The Billionaire’s Full Figured Desire

Chapter 3

If you asked twenty-five-year-old Frida Carter to describe being a waitress in two words, she would’ve known exactly which two words to use: the worst. The hours were unforgiving, she spent almost every single second of her shift on her feet, and the worst part was waitresses got no respect.

Every once in a while, she’d get a substantial tip from an old man who she could tell was perving on her, and could feel his eyes upon her ass and thighs as she walked away. So she didn’t feel very respected there, it had to be said. What was that saying? Every cloud has a silver lining, right? Well, that saying was directly applicable to Frida’s situation because there were good things about being a waitress.

Not good in the sense that they were enjoyable but good in the grand scheme of things. For example, Frida came upon the realization that…some customers were really stupid. She didn’t say it to be rude, but it was undeniable! She didn’t say it to be mean, neither did she believe that anyone who walked into L’Ultima Cena was actually unintelligent.

But it could not be denied that customers did irrefutably ridiculous things. There was never a time when Frida walked into a shop or establishment, such as the bank for example, without knowing what she was going in for. She didn’t believe that anyone did that. Until she got her first job as a waitress, that was. And then she realized the truth of the situation.

Customers would walk into a restaurant with absolutely no idea what they wanted! They would actually enter an establishment, a place of business, and attempt to spend their hard-earned cash on something. What the something was, they had yet to discover. Frida felt like she couldn’t be the only one who found that maddening beyond all belief. Her first order, she still remembered that, and she didn’t think she would forget in a hurry.

It looked like a family of four, two older women, one of them pregnant; a young boy; a teenage girl. Maybe the second woman was an aunt or a family friend? Frida approached the table, running over the spiel that O’Malley had told her to give each and every customer. She made a beeline through the tables, whispering the spiel back to herself, and before she knew it, she was in front of the table. Welcome to L’Ultima Cena, how can I help make this your Last Supper?

At that moment, however, Frida foolishly neglected to foresee that her nerves would take over the situation. “Welcome to L’Ultima Cena, how I make-last supper-how can I-” She began faltering, and the family looked quite alarmed. Frida stopped, took a deep breath, then smiled. “What can I get for you?” she asked as politely as she could. What the pregnant woman said would stay with Frida forever.

“Hello, yes…um…what do you guys have in?”

Frida couldn’t stop herself from frowning in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“What do you do?” the woman repeated as if this were a reasonable question.

Frida’s eyes glazed over the piled-up menus on their table. “Uh…you could take a look at the menus? I mean, we do quite a fair bit of things, I don’t know if I could stand here and tell you all of them.”

“Um…okay,” the pregnant lady said. “Okay, we’ll get back to you.”

When they finally called her back, Frida hoped that they would actually have their heads on straight, although this assumption proved to be false.

“Is the chicken tagliatelle suitable for vegetarians?” the pregnant woman asked.

Again, Frida was shocked. “No…” she said slowly. “If it were vegetarian, it wouldn’t have chicken in it…”

The woman sighed with exasperation and Frida looked around the table for some sign that the pregnant woman was being unreasonable, but everyone around the table, even the children, were looking at Frida like she was being downright unhelpful.

“Have you got anything vegetarian?” the pregnant woman asked.

Frida couldn’t believe her ears. Did she seriously just ask me that? “Did you…uh…look at the menu?”

“I didn’t see anything vegetarian on there,” the pregnant woman shrugged. “And my wife doesn’t eat meat.” She gestured to the other woman, who’d been silent up until this point. Oh, they’re married! Frida realized, at which point she felt embarrassed for assuming the second woman was an aunt or family friend.

Frida had hoped that she was just off to an unfortunate start, but again, that assumption proved false. Each day she came in, strapped on her apron and was ready for the first customers of the day, who came in at about 10 AM to catch a bit of breakfast before the menu rolled over to the lunch hour at midday.

Pretty soon, Frida was experienced enough to tell when the good customers would be coming in, and when the idiots would be rolling in in droves. By good customers, she meant prompt payers, good tippers, and, above all else “knows what they want.” And nobody, no single body of people, and no individuals fit this bill better than builders.

Builders were easily the best customers of the day, and they were earliest in the morning for breakfast and earliest in the afternoon for lunch. At eight AM and twelve noon, like clockwork. Despite being an Italian restaurant, the breakfast menu leaned heavily toward American customers, given that the builders were the main recipients of it. Rather than serving frittatas and tortes, the breakfast menu of L’Ultima Cena was heavily populated with dishes like Eggs Benedict, Full English Breakfasts, pancakes and syrup, breakfast wraps…sort of like high-end, gourmet versions of what you might find at McDonald’s.

But late in the morning, and late in the afternoon, that was when the numb skulls came out to play. The people who had no idea what they wanted, misread menus, forgot their money, accidentally ordered things that weren’t on the menu…the list went on. And anyone who valued their time dared not even get Frida started on a rant about the worst, pickiest of all customers. The bravest and most daring of all chefs had crumbled at the sound of the dreaded ‘V’ word, the word that even sent vegetarians and lactose intolerants running for cover: vegans.

More than once, Frida had considered answering a question posed by a vegan customer with an answer so rude she definitely would have been fired. At the time, it definitely seemed worth it, but she was glad she’d managed to keep a cool head when asked this question by a vegan gentleman.

“I’m a vegan, also I’m lactose intolerant, wheat intolerant, and I have a peanut allergy. What do you recommend I get?”

Frida had been this close to recommending that he get “the eff out,” but she bit back the retort, and politely asked him to wait while she checked with the kitchen. After a while, however, Frida began to grow weary of the constant grappling with customers, and more so their apparent refusal to use their brains and common sense. Frida had to admit that the culinary industry was vastly different from how she had pictured it, and the glorious picture of the future that she had painted for herself in her mind’s eye seemed to be slipping further out of her grasp than ever before.

But, as Frida knew, all clouds had a silver lining. And, as the other old saying went, the night is darkest just before the dawn. Looking back on the situation, and with the benefit of hindsight, Frida would have been more patient, had more faith in her passion, and what she believed was her destiny. She would have remembered that good things come to those who wait, and more importantly, to those who deserved them. And it may have been vain to think it, but few people were more deserving than her.

On Friday, as Frida was busy serving customers at the height of the lunch hour (the time when all the idiots liked to come in) when she was flagged down by an elderly man who was sitting alone at a table underneath the antlers on the far wall. Frida forced her face into a kind smile, she made a point of always being nice to old people, and approached him carefully, ready to take the order of yet another old person who had no idea what they were even ordering.