THE FOOD OF LOVE

1 -- PRIME RIB

"Order !"  Larry yelled at his team.

"Yes, Chef !"  everyone yelled back, standing quietly in place, assuring him of their attention.

"Deux Creme Dubarry, Une Canard aux Cerises, Une risotto aux truffe, Grille, sils vous plait, une ....... what the fuck is this !"  French to American expletives in less than one second flat, roaring at the poor waitress in front of him, nearly peeing her knickers because she knew what he was going to say, no, yell at her. 

"Well ?"  Larry glared at her as he waited, none too patiently, for her answer.

Larry Fresser was the new "IT" Chef Du Jour.  He was the rising star of the New York restaurant scene, and had recently acquired his first Michelin star, after only three years in the business.  Virtually unheard of.  He ran a tight ship, and ruled his restaurant, and especially his kitchen, with an iron fist clad in a velvet glove.  Today had not been a good day, and the cracks were just now beginning to show.  He was tough, but he always wore his goofy bunny toothed smile, but he expected hard work, and commanded respect from his team, his guys.  Earlier in the day, he had argued with his mother, and he NEVER argued with his mother, and as much as he didn't want it too, it had upset him.  So ..... 

"What does he want, Jess ?"  he sighed, resigned to the fact he might have to make some kind of concession to this poor, culinarily unaware soul who wanted to change something on his menu to accommodate their uneducated palate.  He didn't need this right now, he really didn't.

"He wants to know where our meat, specifically his steak comes from .... and don't tell me to tell him "a cow"."  She squinted at him as she leaned on the door jamb, Larry's mouth open about to say those very words.

"What does he need to know ?  It's written on the menu, for fuck's sake. "Aberdeen Angus cattle bred in the Scottish Highlands, free to roam and forage on wild moorland heather and organic meadow grasses."  What more does he want ?"

"He want's to know if it's transported live, and if it is, where it's slaughtered, if it's humanely .... "  She didn't get a chance to finish before Larry had ripped his meat juice splattered whites off in temper, not caring that he was bare chested, his tattooed sleeve glistening with sweat.  He threw on a clean Chef's white, buttoning it up quickly with shaking hands, then wiping the sweat from his brow.

"I'll deal with this mutherf ......"  He stood perfectly still for a moment, taking a cleansing breath, pushing imaginary air downwards with his palms.  Straightening his jacket, he marched out of the kitchen, a forced smile across his face.  Everyone in the kitchen just grimaced at each other, as they had a good guess what was coming next.

Larry's restaurant was absolutely beautiful.  It was three stories high, and voluminous.  It could accommodate up to 120 diners in one service, each table being far enough from another, that conversation couldn't be overheard, unless you could shout like Larry.  Both the darkest and the palest of blue adorned the walls, one of them being made of glass, behind which, assorted sized bubbles ascended from floor to very high ceiling, like some version of an aquatic lava lamp.  Individual lights hung low and dim over each table, giving a private club atmosphere, like secrets were being told in dark corners, and they probably were.  Stars spread themselves across the ceiling, a bespoke Christmas decoration, thousands of dollars spent for a few weeks worth of shimmering light.  The air itself seemed to sparkle, the lulled conversation like music.  From the 32nd floor, the view of downtown Manhattan, also from floor to ceiling windows, was incredible. Beautiful boys and girls seemed to glide effortlessly across the floor, carrying trays of silverware, or fancy glasses filled with cocktails, or a bottle of champagne and crystal flutes.  Or the amazing, stunningly beautiful, aromatic food.  Larry's food.  No wonder a dinner for four could set you back $1,000.