Chapter 1: Eat at Le Mucche

In the upscale restaurant industry, the name “Vera Marsden” carried a great deal of importance behind it. Known internationally as one of the world’s most premiere food critics, a good or bad write up from Marsden could shape the entire future of a restaurant’s survivability.

Which was exactly why Pascal was so nervous.

He’d been reached out to by Vera’s personal assistant just days prior, informing him that Ms. Marsden had selected his fine dining establishment, Le Mucche, to be the next restaurant that she was to review.

Pascal’s eyes had grown wide when he’d first read the email. Opening and running his own restaurant had always been a dream of his; after years of culinary school, some hard work and a hefty chunk of borrowed capital, he had managed to make that dream come true. Le Mucche had been up and running for eight months, and in that time Pascal was proud to say that he had received nothing but positive reviews.

But none of those other reviews mattered. This one did.

In truth, Pascal hated the power that this woman wielded over him. He had never even seen or met Marsden before; her name and reputation was all that was needed to have him shaken. Pascal had spent the time since making sure the restaurant would be in top form on the day that she was intended to arrive, and now that the day was finally upon him, he couldn’t help but double check every inch, nook and cranny of his establishment.

He’d made sure that only his best chefs and staff were scheduled, had seen to having all of the chairs polished, had dressed all of the tables with fresh linens… Nothing was off.

And, of course, he was dressed impeccably as well. He’d dry cleaned and personally pressed his chef’s uniform himself, and was standing in the restaurant’s lobby as stiff as a stone, knowing that the critic that could decide his fate could arrive at literally any moment.

He didn’t have to wait much longer. A figure as prominent as Marsden surely held herself to the most professional of standards, which meant being prompt and punctual. At exactly 11:25, five minutes earlier than when she had been expected to arrive, Pascal was greeted by a very plump young woman in a slightly undersized business skirt and blouse.

Was this Marsden? Pascal thought that she looked awfully juvenile for someone so established in the industry…

The young lady stopped at the glass restaurant double doors and, to Pascal’s surprise, didn’t immediately open them and stride through. She procured instead from inside her blazer pocket a tape measure, and stretched it across from the end of one double door to the other. Taking a shrewd glance and then nodding in some sort of satisfaction, she finally pushed open one of the doors and slipped into the building.

“Hi,” she greeted him, sounding chipper and enthusiastic.

“Hello there!” Pascal barked out of nervous excitement perhaps a little too loudly. “Ms Marsden, might I add that it is an honor to have you here-”

“Oh!” the woman interrupted. “I’m not Vera.” She strode up to him confidently, holding out her hand to shake. “My name is Olive, I’m Vera’s personal assistant.”

Pascal shook the porky P.A.’s hand.

“And,” he hazarded asking, without coming off as too impolite, “where exactly is Ms Marsden?”

“She prefers Vera,” Olive corrected him.

“Vera,” Pascal repeated out loud with a nod, making a mental note.

“But she’s in her limousine and should be on her way in shortly,” the bubbly brunette promised. “We just needed to double check the door clearance.”

Door clearance? Pascal was confused. Would that be a part of his restaurant’s evaluation?

Olive quickly pulled out a very expensive looking cell phone from her front breast pocket, pressing a single button and raising it to her lips.

“We’re clear. Uh-huh,” was all she said before hanging up and slipping the phone back to where she had pulled it from.

She then turned back to Pascal and smiled, but didn’t speak another word. It gave Pascal some time to truly drink in the woman’s appearance.

She was on the shorter side, her head of neatly tied back brown hair barely cresting over Pascal’s sternum. What she lacked in height she made up for in width; the girl was shaped like a bowling pin, getting gradually wider as Pascal’s eyes went down, until she reached her widest point at shapely but swollen hips that rendered her business skirt stretched tight even though it was at least a 2X, if not more.

The blouse that the young woman was wearing must have been difficult to get on this morning; each of the buttons centered down Olive’s multi-rolled midsection were puckered to the extent that a few of them looked like they might pop, and in between the gaps where the fabric failed to meet Pascal saw not her pale pink flesh poking through but a black bodice interwoven with metal and lace.

The girl was very clearly wearing a girdle underneath her outfit… and, in spite of that, still looked like she was about to burst out of her clothes.

If Olive was having issues with keeping her calorie count under control, which she clearly was, then being a food critic’s assistant might not have been the smartest career choice.

Pascal held back his look of disapproval.

The seasoned chef was sick and fed up with the stereotype of people working in the food industry being overweight. It was why he himself kept up such a toned, torqued physique. He despised chefs who didn’t do the same; in Pascal’s self-inflated opinion, the peak of cuisine could only be crafted by those of peak condition.

Maybe the same didn’t apply to food critics…

But, all the same, someone so seemingly nonchalant about how chubby she was should have thought about looking into a new profession.

“So…” Pascal asked, more to break the silence than out of actual interest. “How long have you been working with Ms Marsd- uh, Vera?”

“Oh, about four years now,” Olive answered readily. “She hired me straight out of culinary school!”

Pascal smirked.

