Orie Chef Novels & Stories

She wasn’t sure when she’d become so invested in him, but now she couldn’t deny the comfort she felt in his presence. "Chelsea! Focus up, we need that garnish for Table Seven," her boss, Marie, called out, snapping her back to the present. Chelsea’s cheeks flushed as she hurried to prep the garnish, expertly slicing herbs and arranging them with practiced precision. Despite her momentary distraction, she was a skilled chef—her movements swift and precise, every cut and garnish deliberate. Marie watched her from across the kitchen, a slight frown on her face. Marie was a stern chef, known for her no-nonsense approach, but she had a soft spot for Chelsea, who had always worked tirelessly, show

It was Larry. Not the kind, soft-spoken boyfriend I’d abandoned, but a composed, imposing culinary expert. He was the Chef-for-the-Day, an arrangement Izakaya Mori sometimes made with prominent visiting culinary figures. He hadn't just recommended me for a job; he was now the temporary master of the kitchen that was my lifeline. The irony felt like a physical blow.

Before Anderson could respond, the chef arrived. Anderson looked at him and asked, “did you not get the right order right?” The coldness in his tone made the knees of the chef weaken. He was an elderly man with forty years experience as a chef and among all the orders he received today, this man was the only one who issued a warning and he didn’t want to fail him. The chef, looking at the utensils and instantly recalled the orders. Mr. Crown was very specific. His wife hated the taste of fresh onions and the seafood dish he requested for her did not require fresh onions so he didn’t see a problem.

My brows shoot up in shock, watching him like he’s on the other side of a screen and not right in front of me. Why did he do that? On cue, a tall, white man with blond hair, wearing a full chef’s outfit with the hat, emerges from the kitchen. There’s a bright smile on his face that falters for a second as his eyes fall on me, then they widen and instantly shift to Marciano who is watching him with a scowl. “Good evening, I’m Chris Moreno, but you can call me Chef M, and I’ll be feeding you both tonight,” the man introduces with a slight accent and a lisp.

Susan was the one who had the opportunity to be the waitress of the two as she ravaged between the foods in the fridge. “I can smell fries! I’ll take those,” Stephany said. “It’s a weird style of fries. It looks like the style of those Coastal people. Are you sure you will eat it?’ Susan informed. ‘Chef Ali!’ Stephany guessed the chef behind the wonders. “Yeah. I lived on the coast, remember. Or all of you know nothing about me?” Stephany asked.

The white walls, wooden furniture, flowers, and trees made this place welcoming enough for any person to come and enjoy a plate of delicious food. Jason took me to the kitchen area, where I met the chef on duty. The head chef was an American man in his mid-fifties who had learned to cook in Paris in his youth and worked in various places in England before coming back to California, his hometown. The last job he had was at Beckenham Palace. Yes, you heard it right. This man had been cooking meals for the Queen for the last three years.

Executive Chef Mike is a 3-star Michelin chef, one of the best chefs working in Caleb's father's 3-star Michelin restaurants, and one of the 10 best chefs in the world. It is said that the man is always extremely busy and that people have to wait a year or two to get an appointment. Money isn't a concern for Chef Mike, and he was famously known for bowing to no one regardless of the person's position—even the president isn't exempted—so it was quite surprising when Hayden discovered that the said man was in his mansion. He never knew his friends would go that far! Besides, he didn't know anything about it.

My arm was shaking. I am a cook. Not a spy. But I could not let a master of the craft be slaughtered. The Chief Royal Chef is in danger.

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.