3- Bite My A r s e – Part 1


    Aurora POV


    2 weekster


    “Aurora! I need a chicken cordon bleu, two ribeye steaks medium rare, and a lemon salmon. Let’s hurry


    it up!” Chef Alexander bellows. He is such a p r i c k. A genius in the kitchen and a 2 Michelin Star


    recipient but still a p r i c k. He’s been my mentor for 3 years now. Love him and hate him. If that’s even


    possible…


    “Yes Chef” I say quickly and begin preparing the orders just read.


    It’s another typical busy Friday night at Saturn. The crème de le crème of restaurants. Rated five stars,


    six years in a row. It has those fancy porcin tes, small yet exuberant portions that the rich and


    famous pay hundreds of dors just to sample a taste. We even te our decadent desserts with 24k


    gold kes! The customers are all snobs, dripping with diamonds and Rolex watches, designer shoes


    that cost half my sry. Ugh. Must be nice.


    I should be grateful I have this job. It’s not special but it pays the bills. I’m a sou chef now, an assistant


    if you will. One of five in this noisy bustling kitchen. Pots and pans banging around, cutlery scraping on


    the metal, crystal sses tinkling – ching ching. Waiters in their tuxes scurrying with trays through the


    doors and in those fleeting moments where the doors are opened you can hear the faint ambiance of


    ssical piano music live. Those ivory keys are graced by delicate fingers, and it brings peace to those


    dining in the ballroom.


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    I have been here for about 5 years now. Worked as server starting at age 16. I went to culinary school


    because Chef Alex said I had potential. He caught me after hours experimenting in the kitchen. I tried


    making some stuffed hamburgers and called it my “Peek-a-boo burger.” Instead of throwing me to the


    curb, Chef just watched me. We split the burger. It was the first time I ever saw him smile. It wasn’t a


    big shiny smile, but just little creases in his chin. He said “You have potential kid. You are going to go to


    culinary school and will train under me. I will make a chef out of you.”


    It’s fun but it’s not what I want to do for the rest of my life. I enjoy cooking but my passion is projects


    and design. So, while I was in culinary school I worked hard, got a schrship, and finished my


    bachelor’s in project design in a record 2 years.


    That’s why I went to DuPont this week. It was my third attempt to apply, and I finally got an interview.


    Too bad I got stuck with Malibu Wannabe Barbie. It was an interview for a project-based internship. I


    am only 21. I have a bachelor’s in art management. They get these incredible projects around the


    world – museums, office buildings, new construction projects. It’s an artist’s dream. The opportunities


    are endless. But being stuck in a kitchen doesn’t quite trante to the type of project experience these


    bigpanies are looking for.


    Ring!


    “Who the heck has their phone on? You know the rules in my kitchen” Chef screamed! His face


    became red.


    Ring!


    Ring!


    “Umm. Chef – it’s your phone,” one of the assistants meekly whispered.


    “Oh. Continue” Chef said, calming down realizing he let his quick temper get the best of him.


    “This is Alex” he said, lifting his phone to his ear, holding it with his right shoulder against his face while


    he takes the hot pan with vegetables off the high me of the stove and begins to te it on the 6


    rectangr porcin tes in front of him.


    “What?” He shouts. His face pales instantly. All color disappearing and his eyes widen and dte as if


    he saw a ghost. He drops the hot skillet on the tes, shattering two. The food falls all over the counter


    and on the floor.


    “Damn!” he says looking around in a panic. I quickly leave my station and grab the hot skillet with my


    cloth and return it next to the stove and begin to wipe up the spilled food as I watch Chef’s eyes slowly


    start to glisten. He is not looking anywhere in particr trying to gain hisposure and listening


    intently to the conversation in his ear.


    “Yeah, I’ll be there as soon as I can” he whispers, clearly defeated in his otherwise strong voice.


    “Go” I say. I do not even hesitate. Whatever it is, he cannot function right now. “I’ve got this Chef. Just


    go.”


    “You sure little chef?” He smirks, trying to gain back control and strength.


    “Yeah Chef. We got this.” I say.


    “Okay. If you need me, call me” he says back and starts to walk away to the office. He stops suddenly


    and turns around, a softness to his face, relief? “I owe you one Aurora.” he meekly says and then


    hurries to the office, grabs his coat, and quickly leaves through the back door.


    It has now been almost two hours since Chef left. Things are a little hectic but are finally slowing down.


