Working at Le Boulanger a top restaurant in the city is not for the faint of heart. For a chef the hours are brutally long, the pace is relentless and the heat in the kitchen is energy draining. For a server dealing with demands of discerning guests while maintaining poise cannot always be justified for a tip. The center of this maelstrom is the kitchen line, on one side the chefs on the other servers. It is here where tempers often flare. âWhereâs that fucken appetizer cries a server? â
The response from a chef is equally as brutal.
âGo fuck yourself you cunt! These things take timeâ
Imagine trying to feed 400 dinner guests on a Saturday night who all made reservations at 7:30. Tensions often rise in the kitchen. The all male chef brigade in their bravado cannot take the demands the all female service staff make on them. The head chef Angelo is as arrogant and as surly as they come. A large brash man, whoâs years in the kitchen dealing with these âtip loving whoresâ has little patience for insubordination, what the chef says goes. Angeloâs right hand man is Ian; together they run this well-oiled machine like leaders of a prison gang. Physical punishment here is not unheard of, if a cook messes up a slap on the head is not out of line. When a server drops a plate and it has to be done over, both Angelo and Ian tag team the offender with sexually charged insults until they quit, cry or apologize.
It was about 11pm on a Saturday night. All the reservations had eaten and the kithen was being cleaned. Angelo and Ian were going over the nightâs events just to discuss what dishes sold and what didnât. It was then that Claire the dining room captain interrupted their conversation. Claire was an avid rock climber whoâs muscular physique was compacted on her barely 5 foot body. She stood erect naturally like a gymnast who just landed off a jump from the parallel bars. As she stood almost in between the chefs, she undid her tie and the tip button of her white blouse. Her ample breasts seemed to want to pop out of her taught shirt. She undid her ponytail and shook her head, her long fiery shoulder length hair swayed back and forth, the scent of vanilla conditioner filled the hot kitchen air. With her tiny voice that she often forced several octaves down to emphasize her authority she said to both chefs,
âYou guys seemed kinda slow tonight, some guests complainedâ
Angelo and Ian came back simultaneously,
âWhat the fuck do you know you cunt? Get out of here!â âClaire you need to get fucked, youâre too uptightâ.
Claire was used to the chefâs boorish behavior. She seemed unfazed by their tempers, and responded
âOk, whatever you guys say, you were slow, remember, you even yelled at Frank for taking too long with the dessertsâ
Angelo and Ian obviously revealing the truth had a quick chuckle. Trish then left the kitchen and headed down the stairs to the locker rooms. After a few more minutes of discussion, the chefs headed in the same direction.
The locker room was more of a storage room at Le Boulanger. Cases of tomatoes, olive oil and other nonperishable items were stacked throughout. Clothes and other personal effects were strewn on the foodstuffs, and empty milk crates served as stools. Angelo and Ian entered the room to find Claire in her thong and athletic bra. Her stomach was tight and when relaxed still had traces of a six â pack. Her thighs were small yet muscular, the sweep added to the fullness of her hamstrings. Her ass was round and bulbous, it looker as if she held it in a constant flex. She had her white running shoes on as to avoid the grease and grime the kitchen crew tracked in.
It was not a big deal to see her in this state, it happened a dozen times before it was the only change room. Angelo then said to Claire,
âYou were right, some of the boys were slow todayâ
