some people enjoy it. Some don’t, but that’s kind of beside the point.
Either way, it’s become this big thing that when a certain kind of customer comes here, they’ll make sure to pick up on the most ridiculous or even made up issue and then decide to throw a hissy fit over it, knowing full well that the chef will almost certainly take objection to their objection.
Well, I’m not biting. Not this time.
No way. No chance. No… oh screw it.
Here I go again.
Without taking a second’s pause, I let my emotions rule over me and I power through the busy kitchen and out into the restaurant.
Immediately I sense all eyes are on me, but I don’t care.
In fact, it’s pretty much the last thing on my mind as I make my way toward the complaining customer with an air of menace swarming around me.
“You, sir, can stick your bullshit objection up your ass!” I bellow, my voice echoing around the restaurant. “This is the best damned food in the city and it is an incredible act of disrespect to criticize the work of my loyal and very talented staff!”
I can feel the heat building up inside of me.
It’s hotter than my hottest oven, and if this rich sonofabitch customer even thinks about answering back then I might just explode.
Here’s the thing. I worked my ass off from the ground up. I wasn’t born into culinary royalty like so many others.
No, that’s not my story at all.
I worked from a kitchen boy all the way up to the top. And I did it through working harder than anyone else, showing more commitment to the craft, and by never backing down even in the toughest and most high pressure moments.
And there have certainly been a few of those along the way...
I’ve been fired, made bankrupt, and pissed off more high society customers and snooty reviewers than I can even remember at this point.
I’ve won awards too, been heralded as everything from the most talented chef of my generation to the most creative and competitive cook on this side of the Atlantic ocean.
But even taking into account all the trophies, money, and praise, the only thing that’s ever really mattered to me is the food. I’d work for minimum wage if I had to. And I’d do it with a smile too as long as I was able to prepare good food and serve it to hungry mouths.
However back in reality, I’m standing here with the whole restraint watching me, waiting to see if I’m going to have a classic Olivier Ramsey blowout…
“Anything else you’d like to complain about?” I ask, just about regaining my cool but keeping my voice nice and menacing just in case to ward off any bad ideas this customer might be having.
“No, I’m good. Ha! This is just perfection! I can report back to my buddies at the hedge fund that you truly are the best asshole chef in the city,” the customer says, an infuriatingly smug look on his face. “I could buy this place ten times over. But this is just priceless!”
Fuck.
This rich douche reeled me in and now he’s got his Olivier Ramsey story to regale his similarly asshole friends with on the golf course.
I gave him precisely what he wanted and now I feel like people are here more for me than the food I make. That sucks. Sure, you could say that I’ve encouraged all this with my appearances on TV and cultivating my notoriety in interviews. But come on...
I’m still a chef first and foremost.
Or at least that’s how I see myself, even if the likes of this finance yuppie doesn’t see it like that.
“You do you, man,” I mutter, shooting the idiot one final glare.
I turn and stalk back inside the kitchen. My insides are furious, more so than when the customer came up with his bullshit complaint in the first place. I’m forty-three, I shouldn’t be reacting like this. Not at my place of work, and not when I’m doing what I love to do. Something has to change…
“You okay, chef?” Antonio asks.
“I don’t know, man,” I reply. “Cover for me. I’ll be back in ten. I need some air.”
With that, Antonio nods. He’s my number two here and I could trust him with my life.
Antonio has talent. Like serious talent.
I know it’s only a matter of time before he flies the nest and opens his own joint.
But for now at least, he’s my go-to guy when I need a moment to take stock and refresh—and that moment is now…
I lean up against the wall at the side of the restaurant.
The evening air is cool and I can tell that it’s going to frost over tonight.
Not that I’m complaining. I love the winter air.
It reminds me of growing up in Canada, the snowball fights, the tobogganing, and wrapping up in the warmest coats, hats, and gloves known to man.
Damn, it all seems a long time ago now.
There was something so incredibly fun about being young and carefree. I certainly didn’t have a fucking clue what a spreadsheet was, or how I would need to pay some asshole thousands of dollars just to work out how much tax I should be paying or whether I needed to hire or fire new staff.
But don’t get me wrong. Being a grown ass man isn’t all bad.
I get to make my own rules, live how I want to live, and if I’m very lucky I get to put a naughty boy over my lap and give him a damn good spanking too…
Except there’s one catch. My hours working at the restaurant are far from suitable when it comes to meeting the kind of guy who’d want to be my boy.
While a city of eligible young men are out dating, partying, and having a fun time sucking, fucking, and being spanked…
I’m working my ass off preparing food all night.
