Chefe の小説・ストーリー

He could feel her heart racing. "The heat is the most honest thing in this room. It strips away the pretenses. It shows us exactly who we are." "And who am I, Chef?" Marco stepped back, the sudden distance feeling like a cold draft. He pointed to the pan. "Right now, you are a sous-chef who is dangerously close to overcooking a piece of sea bass. Plate it. Now." Chloe jumped, refocusing. She plated the fish with a fluid, instinctive motion, the emulsion swirling perfectly around the protein. She slid the plate across the stainless steel pass.

I open my mouth to speak but just then, a male voice pierces the air; “Delivery for Miss Machiavelli.” Another delivery? I turn to the door and pause, staring at the delivery man in confusion. “Miss Machiavelli?” “Yes, that’s me.” He steps aside, revealing another man dressed in a chef’s uniform. “We have a food delivery for you, ma’am.” “Sweet! You ordered food?” Gemini asks. “No, I didn’t.” He frowns. “Then who did?” “My name is Obed. I’m the head chef at Golden Bridge Intercontinental Restaurant. The food is from Mr. Rourke.” The chef announces as he rolls a trolley laden with three covered bowls into the room.

Juma asked from the room. "Yes sir. There's a male chef per your request arriving in two hour who will be taking care of your dishes. He is a known seven star hotel chef and he will be able to take care of your menu without any problems. I have to go back now and prepare your schedules for the week. Let's meet tomorrow sir", she replied. "Okay, you can leave"

An hour had passed. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Chloe,” the chef said, giving me a small bow of gratitude. I smiled at him. He was one of the best chefs in the country. I’d recognized him instantly from a magazine I once flipped through out of boredom. If he was here, it meant one of the council of witches had spent an enormous amount of money just to have him prepare a few dishes for this ridiculous brunch. The last server picked up the tray, and I followed him, holding my head high.

He stood in his crisp black suit in the gleaming foyer, a grand staircase ascending behind him. "Alfred," Damon cheerfully said, patting the man's shoulder. "How have you been?" He's one of the best chefs in their kitchen. Actually, the only one who's able to handle his dear mother's diet fads and run along with them. That's why Alfred has been working for over fifteen years with them. Quite a feat. "Very well, sir. Care for some ceviche?"

Someone massaged my back. “Goodnight, Mrs. Moretti,” one of them whispered. I woke up the next morning bracketed by brothers. I slipped out for a quiet moment, putting on a yellow sundress. On deck, the chef, Chat Chevalier, was already prepping. He was a lean, tattooed man from France, assisted by Sachin Singh from India. They were both strikingly handsome but talked only of their own mates back home. “Chat?” I asked. “That’s 'Cat' in French, right?”

The man placed the cup of coffee on the table and stood up after noticing her presence, he had brown chestnut hair and emerald eyes. "This is Trevor, Nikolai's driver " Sam replied and Champagne nodded in understanding, she continued forward. "Good evening ma'am, I was sent to pick you up " the man spoke to her politely and Champagne sent him a small smile before turning to Sam. "Don't you dare leave, I will see you when am back " Champagne whispered in a warning yet warm tone before hugging Sam so tight. "I can't leave, I will be waiting for all the juicy gossip and take care of yourself " After Sam's reply, Champagne turned to Mr. Trever who had already stood up.

However, in this situation, the only thing ringing in my head was, Please don't ban us from this restaurant, pretty please. My heart nearly stopped when a short, older man with a quirky hairstyle came out from the back. The pristine white chef's jacket he wore proudly declared his title: JR, owner of the restaurant renowned for its authentic Japanese cuisine. This claim felt almost arrogant, but was undoubtedly justified by the delicious food we had.

I shook the thought away, picked up my new phone and walked out. I made my way down to the dining room, the smell of fresh coffee and spices filling the hallway. I found Nana shifting some heavy silver plates at the table. “Wait, do you do the cooking too?” I asked, as I walked closer to her “No,” another voice answered from behind me. I spun around to see a man in a professional white apron carrying a tray of fresh, vibrant juice. He looked like he stepped out of a five-star kitchen. “I am Chef Bartholomaus-Vincenzo-Maximillian-de-la-Cruz,” he said, the name going on for so long I literally lost track of the middle.

Upon closer inspection, the band had two girls' names in cursive drawn all the way around. He had dark ash blond hair, tanned skin and deep brown eyes. His sous chef was a muscular werewolf just a bit shorter than him with dark eyes, dark glossy wavy hair and deep olive skin. He was named Sachin Singh and was from Jaipur, India. He told me he lived near somewhere called Green City. They both had heart-stopping handsome looks but were humble and kind. Of course, I only had eyes for the quadruplets. "Chat?" I asked the head chef, Chef Elsai, doesn't that mean cat in French?"