Chef Lovers Novels & Stories

Chocolate pastries with powdered sugar dusted like cocaine on crystal. The chef stood at the head of the table like he was about to deliver a sermon. Mid-forties. Thin. French. His white jacket was buttoned up too tight, and the sweat on his forehead glistened under the overhead chandelier. His hands trembled as he held a long silver fork. His accent rolled off his tongue like silk, but his voice cracked on the hard sounds. “Poêlées de crevettes sauvages dans une réduction de vin blanc,” he said, eyes darting toward Vittorio. “Served with mousse de truffes sur pain brûlé… and… uh… fraises glacées au miel noir…”

Mo Ting munched on his chicken piece, it was indeed much more delicious than the cooking of his family chef .He didn't know why though- his chef was a first class five star retired chef and his cooking was on par with many notable culinarian . But something about Si Yi Yan 's mother's cooking was different - he had tasted both Ye Mufan and Si Yi Yan 's favourites and realised that Jiang Ning have actually paid really close attention to both of their preferences .

‘In case you don’t have anyone to cook for you’ I said, giving him a flirtatious wink. ‘You need help with the dishes?’ he offered. ‘No I’ll be fine, I’ll just load it all in the dishwasher’ ‘Let me help’ he offered. ‘How come you cook the food and clean up afterwards too… isn’t that against chef code?’ ‘Well my brother Jamie, the chef, is notorious for using too many dishes when he cooks so my mother decided that whoever cooks has to do the dishes. It encouraged us all to use the minimum amount of dishes possible. Jamie still uses the most, but he pays other people to do his dishes for him now.’

he says graciously, shaking my hand, “Is there anything I can do for you?” “I was actually just looking for something to eat.” “Of course, the cooks here will begin preparing something for you, is there anything you would like in particular?” “I’m not a fussy eater, so I’ll take whatever is easiest,” I shrug, not wanting to be a bother. I’m not very comfortable with the idea of being waited on. “If I may,” he says in a whisper, “Our chefs have been highly trained in some of the best restaurants around the world. Asking for them to make ‘whatever’ is a waste of their culinary skills,” he informs me.

He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. "I'm Mason, assistant to the CEO. The chef is already waiting for you. This way please." I followed Mason through the hotel to the back kitchens and into another area I had not yet seen. We stopped short of a door, which read the words 'Leon Knightly, Head Chef.' The aroma was intensifying. I could only imagine what it was like inside. I inhaled and prepared myself as Mason knocked on the door before opening it. Leon's scent wafted through and hit me directly, almost sending me backward.

‘Some people find it odd that The Blue Thunder Foundation encourages the wearing of uniform when its members are not on official business,’ he said as they passed a small haberdashery. ‘Some people?’ Beatrice asked. ‘Girls,’ he said. ‘They find it a bit geekish. And when I tell them that I cook as well, you can imagine where I start to sit on the nerd-o-meter.’ ‘I aim high on the nerd-o-meter,’ Beatrice said. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with a boy being able to cook. Most of the prominent TV chefs are men.’ ‘Well, I guess that makes me a lucky guy,’ he said.

To say the least, this was the most expensive and exotic assortment of dishes Elena had beheld in such a great amount. And her first thought was the epic scene when, during the lunch, Chelsea had ridden them all in a rollercoaster and then dropped them suddenly with the statement: "Can I get the recipe for this dish?" Elena smiled. Chelsea, the wild one. Now that she is pregnant... Well, Elena didn't want to think about that now. She turned to the chief chef who was standing aside, overseeing the activities of the swift. He was a confident, middle aged man, who loved to talk about his artistry.

Chelsea can, but barely. “The famous chef,” Matt stops working, looking at me incredulously, as if I’ve grown another head. “He’s the British guy, has a million different cooking shows, constantly screaming…you haven’t seen the memes?” I stare blankly, shaking my head. None of what he says ringing a bell.

“A chef is someone who cooks.” “Can you cook?” Not so much but I nod. With that intense look, I dare not disappoint. My reply pleases him, he pushes the throw pillow separating us so our knees touch. “Can I call you a baker chef?” My chest vibrates with laughter, I tell him, “You can call me whatever you want, Champ.”

I remember when we first visited this restaurant while we were dating. I was shocked when he ordered for a particular chef to make his food and even paid extra for it. It was when I tasted the food that I knee the reason for his actions. The chefs recipe are heavenly, the food melts in your mouth like ice-cream, revealing different flavors buried within. To please my husband and make his favorite meals, I had to go to culinary school and also paid to get chef floozy’s recipe.