The Billionaire’s Full Figured Desire

And Frida resented the idea that she was given the position of Head Chef at such a young age to fill a quota or to tick a box. Because it was one theory that she had begun to hear more and more with increasing popularity, and it was also one that she had a great desire to nip in the bud – and quickly, too. To Frida, even to suggest that she didn’t deserve to be where she was felt like such a slap in the face. She’d already established that hardly anybody who knew her name knew the real her, and conversely, they had no idea what she’d done or been through to get where she was.

Suggesting that she didn’t earn her place as Head Chef, and instead had someone throw her a bone, or cut her an easy way to the top, felt like such a cheap way to undermine her success. But, of course, she tried to avoid going on rants like this online, or on TV, because once you’re on TV ranting about the intricacies of socioeconomic politics, you’re in it for the long haul. At that point, you may as well put a rainbow emoji in your twitter handle and be done with it.

And above almost all else, Frida was determined not to get caught up in a struggle that would never end; a war that would never ever be won. Such were her beliefs surrounding social politics, and all the red herrings that came with it. Social media and all the “debates” (and the word debates must always be used loosely in conjunction with social media, because they weren’t so many debates as they were online screaming matches) that were spread out across its vast platforms were nothing more than inelegant ways to ram your point down someone’s throat. And Frida had always been taught the importance of turning the other cheek, which was a skill that was never truly more important than at such a critical juncture.

She knew what she had done to gain her success, she knew how much she had sacrificed, and she knew what hardships she’d faced, and that had to be enough. Maybe one day, when she was old and tired, she’d write a biography, or have one written for her. Then all of her supposed fans who were true fans could finally read the real story of Frida Carter through the eyes of the woman herself. Although Frida couldn’t personally understand why anybody would be interested in such a thing. True enough, this was coming from a biased source, but Frida was of the opinion that her life lacked a considerable amount of the “razzle-dazzle” that made Hollywood so entertaining.

But to voice the truth of it, Frida wasn’t too far from Hollywood! L’Ultima Cena was the name on everyone’s tongue in the Seattle area, and Frida knew it. The stage was almost perfectly set for her next big play, and then all that there would be left to do would be to sit back and let the offers for her own cooking show roll in. After all, California was just down the coast, barely a hop, skip, and a jump away. And Frida may have been making her old mistake again, and getting too carried away, with thoughts of her own cooking show. A classic mistake of counting the proverbial chickens before they’d hatched, sort of thing.

But conversely, Frida had no desire to sell herself short. She was a Michelin Star-holding chef at the best restaurant in Seattle, Washington, not some newbie who’d just bought her first Mandoline, made some killer potato dauphinoise and decided that she was ready for the big leagues because she could pronounce the word “dauphinoise.” Frida had a lot fewer Michelin Stars than Gordon Ramsey, for example, but she was a far cry from a newbie.

That’s not to say that she hadn’t been a newbie at one point. Everyone had to start somewhere, and the beginning of Frida’s culinary journey stretched back further than she cared to admit! All the way back to her childhood, in fact, where the spark of the fire that was her love for food had first been lit. Frida had her mom to thank for that; a woman who understood the importance of fostering a child’s passions.

There were many parents the world over who, when their child divulged their dreams of being a secret agent, or a superhero, or an astronaut, would seek to guide their child’s aspirations to a more earthly option with a far more likely possibility of success. It was only logical. But Frida’s mom was not one of those parents, not by a long shot. She believed in supporting Frida’s passions whatever they turned out to be, and Frida could never thank her mom enough for her outlook on life, despite being called a variety of unflattering names because of her desire to succumb to the peer pressure of parenthood. Now there was a woman! And Frida was eternally grateful to be her daughter with each day that passed. And she tried to embody her as much as humanly possible with each moment that passed.

But, as with all things, there was a downside to being the newest, hottest, fiercest superstar chef in the Pacific Northwest, if this could even be considered to be in any way, an apt description for Frida. One wouldn’t imagine that being…well, perhaps not “rich” yet, but Frida was content with assigning herself the label of “wealthy,” at least for now. An eight-figure salary was “rich,” Frida was still on six. She’d have had to take a loan out for eight figures, and even then, what bank would agree to that? With a straight face?

But even with her six-figure salary and a Michelin Star and the glorious career that she’d always dreamed of, ever since she was a little girl, Frida would be lying if she said there weren’t downsides. And some of them weren’t even totally negative, they were just unexpected side effects. For one thing, dining was a completely new experience for her, and not completely in a good way.

After three years in the profession, Frida had picked up all the tips and tricks that were used in…well…the profession. All the tools of the trade. She knew that waiters and waitresses deliberately left out the fact that the twelve percent service charge was optional because to do so would literally be taking money out of their own pockets. She could tell the difference between a steak that was cooked to order and once that had been previously sent back to the kitchen, but then again, that was never too difficult to spot, if you knew what you were doing.