So she was the typical fat chef after all… Or, at least she had been before her new career path. It didn’t matter. Either way, it meant that Olive was indeed keeping the old prejudice that Pascal hated so much alive.

“You went to culinary school?” he raised an eyebrow, his malice becoming less and less veiled.

Olive nodded, her chins jiggling slightly with the sudden motion.

“I was head patisserie at Fetterbach Junior and Senior year,” she said elatedly and with a heavy sense of pride, a deserved one, at that.

Even Pascal was taken aback by her answer. Fetterbach was one of the most difficult to get into culinary schools in the world, let alone the country, so managing to not only secure a spot there but to rise to the top of the ranks implied that the surprised chef was standing across from one of the most seasoned pastry chefs on the planet.

What kind of immense pull did this Vera Marsden have where she had managed to snag someone like that to do mere clerical work for them?

Or…

Pascal held back another smirk as he thought to himself. Did she just like eating food more than she liked cooking it?

“So you decided to go into tasting food for a living,” he asked wryly, hardly bothering to mask his growing disdain, “instead of making it for a living?”

If Olive was picking up on any of Pascal’s rising impertinence, she didn’t show it in her sunny demeanor. The girl responded by giving the surly chef a thoughtful look, as though she had never thought of it that way before.

“Honestly,” she half-smiled, “I do miss being on the other side sometimes…” She did indeed look just a bit dour as she admitted this, although only for a moment before perking right back up. “But there are nice things that come with the job,” she added, springing into detail. “Free food, free drinks, complimentary chocolates…”

Pascal scoffed, crossing his arms.

Of course he had been right.

This fat young woman had given up the possibility of becoming one of the greatest pastry chefs in the world in order to tread in the coattails of some pampered food critic and fatten herself up even more off of the scraps. It was enough to make Pascal wriggle his nose… and enough to make Olive finally notice that something was amiss in his demeanor.

“Is…” her smile faltered for the first time since she had entered the establishment. “There something the matter?” She shuffled in place unsurely, fiddling with her frustratingly tight skirt as discreetly as she could with Pascal’s eyes glued to her in disapproval.

Those disapproving eyes narrowed as Pascal answered, his vitriol only loosely contained.

“I was never a fan of the stereotype,” he hissed mirthlessly, “that those who work closely with food have an excuse to be irresponsible with their diets.” He shrewdly looked her up and down as he articulated that last part of his sentence, hostile enough that the extra-large envoy he was directing his derision at had to take a small step back.

“Oh, yes, umm…” she fidgeted, suddenly a lot less comfortable, “that’s… a good stance to have…”

The girl had obviously been caught off guard by Pascal’s point, but was trying to remain polite and professional, even if the sentiment wasn’t being reciprocated.

“B-but…” she blushed, her normally bright composure chipping away, “they say ‘never trust a skinny chef,’ right?” She laughed weakly at her lame excuse at humor, Pascal’s scowl only deepening.

“Madam, I assure you that we at Le Mucche do not accept that sort of lax mentality in any aspect of food preparation, even when it comes down to the ones preparing it,” Pascal balled his fists and squeezed hard, he was so agitated. “Food preparation or food tasting,” he emphasized, “isn’t supposed to be about having an excuse to let yourself go.”

Olivia gulped, her eyes wide as she looked down at the floor.

“Okay…” she mumbled quietly, more to herself than to the man accosting her. “Wow, understood sir…” she frowned, suddenly much more conscious of her body and how ill-fitting her outfit was.

“At least that’s how I feel,” Pascal crossed his arms, refusing to ease up on his rant.

“Oh… well,” Olive’s complexion was growing progressively more pale, but her cheeks were blushing a bright red. “I uh…” she hesitated. “I see your point, and I hope that your viewpoints don’t impact your opinion of myself or Ms Marsden’s professionalism. “I promise,” she began to sputter, “we… we both take our careers very seriously, especially hers, and- and…”

“I think in your case,” Pascal shrewdly interrupted, “taking your “career” so seriously hasn’t done you favors.”

Pascal had never been a man to mince his words or spare any criticism. There was no time for that in the high energy world of owning and working in a kitchen, and oftentimes the proud proprietor forgot that he wasn’t always in the back of the house whenever he let his tongue loose.

Olive simply wasn’t ready for the onslaught. Almost half a decade away from the action had led to her growing soft, and in multiple ways. Being confronted about how soft she had grown had the girl rendered speechless, especially since Pascal did have a point.

The poor, plump young thing’s bottom lip was quivering at this point, her eyes beginning to pool tears as she stood awkwardly in place, worrisome weight shifting between one heeled ankle and the other.

Vera’s very voluptuous vanguard was fortunately spared any more stammering by the arrival of a large black vehicle, some sort of cross between a hummer and a limousine, pulling up directly in front of Le Mucche in the otherwise empty parking lot.

Pascal raised an eyebrow; the car had immediately caught his attention based on its size alone, but as it shone sleek in the morning sun, he knew that there was only one person that could have been occupying that carriage.

This must have been Vera Marsden, in the flesh.