    Only about fifteen tables are upied. I have picked up chefs’ job of ting and quality checks. We


    have about 30 more minutes until closing.


    The front of house manager Mr. Pearson hurries in, almost colliding with the server Max with a tray full


    of food. He is a shorter man, 5’8 at most. More stocky build with a bit of a beer gut. He has an unruly


    beard and greasy slicked ck hair that is clearly balding on the crown of his head. Wire rim sses


    frame his eyes and make his face look like a marshmallow. He is wearing his bow tie tuxedo.


    “Alex!” he screams. His voice has a deep sandpaper scratch. He is frantically searching through the


    warming stalls. “Where is Alex?” He looks around, asking everyone he can make eye contact with.


    “Chef had a personal emergency. I am lead for tonight. What can I do for you Sir” I calmly state while I


    wipe my hands on the blue cleaning cloth attached to my right hip.


    “F u c k! I need Chef! We have incredibly special VIP here and they have requested ‘The Chefs Secret


    Special’ like they always do.” He sighs in defeat. His forehead is visibly sweating, his eyes are


    downcast, and he is fidgeting with his fingers as if he has some secret to tell.


    “Well, tell them Chef is gone and they can order from the menu! The kitchen will be closing shortly.” I


    say ndly.


    “Excuse me? One cannot simply tell them no. They want the special from the chef, so get it done! They


    expect perfection and something new. Make it happen…. chef” he says defiantly, saying chef like he


    had a bad taste in his m o u t h. He straightens his tie, holds his head high and pushes his way back


    out to the ballroom. Ugh, what an a s s.


    Well shit. I have never heard of the ‘Secret Special.’ I guess that is why it’s called a secret. Ha! I do


    know Chef makes special dishes not on the menu sometimes for special guests. Hmmm. I can’t call


    him. I have never seen Chef that way in all the years I have known him.


    Hmmm. Secret special not on the menu… Need to impress? Oh, I have the perfect meal for this VIP


    client who demands “perfection.” I am so wicked, and I am probably going to be fired. It is going to be


    worth it! This is going to be fun.


    20 minutester…


    “Take these to the private room for the special VIP” I say to Max with a million-dor smile stered on


    my face. He looks at me like I am headless. Oh Maxi, you have no idea.


    “You’re serious?” Max questions.


    “As serious as ice cream on apple pie sweet cheeks. Now shoo” I say back.


    “Yes ma’am” he salutes sarcastically and takes the tray with my greatest creation on the te, and I


    get back to cleaning the kitchen. I chuckle to myself, letting a devilish smile grace my face.


    It has now been an hour since the kitchen has been closed for the night. Most of the staff were sent


    home. I am sitting in the little kitchen office, reviewing the inventory books for the chef when Mr.


    Pearson once again waltzes into the kitchen.


    “You!’ He is still standing on the other side of the kitchen near the ballroom doors. He points to me


    through the open door and then snaps his fingers and motions a e here” with his pointer finger.


    I slowly get up, perplexed as to his behavior.


    “What is your name again?” he asks rudely. Maybe he needs to brush his teeth to get the venom out of


    his m o u t h.


    “Aurora” I answer. “What do you want Mr. Pearson?”


    “You have been summoned” he says between clinched teeth and yet a weird, forced smile donned his


    face making him look scary creepy like those chuckie dolls. “Follow me. Now.” He ordered as he was


    already walking out the door.


    I walked with him through the empty ballroom. Thest few staff members set up the remaining tables


    for the following day. The red carpet and dark regal blue paint on the walls sharply contrasting against


    the gold ents and massive crystal chandeliers grace the ceiling that twinkle like diamonds in the sky


    giving an ambiance of royalty.


    The golden door in front of us reads Private VIP and is slightly open. I follow Mr. Pearson inside after


    he softly knocks three times.


    “Sirs, as requested. This is Aurora,” Mr. Pearson says with such reverence and bowed at the waist


    before stepping to the side allowing me to see who is in front of me.


    At a singr round table, adorned with crystal vase full of flowers sat four God looking men, all dressed


    like they just walked off a modeling runway. Their auras screamed power. I couldn’t help it; I felt the


    need to bow my head. It took all my strength not to just drop to my k n e e s in submission.


    “You!” one of them whispered. I instantly looked up and caught the eye of the man I saw two weeks


    ago. Those beautiful hazel eyes.


    “We meet again sweetheart” he says.