The Billionaire’s Full Figured Desire

Andrew’s jaw dropped. “Where did you learn that?”

In kitchens, sprinkling flour on the handle of a pan let everyone else in the kitchen know that the pan’s handle was hot and touching it was not a good idea. Salt could also be used but was harder to spot in smaller quantities, and flour tended to stick to whatever it touched, so it tended to be the go-to choice.

“I saw you do it,” Frida admitted. “A few weeks ago. I was wondering why, and when I touched the pan and it was searing hot. It wasn’t too difficult to work out.”

O’Malley was visibly impressed at how much Frida seemed to have learned under his unwitting tutelage. “Get the woman a whisk!” he barked to one of his line cooks.

“No,” Frida countered. “Not a whisk, I need a spatula. Wooden, no holes.”

Someone passed the requested utensil along, and Frida used it to mix the flour and butter together into a roux before the butter had a chance to burn. “Have we got pre-prepared milk?” she asked to the kitchen at large.

“Of course,” Andrew said snootily. He handed over a pan full of milk that had gentle wisps of steam curling from it. It was best to use warmed milk for a sauce, so as not to disturb the temperature of the mix. If it was too cold, the flour wouldn’t cook off properly, leaving you with clumps of flour in the mixture that would make the sauce lumpy.

This particular milk had been given an extra aromatic twist. Before it had been placed upon the heat, a half onion had been added to it, studded with cloves. The essence would bleed out into the milk as it heated, giving it extra flavor. Frida could smell the aromatic scent as it passed her nose, and she wanted to drink the milk then and there, but she was on a mission.

She tipped a little of the milk into the pan and began to fold the mixture together with her spatula.

“Why not just put it all in?” one of the line cooks asked.

“For optimal results, you’ve got to fold it in gradually,” Frida explained. “Stops it from getting too lumpy, as well.”

And she just kept doing that; folding more and more of the milk into the sauce mixture, until half of the pan was full of it, creamy, thick, and stark-white.

“Someone bring me the lasagna,” Frida said, and she was surprised to see line cooks rushing to complete her orders. “Oh, and one last thing, season it with salt and pepper.

Someone bring the white pepper, please, we don’t want to use black pepper or it’ll speckle the sauce black.”

Another trick she’d learned from her mom. Frida heard Andrew snort derisively at this, but his expression suggested that he knew it was a good point. For the next few minutes, the kitchen was in a kerfuffle as everyone rushed for their places. Frida sauced the dish, sprinkled the cheese, and popped it into the oven. Five to ten minutes later, she took it back out, and Andrew expertly plated it up with vegetables to garnish. Frida had to admit, she had a lot to learn about plating in this industry, how to arrange something on a plate so it appeared that much more beautiful and picturesque.

“Traditionally, the Head Chef serves food critics and special guests,” O’Malley said. “But I think you should serve him, Frida. You really came through for us here, and I must say, I’m very impressed.”

“Really?” Frida raised her eyebrows. “Well…thanks, Chef, I’m honored!”

“You’d better hurry!” O’Malley said. “There are a lot of tables out there waiting for their food.”

He had a point, and so Frida hurried. She placed the plate on a tray, proceeded back out into the dining area, and made a beeline for Eli’s table. He smiled when he saw her arriving, and she placed the plate on his table. “Enjoy.” She smiled. Even while walking away, she kept her eye on him, watching to see his reaction as he tasted it.

Eli’s expression was unreadable, but even as Frida watched, he clicked his pen and scribbled something down in a notepad. How did she not realize he was a critic! He may as well have had the word CRITIC stamped across his forehead in big letters. So Frida returned to work, sending out food to hungry diners, and it wasn’t long before she forgot all about the renowned critic eating the food that she had helped to prepare.

Pretty soon, however, she caught sight of Eli flagging her down again. When she approached him, his plate was clean. “It was delicious,” he said. “Could I speak to the chef, please?”

Frida froze, her mouth half-open in response. She had been mere moments away from nominating herself for the glory, the words had been on the tip of her tongue, but now, she wasn’t so sure. “Uh…” she faltered.

“Is that going to be a problem?” Eli asked, slowly, eyebrows raising.

“No, no!” Frida was on the verge of panicking. “No, I’ll just go and get him for you.”

When Chef O’Malley came out, he was wringing his hands nervously in a way that Frida had never seen him do before. “Hello,” he said hollowly.

Eli nodded at Frida. “Thanks, but I said I asked to see the chef.” He looked pointedly at her.

Both Frida and O’Malley were lost for words. O’Malley stood there abashedly as Eli rained praise down on Frida for her part in the dish, and even when he was done, neither Frida nor O’Malley was any the wiser as to how he knew.