The Billionaire’s Full Figured Desire

So when she’d finally made the decision to go out, her choice of a restaurant had been obvious. Ritorno Casa was second to her own, and so she was eager to give their menu a test run. They must have at least a dozen new dishes since last she’d last been there, and she was eager to sample fine dining that she didn’t have to cook. She had learned that all chefs follow rules when it came to well known dishes, although they all tasted a bit different in their own way, they still had all the same components and so when she tried other dishes that weren’t so popular it was always a delight to her. She never knew if something would blow her mind or just taste some sort of interesting.

She’d expected to get recognized, if not by countless dining customers then by the Head Chef at Ritorno Casa, a Frenchman called Michel Caron. She was right on that front, he welcomed her at the door and sat her down at her table, and it wasn’t long before he came to take her order. Frida had no intention of being as bad as the customers that irked her so much, and she was sure to know exactly which appetizer she was going to pick by the time that the waiter arrived, nothing was more frustrating than a time-wasting customer. Strangely, Chef Caron was with him, surely he was there to offer Frida some kind of special offer, as was the custom for when another chef, an especially one that worked at a higher-ranked establishment, dined at one’s restaurant.

“I’ll have the Crema di Pomodoro soup to start,” she said clearly.

“Excellent,” Chef Michel Caron said. “Will madame be wanting un apéritif?” he asked in his heavy accent. “On ze Maison, complétement gratuit, of course.”

“Thank you,” Frida said. “I’ll take a Sauvignon Blanc, please.”

Caron bustled away with his waiters following in his stead.

Frida couldn’t resist smirking to herself; she could not lie, it felt good to be respected like that. And, as a black, plus-size woman, she didn’t get too much of that, that much was for certain. Make no mistake; however, she’d had to work for it, and she’d had to put in much more effort than Head Chefs that were almost twice her age. That was the cross that she had to bear, unfortunately. But working nearly twice as hard did mean that she felt double the satisfaction once she’d achieved her goals, and Frida was proud to say that she always achieved her goals. She made a point of it. On the whole, Frida certainly felt that she deserved the attention and respect that she was afforded when in restaurants and around those who moved in the circles of the culinary world.

She felt like she’d worked for it, she’d earned it, and that she deserved every bit of it that came her way. Of course, she remained humble, there was never the need to boast about her personal success, but it didn’t hinder the fire of pride she felt in her chest every time she got the attention she felt she deserved. Frida was also moved to wonder if her deserving of it would even be in question if she weren’t a woman. And a black woman at that. Nobody questioned whether Gordon Ramsay was worthy of his title, or the respect he got. But then again, Gordon Ramsey had six more Michelin Stars than Frida, so perhaps that had something to do with it. But then again, the “best” and certainly most renowned chefs in the world all happened to be men.

Gordon, Jamie Oliver, Heston Blumenthal, Wolfgang Puck, Marco Pierre White, Mario Batali, the list went on and on. A few entries on a list of world-renowned chefs that one might find on Google were women. Fewer still were people of color, and although Frida only had the one Michelin Star, she felt as though she was well on her way to making history and joining the walls of fame in the world of culinary cooking. She wouldn’t stop until she got there, she would continue to work hard and make her way higher and higher until she reached a new limit for all those women following in her footsteps, even the women who don’t know of her yet.

Maybe it was too much to hope for, but Frida hoped that one day people would look up to her as a standard to attain, a sky to reach for when they entered the world of professional cooking. Frida had never studied at college, never done a formal apprenticeship, never earned a degree. But she knew her way around a kitchen. She had practical smarts and hands-on experience, and in her opinion, experience always outranked everything else.

Suddenly, Frida felt lasers on the back of her neck, as though someone was staring directly at her. Frida couldn’t resist, she glanced to her left, and her eyes immediately fell upon her target.

The first thing she noticed about this gentleman was that he was dressed impeccably. From his burgundy Tom Ford suit to his loafers. His whole outfit must have cost him at least a thousand, maybe two thousand dollars. So he was wealthy. The next thing that Frida noticed was that he was handsome! He was Caucasian, and somewhat pale too, but he had dark hair that was closely cropped and set a stark contrast against his pale skin. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-nine, maybe pushing thirty, so certainly in Frida’s age group.

The next thing that struck her about this man was that he was staring right at her. Even as she turned her head and made eye contact, where other people would have awkwardly looked away, this man held his gaze, and, as Frida watched, the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. Frida’s cheeks suddenly felt very hot. Men such as this guy normally didn’t give Frida a second glance. She was either too heavy, or too dark, or too old, or what have you. They didn’t stop and stare, as this guy was doing.