And the super-late finishes at the restaurant typically mean that I’m rarely up and around before eleven. And then I’m straight back to work prepping the next day’s menu or meeting with suppliers.
I’m success rich but time poor.
I’m not asking for sympathy. I love what I do. But the other side of me—my Daddy side—craves something else, desires a boy, demands a Little to care for, discipline, and fall in love with.
The chances of me being able to meet someone who ticks my boxes are slim. But the chances of being able to make that relationship work are even slimmer. I’ve often wondered too whether there is actually anyone out there who I’d even consider changing my lifestyle for.
After all, I’m Olivier Ramsey—food is what I do.
I just sometimes wish I could have that Little something else in my life that I crave too.
Pah.
I’m getting all downbeat now. I need to change my energy and head back inside. As talented and trustworthy as Antonio is, this place runs best when I’m front and center.
It’s time to forget that douchebag finance bro and give the rest of my paying customers the very best Olivier Ramsey experience going…
But just as I’m about to turn and head back inside through the side door, I look across the road and see a big group of guys heading toward the front door.
“Who the hell is… he?” I mutter, my eyes drawn to just about the beefiest beefcake I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on.
He’s tall.
He’s broad.
His face is all kinds of handsome—but actually kinda cute and sweet too.
Oh, and that thing he appears to be packing inside those light blue jeans? Damn. Daddy might be a chef, but suddenly I’m the one who’s hungry.
“Okay, looks like I’ve suddenly got one more reason to make this the best service possible tonight,” I chuckle. “But if that hunk of hotness dares to complain, I’ll have him across my lap quicker than a dropped egg cracking on my kitchen floor…”
The kitchen is a blur of activity.
“Coming through!” Antonio calls, motioning for the new sous chef to move in double-quick time. “Good work everyone. But we’ve got a big order from a very big table. Each and every dish needs to land!”
“Antonio is right,” I say, my voice controlled. “I want these big guys to leave feeling full. But also feeling like they’ve tasted something incredible.”
I’m making my orders heard loud and clear and my team is working to the peak performance I know they’re capable of. It’s almost like we’re in a total flow state when everything clicks like it is this evening.
The yuppie asshole is a distant memory, and I haven’t had a single complaint or query since. Hey, it could be that everyone else is just too scared. Or, hopefully, it could be that we’re simply making the best damn food in the whole city, or anywhere else for that matter.
But this table—featuring a certain hunk—is the target now.
And I’m going to personally make sure that he gets everything he wants and a whole lot more. However before I do that, I need to go in prepared.
“Lazlo,” I say, beckoning over the ma?tre dee. “What’s the skinny on the table of burly guys?”
Lazlo arches his eyebrow. He knows what I’m thinking. Maybe because he’s a Daddy too. But, whatever, I can see that he already has all the information I need and has probably been waiting since the second they walked in the door to reveal all.
“Olivier, Olivier… great minds think alike,” Lazlo laughs. “They’re a table of hotties, that’s for sure. But, you want details, not just a lowdown of what my dick thinks. Long story short. They’re a construction crew from across the coast, Los Torros to be precise.”
“They’re a long way from home,” I reply. “Must be a big money job?”
“Kind of,” Lazlo says, a twinkle in his pale blue eyes. “But get this. They’re doing an affordable housing build. I asked a couple of my guys and apparently they’re a solid crew who are pretty much doing this at breakeven cost. This is huge for the area.”
“Hell yeah,” I say, my mind spinning. “Jeez. That hedge fund asshole earlier nearly made me flip my lid. To hear that there are good people still doing good things in the world is quite the thing.”
“They’ve got some funding in place, but mainly this is an initiative from their boss,” Lazlo continues. “And that would be Xander. Big guy. I mean, they’re all big. But I’ll point him out.”
“Good,” I say, walking over toward the large glass panel that looks out onto the restaurant floor. “Point him out.”
But as Lazlo points Xander out, my eyes are immediately drawn back to the big beefcake who grabbed my attention outside. Damn. If he looked good outside, he looks even better under the carefully curated lights of the restaurant floor.
“Lazlo,” I say. “I’m going to be personally seeing to this table tonight.”
“Right…” Lazlo answers, struggling to contain his laughter. “As you wish.”
Lazlo pats me on my shoulder and gets back to being busy. Meanwhile my mind is already running wild with thoughts about the boy. I know it’s only a fantasy. For all I know, he might be partnered up in a long term relationship. And yet…
I know he’s single.
I can sense it.
And now I need to make him mine…